Can A DC-3 Girl Find Happiness in a VLJ?

A full page ad in the morning paper invited readers to a showing and reception for one of the new small jets (VLJs) at Million Air Cincinnati on the following Tuesday evening. It sounded like fun so I called the 800 number for an invitation. The young salesman was cordial but seemed intent on establishing my qualifications. Maybe he was worried about his entertainment budget,sensitive about squandering cheese and wine on a freeloader. Who was I? Why was I interested? Was I seriously considering the purchase of an airplane like this? When? Well, of course not, so forget that idea, I thought. But taking a cue from Huck Finn, I decided to risk the truth. "I'm not a prospect. Just a curious, retiring (as in 'I'm outta here,' not 'quiet and reserved') FAA inspector, typed in some prehistoric, round-engine airplanes. Well, yes, actually I am an aircraft owner … uh, a 1956 Cessna 180 and half of a J-3 Cub." The guy was gracious, amused or bored enough to add my name to the list. And I for sure needed to be on the list. When I arrived at Million Air alone that Tuesday evening, I had to first pass muster with a semi-exotic hostess in the lobby who eyed me suspiciously then leaned over to check her list. Leaning over seemed kind of dangerous given her low-cut, tight, black sweater. My jeans and bright red Yakutat, Alaska, sweatshirt might have been a tip-off that I wasn't an important customer. But my name was on her list so, instead of being cast out to gnash my teeth in the darkness, I was escorted into the hangar … semi-graciously. Well, the hangar was full of genuine prospects … about 200 of them, including a few millionaires, some wannabe's with trophy wives or girlfriends, a gaggle of hungry looking pilots, airplane salesmen and more semi-exotic hostesses serving beer, wine and hors d'oeuvres. The airplane was nicely displayed and the food looked a lot more interesting than the chips and pretzels you get at Columbia and Cirrus. Maybe not on a G5-BBJ level, but then I haven't been invited to or crashed any Gulfstream and Boeing affairs … yet. Lunken is "home," so I was surprised to see very few familiar faces. I tried to blend in with all the suits (not easy in a red Yakutat, Alaska, hoodie) and joined the end of a line that snaked through the hangar. Way up ahead a salesman was sitting in the cockpit while three or four guests took the tour. But the line was achingly slow and the food was disappearing at an alarming rate. I slipped out to fill a plate with brie, croissants and fruit (the pilots eyed the spread suspiciously, searching for chicken wings) and this time I rather brashly cut back in midline. I'd finally spied a millionaire friend, a very cool guy who once flew me below the top of the "Eiffel Tower" at an amusement park he owned. Way back, when Aerostars were new and I wasn't a fed charged with enforcing whatever FAR outlaws flying under things. We chatted for a while but I never did make it to the front of the line. When "my" millionaire's eyes started wandering in the direction of the semi-exotic hostesses I decided to split. Heck, I married one once (a millionaire) and, after the Lodestar type rating and a valiant but unsuccessful effort, it just wouldn't fly … the marriage, not the Lodestar. I can hear the wheels turning, "Her name's Lunken … as in airport? Who is this person anyway?" Ebby Lunken is gone now but he was the grandson of a Cincinnati valve manufacturer, Frederick Lunken(heimer). In 1928, old man Lunken bought land along the Ohio River and deeded it to the city of Cincinnati for a municipal airport. The only provision was that it be called "The Lunken Airport." I was kind of pretty and 20 years old, a convent bred, 200-hour flight instructor. Ebby was a charming, dashing, divorced, Bendix Air Race pilot and Ferrari Team car driver. Besides, he looked like Howard Hughes and had this magnificent blue and white P-51. What else could happen? Despite the 30-year age gap, we fell madly in love and were eventually married after a whirlwind romance and a 10-year cooling off period. OK? Anyway, fast-forward back to the 21st century and the VLJ reception line, I buss'd my millionaire on the cheek, mumbled "ladies' room," and did a quick end run on the line until I could edge up behind the airplane. Well, the little jet was major, major cool. Small, for sure, but amazingly roomy inside with a tastefully outfitted cabin and comfortable leather upholstery. A cockpit like all bizjet cockpits … takes a shoehorn to get into but it fits like a glove once you've inserted yourself. The panel is simple and elegant with those nifty glass screens that display everything eight different ways. It's a little anemic on range and this demo model sported sort of an early rock star exterior. But they're working on the endurance issue and the psychedelics didn't seem to bother anybody else. Most non-aviator buyers are interested in speed and leather, not fuel and range. That's what you hire a pilot for, right? When I'd seen as much as I could through the windows and was heading for the door, somebody grabbed me. It was an old friend, a retired airline pilot, who's on the short list of my all-time favorite people in the world. One of those deep-voiced, southern drawled, laid back guys, complete with sky blue eyes and a weathered face with the right creases in the right places. As an airman, Bob Strunk's as close to a "natural" as you can get; as a friend, they don't come any better. And he's still in love with airplanes. At various times, during and after the airline years, he built houseboats on Lake Cumberland, then converted the space into a hillbilly flea market that morphed into a wildly popular country dance hall. An entrepreneur and certainly successful, but a VLJ owner? It isn't big enough, old enough, deep-throated enough and it doesn't drip the right kind of oil.