The warm wind through the steel brace wires generated a distinct whistle over the rumble of the Stearman’s big radial engine as we followed our shadow up and over the rolling green hills. The prop churned the summer air and flung it across the open cockpit, beating it against my head in a steady, rhythmic thrumming on my leather flying helmet and goggles. This is what flying is really all about, I thought with satisfaction as the biplane cut effortlessly across the sky — the opportunity that lovely old airplanes like this one give us to leave our earthbound cares behind and waltz, gracefully, among the clouds.
I banked left and let the nose drop to find the grass strip below. It was the same sleepy airfield where I learned to fly more than 25 years ago. From the looks of things little had changed in the intervening years.
