I'd asked the officer if he knew my friend Bruce the Trooper (I can't tell you his last name until he dies). Bruce was best friends with John Schweller and me at the Lumberton strip and we decided I would teach him to fly in John's Christen Husky. Eventually he became a "Bear in the Air" with the Ohio Highway Patrol. Bruce was quick, a great student, and in the third hour I talked him through the takeoff on John's 32-foot-wide strip of concrete. The 180 hp Husky is pretty frisky and I either said "raise the tail" too soon or "I've got it" too late. Whatever, we gyroscopically precessed vigorously to the left which he countered with massive right rudder. I'm yelling, "I've got it, let go ..." but now we're off the right side of the concrete and headed for a low fence. Well, maybe you've been there. Instead of admitting defeat, pulling the power and accepting the inevitable, I was determined to rewrite the laws of aerodynamics. "Fly, dammit, fly, c'mon, fly." Holding it on until the last possible moment I yanked, "wishing" it over the fence ... which it almost but not quite cleared. We nosed over into the mid-July corn and, when the dust settled, I was way up in the air and Bruce was somewhere down in front covered with cornstalks.