London is where I’m headed again today, or rather tonight. Before tomorrow’s frantic thrum of Heathrow traffic, though, before joining the nightly migration across the North Atlantic Tracks, before willing 406,000 pounds of aluminum and jet fuel and assorted humanity into the air with the lightest touch of my fingertips, I must get myself from DCA to Atlanta on one of my airline’s new Airbus A321s. It’s a pretty easy commute, as commutes go, but nevertheless I am suited up, packed and leaving the boat a full seven hours before sign-in time. I settle into the passenger seat of our truck, Dawn at the wheel, as we crunch out of the marina parking lot and onto the bridge across the creek. Out of habit, I glance right, where a beautifully manicured private grass strip sits tucked among tall trees. My pulse quickens. “Stop!” I exclaim. Dawn brakes to a halt and I watch the shimmering apparition on the far side of the airstrip as it draws closer. The tail comes up, and a beautiful, gleaming Cessna 195 takes to the air just as the first throbs of glorious radial-engine music reach our ears.