Thinking Out Loud: Some things we just don't want to do.

I’ve been putting this off for weeks.

For some unknown reason I was flipping through some old files and ran across a decades-old Grassroots column on which the title was misspelled as “Runaway”. The word made no sense so I flipped it open and discovered the content. Although it is very personal, I think almost everyone can identify with it and, somehow, I felt it was a decent way to lead into a major personal announcement at the end of this Thinking Out Loud. The title on the old file was supposed to be Run Away, not Runaway.

Grassroots: 1996 (the use of the word “fax” says how old it is)

The Day I Ran Away From Work

It wasn't planned. But the good ones never are. I was sitting right where I am now, looking out the window at the mountains in the far distance. In support of my sanity, I ignored the millions of roofs between me and the blue gray outlines so far away.

As far as that goes, I was ignoring just about everything. The hum of the old hard drive was somewhere far away. The dull glow of the computer screen couldn't draw my attention and the words on it meant nothing.

My mind was somewhere else. Somewhere out "there." Where it was blue and three-dimensional.

I'd gotten into the office at my usual time, oh-dark-thirty, and hadn't noticed the sun was rising until it broke free of the mountains behind me and bounced a few stray rays against those mountains out there.

Without realizing it, my mind clicked off. At least that part of my mind which is harnessed to things that have to be done. That must be finished. That exist only in the imperative.

The switch which controls that particular part of my brain must have only two positions and neither one of them is "off." One position is labeled "work." The other is labeled "make-it-up-as-you-go."

I grinned, stood up and tossed on a flying jacket. It was time to run away. The imperatives can wait.

I don't know about the rest of the world, but for those of us who are self-employed (read that as "chronically unemployable"), the guilt normally attached to work can sometimes be overpowering. If you aren't working, you aren't producing. If you aren't producing, you aren't investing your time wisely. It seems as if school is never out and you’re always feeling guilty about not getting that term paper finished.

There is, however, that marvelous moment, when you finally commit to running away and the mantle of guilt slides off and you feel as if you're bursting up out of cold water after holding your breath for a long time. The feeling of relief is enormous. And instantaneous.

For me, that feeling always surfaces when screaming up the on-ramp to the interstate at the beginning of a long cross country driving trip. Or, as on this day, the instant the hangar doors slide open and the low, morning sun sets fire to the lipstick red of the fuselage and wings. Suddenly, the things that absolutely, positively had to be done earlier, were forgotten. They can wait. The entire world can wait.

For me, the most delicious moment, when playing hooky, comes when I've stepped over the fuselage side and I'm standing in the cockpit with my feet in the foot trays. As I bring my elbows in to clear the canopy rails and slide down inside, it is at that exact moment I know I'm free. When I know I'm where I belong.

I don't have the feeling of being in the right place very often. That's been true for my entire life in all situations. In fact, the only time I feel as if I'm where I'm supposed to be is when I go through that boarding ritual and slither down inside that particular cockpit. At that moment, the feeling of being in the right place always overwhelms me. On this particular day, a day when I'm just goofing, when not a solitary soul knows where I am or what I'm doing, the feeling is especially sweet. Yeah, all that business stuff can wait.

Then the Lycoming barks up between my feet, the airplane comes alive and me right along with it.

I've taken off on this particular piece of asphalt thousands of times and I glory in the thrill every time. But on the days I'm running away from the world, I can literally taste the takeoff. And I'm super aware of leaving all that mental trash behind. A few minutes earlier I had been dogged by deadlines and payments. Telephones and faxes. But, for the moment, they were all in the past tense.

As my eyes focused on the fuel cap far ahead, my mind playing with the edges of the runway as they flashed past, nothing else existed. Absolutely nothing!

There were no extraneous thoughts in my mind. Nothing unwanted was intruding. There was the vision of the runway peeking around that long nose and the feeling of being launched down the runway. There was the image of the perfect takeoff attitude projected on my mind's eye and there was the instinctive effort to match that image with what my eyes were seeing.

There was nothing else.

Then, the ground bound ballistic rush down the runway blended into flight and I was again so very conscious of the separation. Of thumbing my nose at the must do's, the deadlines, the absolutely-positives that were at that very moment milling around somewhere down there wondering when they were going to get done.

They'll get their chance. But not right now.

At that exact moment, as the two sets of wings shoved me away from the ground, and I twisted my head back to look for traffic, I couldn't have carried less.

Morning air is always sweeter. And fatter. The airplane loves it and for that reason, I also love it. As we, the Pitts and I, curve up away from the runway, I look down at the sleeping roof tops flashing past, soon to disappear behind me. It occurred to me that they are the ones truly wasting time.

I was going out to visit my real life. The one that hides down in the river valley and watches as I flash past, effortlessly twisting left and right to follow the gravel bars and dry washes. The same life that can't help but grin, as I pull hard, erupting up out of the canyon’s shadows for what 8PB knows will be a few minutes, maybe many minutes, of high "G" cavorting.

Freedom never tastes sweeter than when it’s stolen from the hands of forces determined to smother it. I knew my phone was ringing, the computer was humming and the fax was vomiting an endless, impatient stream of messages out on the floor. But, at that instant, I was free. For the moment, I had won. And it is subtle victories like that which make it possible to face life's battles knowing victory is possible.

Running away from everyday life isn't always bad. In fact, sometimes that's the only thing which absolutely, positively must be done.

Is that pretty or what?! My “Other Redhead” since I moved to AZ in ‘92, 33 years!

And now the announcement I mentioned

As of mid-July, after 54 years and 8,200 hours of Pitts ownership and instructing, I’m going to be out of the Pitts training business. I have no choice. I’m losing my must-have mechanic who is absolutely essential for me to serve my students, all of whom come from out of state or out of the country. There isn’t a single small airplane mechanic on Scottsdale Airport, and I need someone right there at my wing tip ready to put the airplane back in the air if it even hiccups. I can’t have someone from Germany, Oklahoma, etc. standing around while I try to coax a mechanic to come to Scottsdale to attend to N8PB’s ills. Plus, to twist wrenches on this airport, the mechanic must have a massively expensive insurance policy protecting the City.

And to answer your question, no, there are no other airports that’ll work because, they are also short of mechanics and there’s not an open single-engine hangar available within 100 miles of where I’m sitting. Besides, the controllers here know everything worth knowing about fitting a bright red bumble bee in with an endless string of corporate jets. They’ve been unreal! Tim, alone, absolutely, no-sh*t, saved my life TWICE!!

N8PB is going to a terrific home. Pete Diaz of the Pitts Flying Museum, here in Queen Creek, AZ has bought it and, if he’s true to form, will breathe a lot of life and beauty back into her. He has plans I’m certain, but she’s a workin’ bird not a museum pre-Madonna. The old girl has 9,300 hours on her, possibly the highest time bird of her breed.

No condolences are necessary. I appreciate them, but I’m not upset. It’s just part of life and I’m ready for the challenge of opening my mind to other ways to make a living. Will I miss flying? I’m not sure. I am, however, certain I’ll miss instructing and I thank those thousands of trusting souls who have allowed me to coax them in the ways I see as proper airmanship. I’m really old school in that area. I apologize for the endless hours of BSing (story telling) I subjected you to, which the AZ Redhead (Marlene) says is a compulsive habit on my part. Oh, well!

This has zero bearing on Thinking Out Loud. You can count on it being in your inbox every weekend. In fact, as the year wears on, I’m going to work more features into the Blog. I’m looking at Thinking Out Loud as a possible way of making a slow, but interesting, buck. bd

PS – while I’m still aviating.

To any who are interested, I received an unexpected two-month extension on my hangar, so I have April, May and half of June open for Pitts check-outs or anything similar. You can reach me at buddairbum@cox.net.