Well, the video uploading was summat of a bust. Which is a pity, for I put some real time into it, not merely in the recording of the stuff, but in editing and adding motivational music, like. Which was my downfall, in the event. To hear YouTube tell it. Divers and sundry techniques were attempted to get around the prohibition of playing someone else’s music for no personal gain, to no effect. Thus far. We have not yet given up the fight!
On Saturday, I headed down to Montgomery, for to knock out a cuppla dogfights. Not having forgotten where I came from, nor how I came to be here today. Which is Fallon, Nevada again. And it’s nothing like as clement as the weather down Sandy Eggo way, I can assure you. Which anyway.
On the first hop Saturday I was taxiing down the Hotel taxiway at KMYF for to break the surly bonds from Runway 28 Left. On 28 Right there was an inbound Beech Baron – a very nice bit of a twin engined piston plane – all set to land. Which only lacked a fully deployed set of landing gear for to make the landing perfect, for the pilot, he was in every other way stabilized for the approach and even beginning his transition to flare for landing. Which would have been, in the event, fearsome noisy and non-trivially expensive, on account of the belly rash and engine run-outs in it. Propeller driven planes owning severe sequelae to having their blades strike the tarmac all regardless.
Having satisfied myself that hizzoner had every intention of bellying it in inadvertently, I took it upon myself to calmly shriek, “Wheels up, wheels up on the left, go around!” both on ground and tower frequencies. Which he did, saving himself summers in the neighborhood of a hunnert thousand US dollars, depending upon the breaks. Which at the rates that twins are selling at these days might well have been reckoned a total loss, for there’s few that think the added safety margin of having twice the engines is any more worth the trebled operating costs.
Sunday! I played nine holes of bad golf, slowly. I can take bad golf, and I can take slow golf. But in combination, eh. Not so much. Went and saw a movie with the missus, had some actually quite nice Mediterranean chow at a local.
Monday I was going to play better golf. Or faster, anyway. But it rained. I had notions of seeing the “War Horse” movie. But it rained. So everyone else got there first. So I spent the day editing a movie, to little effect.
Today, my good friend Earl the Pearl, retired colonel of Marines, deigned to fly me up to Camarillo in a rented Cessna 172, the better to avoid the whole, “drive the bike to Camarillo, fly the jet to Fallon, go commercial to LAX on Friday, rent a car from LAX to Camarillo (the wrong direction), pick up the bike and travel back down to Sandy Eggo” adventure. Which I’ve done that once, and thank you, I’ll have no more.
A fifty-year old pilot then ferried a forty-year old fighter from Pernt Mugu to Navy Fallon in an hour’s time, and will now spend the next cuppla hurling myself against 30-year olds in five-year old 4.5 generation fighters at Mach 1.1.
The ironies do not escape me.