Who does this? Who dons a G-suit on a perfect late-summer morning, does a last minute aircraft check, and then jumps into the cockpit of an F-16? What guts does it take to fly in a diamond formation just under the speed of sound, where inches determine whether you live or die? And whose body can tolerate nine G’s of thrust as the viper twists and plummets?
I marvel at these (mostly) men who defy logic and gravity on a daily basis. And on a day like this, filled with blue sky and barbeque, the sheer speed and power of their dreams brings a tear to my eye. The Thunderbirds, special flying team of the United States Air Force, entertained the crowd at the Cleveland Air Show today. And though I share in the amazement of the crowd over the roar of the jets and the pace of the planes, I am mostly in awe of the men inside the cockpit.
Is it just that I know I could never, under any circumstances, pilot one of these Fighting Falcons? My tolerance for motion is not very hardy, and my love of heights is even more reticent. On a good day, I can barely handle the cockpit of my beige Honda Odyssey. Or is it the fact that the pilots make each maneuver look so easy, leaving precise trails of smoke in their wake? I even flounder with the simple things, like getting all the kids out the door on time, or making it to soccer practice with cleats AND shin guards. This job is too big, too necessarily perfect, too dangerous for me. I imagine it bores into their souls, each twirl, flip and carefully-timed trick. They work so hard, tearing away at their might and their minds. I wonder what they have lost in order to make room for these muscle memories.
Each weekend finds the special flying team on the road, performing their feats in a different city. Is there a little boy missing his Daddy while he is flying this gig today? Or is there a wife or sweetheart poised by the phone, willing it to ring at the end of each show? I don’t know this dream, the kind that you give up everything for. Maybe I would like to, though. Perhaps part of my awe is really jealousy at the sheer selfishness and bravado of living a dream like this, living gloriously and ironically on the brink of death.
And sitting under a perfect blue sky, it is hard for me to imagine the true job of these F-16’s and their pilots. Replace the wafting ribs and squealing children with blowing sand and the enemy, and you’ll see the viper’s true talents. Missiles and mayhem are the usual creation of the vipers behind enemy lines. I tear up a little at this too. These planes are beautiful and majestic, powerful and poignant on a holiday weekend under a sunny sky. But how desperate the souls who meet the Fighting Falcons from the other side, who get a true taste of their wrath.
So I will take the lesson of the F-16 today. I will live more precisely and forcefully. I will follow my passion under pressure. And I will work without ceasing to live my dreams. Who does this? I do.
1 comment:
Frankly, I would have loved to have done this, but I was too blind, too big, and had damaged my knees and hands already. I wanted to fly fighter jets badly, but it was not to be. I love both speed and heights. I've logged dozens of hours in simulators, but it's not the same. I never went for my pilot's license, but that's just because it's exorbitantly priced to obtain one.
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