My Ideal Barnstormer - Inspired by Richard Bach
My Ideal Barnstormer
Inspired by Richard Bach
My ideal barnstormer is a man who knows his machine like he knows the fingers on his hands. He can sense when it is happy, excited, dejected, or angry and knows how to interpret every rattle and shimmy in the stick and rudder pedals and has an extraordinarily tuned ear to the hum of its heartbeat in the engine. He thinks of his machine as a person, as an extension of himself. His hands and feet needn’t even rest on the controls for his mind does all the work. Where he thinks of taking his airplane, his airplane takes him because that is their relationship. Upon landing after a particularly stressful experience, he gives his airplane a tender pat on the back and a thank you because they are deeply rooted friends and care for one another greatly. In the evening, when the stars have completed their voyage across the night sky and a warm, invitingly orange sun crests the treeline, he embraces his airplane with a gentle touch and a soft good morning to wake it up for another day of amiable adventure. In turn his airplane thanks him for the level of care it receives, and carries him faithfully from field to field and responds dutifully to his suggestions.
My ideal barnstormer is a man of the people. He could carry a conversation with a door then bend over and sell a ride to the doorknob. No matter where he is at any given time he is welcomed as a friend and with smiles, and he returns the sentiment. He gracefully assists his trusting passengers into the front cockpit as the engine idly ticks over and does it with a grin. Behind that helping hand is an airman dressed in the ideal manner: worn in lace-up riding boots with a hardly noticeable trace of brown polish but scuffed from climbing about the airplane, riding breeches that aren’t too wide and not too stiff, tucked in collared shirt that has been slept in and is complete with a knotted tie, a leather flying jacket that is just beginning to crack at the wrists and on the back from the elements, and lack of conditioner, leather gloves that fit like skin over his hands, a bare leather flying helmet that is wrinkled from yearly use, and triplex flying goggles from a bygone war. This he considers his uniform and thus takes pride in the few wrinkles, splotches of oil, and occasional dirt stains which symbolize his experience and are presented as his medals. Together, with his pal the airplane, he aims to please and to put smiles on faces and create memories that will last for eternity. At the end of the day, when his bill has been paid at the local cafe and he settles back down next to his machine, he knows he has done something for the average person that has left a lasting impression on them.
My ideal barnstormer knows there is no individual more confident in their flying abilities than him. He knows he could fly his old bus out of a tennis court and land it in the parking lot. There is no one that can outfly him because he is one with his airplane and the others are not. They are simply operators and he does not identify with them. He is not boastful but knows how to successfully push his limits. He studies his runways and thinks through every possible scenario before each takeoff and landing. He can slip his machine to an inch above the ground and still track straight before touching down on the smallest of runways. He doesn’t need any gauges to show angle of attack or engine revolutions or airspeed or turn coordination; he feels it in the stick and rudder pedals and on the sides of his head and heard through the strain of the engine and the wind in the wires. He recognizes immediately when his friend, his airplane, tells him the direction of the wind and whether or not his friend is comfortable with the conditions. Together they decide what they like and what they don’t like and what is needed from each other to accomplish the task at hand.
My ideal barnstormer is comfortable on the land. He sleeps under the wing of his tired old bus next to the warmth of a campfire and wakes up to the morning dew dripping down onto the grass. If there is a stream or lake nearby he unlaces his boots, hangs his clothes, and enjoys the cold, fresh water engulfing his body on a summer day. He might put some in a pot, boil it for sterilization, and drink it if it is not immediately determined drinkable. If in between towns, he heats his food over that campfire and enjoys it because it is simple and crude and somewhat filling. In town, however, he will most definitely indulge in burgers and milkshakes and hotdogs and classic food for the American man in the local diner. Back with his airplane, his friend, as a foredrop he leans against a tree listening to the simple tune of a breeze and journals and reads and thinks at his own leisure. He has no schedule apart from nature’s own- if his stay in that location has lapsed, indicated by the buildup of cumulonimbus or jailing stratus, then he will simply pack up his things into his airplane and depart for nowhere in particular.
My ideal barnstormer knows how to enjoy each flight. He happily embraces the wind against his face as it slips by the windscreen. He sticks his arm out of the cockpit and allows the slipstream to play with his arm like he allows his arm to play in the slipstream. The different colors soaking the earth appeal to his sensitive eyes; green fields that ebb and flow in color and shape as if they were as fluid as the ocean. Different shades of brown streaking off thick trees that are growing dense forests of vivid green leaves, each leaf a different color than the last. Light tints of gray and black on the ground as a shadow casts its cool shade on a hidden piece of golden earth. The characteristics of the dome of sky through which he is flying does not escape his thoughtful gaze; streaks of silvery white cirrus clouds up high, tinted by light shadows and faint rainbows as some sunlight pierces their crystallized vapor. Rolling, swollen white cumulus clouds outlined with yellow sunshine against an infinitely deep blue backdrop gently hovering in the air as if they were all just pedestrians on a street, waiting to say hello to each other. As he transitions his view to inside the cockpit his eyes gently sway from the clouds, trees, hayfields, and barns to the bouncing fabric ensconcing the fascinating inner workings of his wings. The taught flying wires hardly move in the blast of wind but the fabric jubilantly dances and drums along to the air whipping by at nearly one hundred miles per hour, as if to convey how much fun it is having out there. Finally his eyes do reach the cockpit, that cave of intriguing shapes and knobs behind a stoic glass windscreen, and he drags them along his boots resting on the rudder pedals, split by the stick which is gripped by his gloved right hand and slightly trembling from the vibration of a roaring engine, or perhaps a beating heart, to his gloved left hand resting on the throttle, up to the numerous dials that garland the varnished wooden instrument panel. He scans along this board of circles and interprets their bouncing needles to the din of over two thousand revolutions per minute, closes his eyes under their triplex goggles, and captures the moment like a camera captures a photo. Every detail. He cannot wait to record it all in his journal when he lands. And when he does land in that hay field and rolls out his sleeping bag and looks out into a crystal clear starry night before drifting off, he smiles.
My ideal barnstormer is who I inspire to be.
