The Reno Air Races

From a recent article about the Reno Air Races in The Atlantic magazine:

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/01/the-need-for-speed/8842/

I did not attend last year's Reno Air Races but I was there a year previous. This is one of the most exciting race events held anywhere. Engines roar and the air vibrates with glorious doppler shift in the high desert sky.  Piston-driven airplanes and newer jets scream across the ground at altitudes meant for kite flying. Cascading adrenaline surges from pilot to race-fan, and we watch, mouths agape, falling deeper in love with flight and awed by the boundaries pushed by the men who build and fly these machines.

What happened to Galloping Ghost and the victims of the mishap was an unspeakable tragedy. Bad luck on a diabolical scale, I've heard it described. Negligence too, maybe, but judges and juries will decide that, I suppose.

A hundred plus years ago, people went to arenas to attend gun shows. That is, guns firing real bullets by entertainers like Annie Oakley and Buffalo Bill.  Over time, accidents happened and now it's all different. We can watch trick shooting from the safety and comfort of our computers through videos that appear effortlessly before us. Is this the fate of air racing? I hope not, but I don't think the organizers of these events will be able to assure the absolute safety of spectators when being close is the whole point of being there.

I rode a motorcycle 800 miles to Reno a year and a half ago to watch air racing. I knew the odds of being injured were much worse riding on the public roads than sitting in the bleachers at Stead field.  Still, as someone who has always tried to resolve chance of disaster vs. outcome of exhilaration, I couldn't help but look at the planes rounding turn four and recognize the potential for a catastrophe.The machines are beautiful, thrilling, and dangerous. They will always attract spectators, in person or otherwise.

Hawaii 5-0

The stretch of road  along Highway 360 from Kahului to Hana is only about 50 miles long, and yet takes hours to travel by car.  It traces the northern coast of Maui, a rugged and spectacular product of volcanoes, erosion, trade winds and Pacific surf. "I Survived the Road to Hana" is a popular t-shirt in the local shops and it's easy to see why. Dozens of hairpin curves, one-lane bridges and plenty of tourist traffic keep the average speed to less than 20 mph. The road is always slick from brief Hawaiian rain showers, and each visiting driver is challenged to not focus too long on the ocean views or roadside waterfalls.

I made the drive with my wife on a mid-December day last year. It was my 50th birthday and I had actually put some thought into where I would like to spend it. In the last year or so I had hiked the Grand Canyon, Yosemite's Half Dome and Macchu  Picchuu. Each of them exhausting, unique and unforgettable. This time, I decided, it would be nice to finish off the fifth decade with something easy and beautiful. I chose Hawaii's Pipiwai Trail.

Pipiwai is accessed through the Kipahulu Park along the eastern slope of Maui. It is popular and very well maintained. Stone steps and engineered lumber boardwalks have been installed over the years, and this is really less of a hike than a leisurely stroll through the woods. That is, if your idea of leisure involves signs that warn of fatal results from getting too close to cliffs or jumping from bridges.

Just beyond the town of Hana, at mile marker 49 we passed through Kipahulu's entrance and found the parking lot at the trail head. It was about half full. The usual hopes for a secluded walk through paradise gave way to the reality of the place:  Maui is beautiful but easily accessible to many tourists and we were visiting at a busy time of year. We followed a few other hikers to the trail head signs and started up just before noon.

After only about 30 minutes of easy climbing along the muddy path, a  huge Banyan tree provided a great photo spot. From there,  nearly a mile of bamboo forest towered above us, blocking out the sky as we climbed to the west.  When the wind sped up overhead, those trees seemed to clap together, another one of nature's random and disjointed musical solos.

The turnaround point was Waimoku Falls - 200 feet high and better than anything that we had seen from our car. A cathedral of water fell from the jungle above - past shining black walls of gently stratified basalt, draped in emerald green moss. It crashed into the canyon before us, creating a beaded rainbow and veil of mist on dark boulders of volcanic rock.

After only a brief rest and a few pictures, we headed back down the trail to the visitors center and the cool breezes of the Pacific Ocean.

Charles Lindbergh spent his last years living along this isolated coastline. His life was heroic and at times controversial, but in the last years of his life, he was a man that outwardly expressed his love for the wild and natural places of this earth. He spoke out passionately in defense of living things both above and beneath the sea.

Lindbergh is buried near his old home on Maui, less than a mile from Kipahulu Park. With a few hours of daylight left, I decided to visit his final resting place, just down the road.

I found the small cemetery and his plot behind the Palapala Ho'omau Church- close enough to hear the soft rumble of Pacific surf on the ragged cliffs below. Rains and salt breezes off the sea are slowly eroding everything around here, I thought.  Someday, his grave marker will become difficult to read. Aviators not even born yet will surely commit to its restoration, and renew the same inscription from Psalms that he chose in his last years:  "...If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea..."

No one else was behind the church with me that afternoon. I stood for a while watching the Pacific, shades of deep and brilliant blue, churning, full of life. A perfect spot to be on this day, I decided.

I returned to the car and headed back to Lahaina, along that beautiful winding road to the west.

The Passenger in the White Robe

This happened to me several months ago. A post 9/11 airline story:


The flight was nearly ready to depart. The engines were not yet started as we sat in the cockpit waiting at the gate. Almost all passengers were seated. Our flight attendant stepped into the cockpit and told the Captain that everything was ready in the cabin, almost. One guy was holding things up. She called him "Mohammed." And I really didn’t get that at first. She then explained why we weren’t ready to go.


"Mohammed" (of course, not his real name) was a young man dressed in a long white Arabic-type robe who appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent. The clothing is referred to in some areas as a thawb, but to oversimplify, I have to call it a Bin Laden robe. The kind you often saw Osama wearing in his videos.


The passenger in the white robe had been seated in the very front row of the plane, but just as the cabin door closed and we were all ready to go, he did something odd. It got everyone’s attention on the airplane.


He got up to go to the bathroom. OK, this happens sometimes and only a few people pay attention. The flight attendants always notice, because this delays the flight. Usually no big deal. This time was different.


What "Mohammed" did was walk all the way to the back of the plane to use the bathroom. There is a lavatory in the front of this airplane, right by his seat. But he chose to use the one in the back. A completely full airplane, ready to go: 139 people watched as a young man, apparently of middle-eastern descent, wearing a Bin Laden robe, walk slowly though the cabin, spend a few minutes in the bathroom and then return to his seat in the front of the airplane.


As our flight attendant spoke to us in the cockpit, she looked over her shoulder, watching and waiting for the young man to return to the front. Finally, he was seated, the cockpit door was closed and we began our procedures to push back from the gate.


Before the plane could move, the interphone chime rang – a call from one of the flight attendants in back. They had a "situation" going on in back. Everything stopped, again. We asked the flight attendants what was going on.


There was absolutely no trouble from the man in the white robe. He was quietly sitting and reading in his seat. But there were other passengers who wanted off the plane. Right away. They had apparently been disturbed by the man in the robe’s behavior – that is, walking through the airplane at departure time.


One family in particular was very upset – a young teenage girl was in tears. They did not want to fly on the plane with the man in the robe. They insisted on being let off the airplane. Although it furthered the delay, we complied with their request. The cabin door was opened and the family got off the airplane. The father was visibly angry, but there was nothing we could say or do except to comply with their wishes.


From there, a normal flight. We arrived a few minutes late, but no problems with the bathroom or "Mohammed." As the passengers departed I stood outside the cockpit and said thank you and good-bye as I often do.


The young man in the white robe stood up and walked past. I expected some acknowledgement from him. A sneer, maybe. A look of shallow victory because he had created more fear among airline passengers. I'd spent the entire flight resenting what he did, especially making a young girl cry. I remember thinking how different we are than in the past when our country was at war. Can anyone imagine, in 1943, a person of Asian descent walking onto a passenger plane, or even being in public wearing anything that hinted of the "enemy's" culture? A kimono? A very different time, a very different war.


The young man with skin darker than mine and wearing a white garment looked at me and in an instant, my attitude changed. He smiled, said thank you, and walked out the door. Not a sneer, not a look of "I won." Just a thank you and that was it. To this day, I'm not sure if he knew of the trouble he caused. Or maybe he did, and he was grateful to the crew for not having him removed.


I don't know where he was from. Maybe the United States and he just chose to dress that way. Or maybe Pakistan, or Turkey, or Iran, or...it does not matter. Perhaps he chose to use the restroom in the back of the airplane as a sign of humility. Maybe he thought the front facility was for the crew. Nearly everyone on the plane probably thought he made a mistake and many considered it intentional. At one point, I certainly did.


But he lives among us in this country free to choose where to travel whenever he wants. Free to make mistakes like any human being. Free to be tolerant (or not) of others.


Everyone arrived safely, that day. I'm sure the family that left our flight found another one. Inconvenienced yes, but in the end accommodated and, I'm sure, happy with the choice they made.


I won't ignore the fact that there are monsters out there who will do us harm. And while there is nothing wrong with watching out for them, I realized how careful I need to be not to create them either.

Grandma Takes a Joy Ride

If you've driven a new car in the last couple of years, you may have seen the latest keyless ignition systems that have been introduced. Called an electronic key fob system, the traditional metal key has been replaced by a fixed plastic switch where the ignition has normally been located. Instead of carrying the metal key around, a remote control (a little larger than a matchbox) is used to lock, unlock and start the car.  If the remote key fob is close enough to the car, it will start when you turn the fixed plastic ignition switch in the car.

What does this have to do with three Scottsdale police cars visiting my house the other day? Good story here. Please read further.

Susan and I were out of the country for a couple of weeks. Coincidentally, Susan's sister Peggy (who lives in Las Vegas) was also out of the country on vacation (not with us, though). Peggy has a new baby: Macen. Susan's mother - Pat - offered to care for the two-month old while Peggy was away. She is a wonderful grandmother. Considering she is on her own now, the gesture to care for Macen while Peggy was away shows you what a fantastic and loving person Pat is.

Pat's car is small and not so new. It's a two-door. So Susan offered to loan Pat her SUV for the time she would be caring for Macen. It would be much easier for Pat to get the baby in and out of Susan's mid-sized four-door SUV.

To make it easier on her other daughter - Peggy - Pat offered to fly to Las Vegas to pick up Macen just before Peggyʼs vacation.

So the story begins two weeks ago, with Pat dropping off her car and picking up Susan's SUV at our house. She drove to the airport and flew to Las Vegas to pick up Macen. She then flew back to Phoenix and started her loving-grandmother duties with Macen at her home in Sun City.

One small issue came up: Susan was supposed to have left a car seat in the back of her SUV for Macen to ride in. When Pat arrived back in Phoenix with the baby, no car seat could be found! Was it stolen? Was Susan so scatter-brained that she forgot to leave it for her mom? A few e-mails were sent back and forth across the globe between Pat and her daughters vacationing in Europe.  Where's the car seat?  Macen had to ride a few miles around with no car seat until Pat could buy a replacement! That's practically child abuse these days! The general agreement was that the car-seat had been stolen from the SUV while it was parked at Phoenix airport. After all, used car seats get stolen all the time, right?

Pat continued on with her loving-grandmother life - Macen in tow - around Sun City Arizona for another week. For her, life was busy but very grandmother-good.

Susan and I returned home last week. Pat arranged a time to return the SUV and pick up her car at our house. She arrived in the late afternoon last Friday. The baby was cuter than ever. Looked just like his dad. I recognized him in an instant. The SUV? Well, it did not look as familiar.

"Pat, where did you get this thing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Where is Susan's SUV?"

Pat's jaw hit the driveway. "You mean this isn't her car?"

"Nope. Look at the license plate. This thing is the same color but not even her make or model."

"I'd better sit down."

"You'd better. Have a soda, relax and get your story straight before the police arrive."

"Can't I have anything stronger?"

"Not a chance."

The white SUV in my driveway had been reported stolen to the Phoenix police seven days prior. Now, any time a stolen vehicle is involved, standard practice with the local police is to send three patrol units to the scene. Fortunately, all weapons were holstered when Pat met and began her explanation to five Scottsdale Police officers. They were very patient and all smiles. This was obviously the most interesting call they had all day.

Have you ever walked up to a grocery cart at the supermarket in the middle of your shopping and pushed around groceries that aren't even yours? I know a few of us have done it, because I sure have.

This is sort of what Pat did. She thought she was driving Susan's car for eight days. It was parked in the same area of the airport lot where she had left Susan's. Both were white SUVʼs - somewhat similar in style and Pat had really not driven Susan's car very much.

Of course the big question is: How did Pat start the vehicle? This is where the key fob system comes in. Both the "stolen" SUV and Susan's car use this type ignition security system. We talked to the owner later that day (who was extremely nice and understanding, by the way) and found out that they had lost their key fob (remote control) somewhere in their vehicle prior to parking at the airport. Essentially, the "key was left in the ignition" (with the doors unlocked) and Pat simply thought Susan's key fob was allowing her to start the car she was sitting in.

The key fob was in-fact, so lost that the five Scottsdale cops thoroughly searched the vehicle and could not find it. It still started, though.

No car alarm. No Lojack. But very much reported stolen. The police told her that had she been pulled over, two more cop cars would have shown up. All weapons would be drawn, and she would have found out first-hand how felony apprehension procedures are done in the state of Arizona. Remember also, Macen was still with her and both daughters would have been pretty hard to reach out of the country.

In all, the Scottsdale PD, and the owners of the SUV that grandma "jacked" were incredibly nice and understanding. We left them with a full tank of gas and a dozen apologies. One day Macen will enjoy hearing the story of how he and his loving grandma "stole" a car and cruised the greater Phoenix area for eight days.