The Fly/Not to Fly argument is one I’ve had face-to-face and in print many times. There is no ‘right’ answer. But I’ve seen Hairy’s Falcon and Shuttleworth’s Southern Martlet looking forlorn and dust-covered in the backs of hangars (the same hangar, indeed) and I’ve watched the sun flashing off their wings as they round the kink in the display line at Old Warden, and I know which excites me more.
Same with cars. I could spend days enjoying the delights of Beaulieu or the Haynes Museum, but the hairs on the back of my neck never stand up as they do when hearing a Can-Am McLaren firing up, seeing Phil Hill back behind the wheel of a Daytona Cobra or watching Moss effortlessly lapping Goodwood in a C-Type Jaguar and wagging an admonishing finger at a young upstart who tries unsuccessfully to outbrake him into Woodcote.
And whilst I’ve seen rare aeroplanes and cars demolished in front of me, I would still accept no substitute for sight, sound, smell and all the other elements that make them more than mere assemblages of wood, fabric, metal and glassfibre.