The Other Side of the Cones
To me, airshows have always been a bittersweet affair. Between the demo flights and aerobatic teams were the periods of open airspace. The airport returned to it's natural form, the circut grew crowded with ride flights and sightseers, and for a while the airport operated just like any other day. Spectators averted their eyes from the skies and headed off to forage for sandwiches, shaved ice, and die-cast fighter jets. Not me. I admired the boring old Cessnas and Pipers. A Mooney was just as interesting as a warbird. I'd watch otherwise normal people cross the sacred line of safety tape and traffic cones, out onto the hallowed expanse of tarmac, out to their airplane. The pilot would circle the plane, looking it over. A nudge here, a cap tightened there. Preflight complete, doors would open, passengers would climb in, and the engine would putter to a start. Just a Cessna, to them. To me, an unattainable dream, a Real Airplane. I'd give anything to be them. To be a pilot would be the best thing on earth. As they taxied past the static displays and tents, I'd imagine seeing all the airshow spectators from the other side. A few minutes later, the plane would reappear, airborne, passing with a buzz, then gone. I felt not just longing, but genuine jealousy. Then it was time to go home, back to my ordinary, rather boring life. I'd take home a toy plane or two, perhaps a book, but always regret. Regret that I couldn't cross the tape, climb into an airplane, and fly away. I'd think - Someday I will. I knew it when I was eight, and I never forgot. When school ends for the summer in a few weeks, I'm going to learn to fly. Nothing but an ordinary Grob 109, but more than I had any right to hope for. I only pray, that when I'm old, with hours upon hours, that I don't forget what it was like on the other side of the cones. I hope whenever you are flying the old club Arrow for the thousandth time, you remember, that someone, somewhere, would kill to be you. Enjoy it.