In nearly complete darkness, I taxied the jet fighter slowly down the taxiway that paralleled the main runway. Already, I had begun to appreciate the beast, a highly sophisticated blend of the electronic and mechanical resulting in a powerful instrument of destruction.
I made the turn and we both paused a few seconds, then began accelerating down the runway. The runway centerline lights became a blur, then we rose so quickly the runway dropped away as if it were suddenly collapsing. The altimeter began winding upward — 2, 7, 14, and finally topping out at 22,000 feet. I held it there for a minute before beginning a gradual turn to the left and finally easing onto an imagined aerial straightaway.
With the new moon being only a shiny sliver, most light was coming from the stars above and the thousand pinpricks of light on the ground below. Land and sky, two shades of gray, came together at the horizon on this, an exceptionally clear night. After a couple of minutes of feeling suspended in space, I turned left again and with considerable reluctance, I began the descent.
As the runway lights came into view, I carefully centered the aircraft between them, throttled down even more, and did what could best be described as a powered glide until I felt the reassuring bump, solid evidence we were once again rolling on concrete.
“You know,” the beast seemed to say “you only tickled me tonight. If you’d been willing, I could’ve easily had you approaching the speed of sound or headed vertically toward the upper layers of the atmosphere. Still, I greatly appreciate the jaunt, even if it was this short.”
How could it be possible, I thought, that my mom was almost a year old when the Wright brothers made the first flight in the history of man, and that in such a short time, it had come to this, an unimaginable adventure. How great it would’ve been if she could’ve been with me on this night.
I steered off the runway onto the taxiway to where I had left, then parked and shut down the engine.
That’s when the lights came on and the enclosure was opened to reveal where I really was, inside a U.S. Air Force flight simulator. The head instructor who had briefed me beforehand, was smiling at me, and I was smiling myself.
He told me I didn’t know how rare it was for someone who had never flown a jet fighter or been in a simulator, to do what I had just done. Even more impressive was that I had chosen to do it the hard way without the automatic pilot, not to mention that I was 73 years old. He said I should feel proud of myself.
Well, I did, but I also felt both relieved and surprised that luck and circumstance had combined to make it possible for me to have the exact same experience as an Air Force fighter pilot in training.
That I had been invited then afforded the opportunity to enjoy such a rare privilege, and had such presence of mind to take full advantage of it was neither logical nor reasonable. Simulators, as the aircraft, are sensitive, unforgiving if touched in the wrong place or at the wrong time. Without highly tuned senses and an accurate feel for time, distance, and speed, I would have found it impossible to put it all together with such demanding accuracy. The flight would’ve been a wipeout, labeled as being nothing more than a nice try.
Although the flight was simulated, I’ve never forgotten the thrill of it, then finding out at the end that I’d done everything correctly even if at the time I wasn’t fully aware of what that meant. It was as if a sixth sense had determined that rather than delving into the complexity of the system, best I trust the unseen simplicity of it.
That simpler way is also generally the most logical. At the same time, however, that requires greater skill, maybe for the first time, maybe for the only time.
All that counts, however, is that it be enough for a safe landing.
