Dark Thoughts and the Savannah Half-Marathon

It was dark this morning at 5:15 when I headed out for the Savannah Rock ‘n Roll Half Marathon. We’d been warned that parking would be congested, so I gave myself plenty of time. But it was dark and my night vision is…not great. All I could imagine were the events that might delay me, like things that run out in front of me. Deer, for one. Curbs, for another. Did I mention my night vision is dreadful? I wasn’t worried about other cars–they’d have their lights on and I could see one coming. Well, I’d see two until it got close enough, and hopefully I’d have figured out which one was real by that point. But deer? They don’t wear headlights. And my car is small, very small. (Think SmartCar meets Godzilla.) And have you noticed that curbs are put in the strangest places sometimes? Like separating one line of traffic from the oncoming line. What is it with that?

And that got me thinking about my bucket list. Not that I think anything’s imminent and I obviously survived this morning’s oh-dark-hundred drive. I used to say I planned on dying at 93, but I’m thinking of upping it to 103.  But before that murderous deer got me this morning, I was going to have my obituary written. It’d go something like this: “Ann Beardsley, age 60…” and right there I’d tune out. Sixty? “She had a good long life,” they’d say. Not like I’m ten years old or anything. “But I’m not finished yet,” I pleaded. “I’m still figuring things out.” And that’s so very true. I always thought you were supposed to have things all worked out by now, but nope, I’m here to tell you that some of us sixty-year-olds just haven’t grown up yet.

Or maybe we have and there’s just nothing to figure out. No answers, at least not for certain. Some of us leave legacies, some of us don’t. Some of us have children (well, they’re sort of a legacy), some of us leave works of art. Maybe I’m onto something here–children are a work of art. Messy art, but art nonetheless. And some of us leave nothing at all, and is that so bad? Legacy can go both ways (think Adolf Hitler, for one, though he’s probably a hero to some), so maybe it’s safer not to leave one. Not as much fun, perhaps, but safer.

But who wants to be safe? I’m not running this half-marathon to be safe. My knee might give out. I might get trampled by the corrals behind me (ahem, there turned out to be only one behind me, and if I report that most of them had blue hair, well, then you’ll lose all respect for my fantastic accomplishment this morning). I might give a thumb’s-up to Occupy Savannah as I run by and somebody might bash my head in. I might not even survive the drive in the dark.

I survived the drive. I even survived the run. And what’s more, I survived the McDonald’s Combo #1, which was a guilty pleasure. I had beer (thank you, free MGD 64) at (gasp) 11:30 in the morning, wine at 3:00 p.m., and there’s more wine in my immediate future. Come to think of it, I might not survive the half-marathon recovery plan.

Remember, remember, the 5th of November

The Gunpowder Treason and plot ;
I know of no reason why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,
'Twas his intent.
To blow up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below.
Poor old England to overthrow.
By God's providence he was catch'd,
With a dark lantern and burning match

Holloa boys, Holloa boys, let the bells ring
Holloa boys, Holloa boys, God save the King!

Hip hip Hoorah !
Hip hip Hoorah !

A penny loaf to feed ol'Pope,
A farthing cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down,
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar,'
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head,
Then we'll say: ol'Pope is dead.

Post imported by Google+Blog. Created By Daniel Treadwell.

A passion for things that fly…

Comanche Panel

A few minutes ago I read a post on Google + from an acquaintance of mine. This fellow flies, as I do, but with rather more passion, I think. I mean in addition to flying, he’s been building an airplane in his garage. Yes, that speaks of passion. It’s an undertaking that takes years to accomplish. Learning to fly is something any reasonably intelligent person can accomplish in the span of a summer, but to fashion an aircraft with your own hands and tools? That is passion.

Anyway, he posted a short article about his flight yesterday, round trip from Raleigh to Asheville and back, on a day that was tailor-made for aviation; blue skies, gentle breeze, and no doubt a landscape rolling by beneath touched with brush-strokes of reds and yellows from the shift to autumn foliage. I smiled because I too spent yesterday absorbed in “flying”, and with my own kind of passion, but a bit different.

My yesterday was consumed with fixing my autopilot, which has never quite worked right in this airplane of mine; a wonderful “bird” which I’ve owned since the mid-1990’s. At times, it has demonstrated a willingness to work well, but never for two flights in a row, and for more than a few years now not even one flight in three. It came that way at point of purchase. I remember what the previous owner said about it when he was showing me my purchase. “How does this work?”, I asked, pointing to the autopilot control console. “Oh, that thing…”, said he, “ I can fly the plane better myself.” Yup, that was truth.

An autopilot is not a necessity in light aircraft; to have one in the plane is luxury, a frivolity even, if you never practice instrument flight. That’s flight where you enter and fly within clouds, of course. All an autopilot really does is permit a pilot to focus his attention elsewhere while the craft maintains a certain heading and altitude. Ok, it’s true that a modern autopilot interfaced with the right kind of navigation gear can also fly you all the way to where you’re going, without you doing much else than programming it.

Mine is very old school: it will hold a certain heading from the compass, and will also hold an altitude, sort of, within a hundred feet or so. It is rumored that it is capable of intercepting a course on a navigation radio, and then turning to and flying that course. Radical! In short, it is an archaic dinosaur. Even with these limitations, it would be a fine thing if it did those things CONSISTENTLY, and so I spent my day yesterday probing its deficiencies, in search of an answer to this question: why, dear God, please tell me WHY does it work well at times, but not at others?

I spent almost eight hours in and around my aircraft yesterday in pursuit of an answer to that question, and learned much, but not the answer. I may even be within a few more hours of having my answer, and will likely spend more time today. And yet more in the future, on this or other “old airplane” problems. Let me tell you something that surprised me as I sat with my feet up, after yesterday’s workshop time: it was fun. It was absorbing. And it put me in touch with an aspect of flying that I haven’t previously connected with.

I realized my friend’s joyous flight yesterday was only half of the equation, and that maintaining the craft, making it work, making it a bit better through effort (not just money spent), maybe even building it from the ground up, any or all of those, IS the other half.

…our word-window on the world.