My hand fingers the scratch in the fabric under the bottom wing. It feels rough, the paint gone, the fibres exposed. The wind will tear at this…baby’s bruised and will need a patch. The beautiful Pitts biplane, nose raised up prowdly in the manner of the taildragger, gives me an accusing look.
“Wow, was that you in that plane? Did you mean to take off like that?” The plane spotter gives me a wide-eyed look, excited, stupefied. “Yup, that’s how it’s done!” I reply dryly, reaching for my coffee with shaking hands. I take it onto the terrace of the restaurant, overlooking the small airstrip. Impossibly narrow, short and ingeniously located on a plateau with forest on one side. Shifty winds that always cross the runway.
Turning base, I reduce power, point the nose toward the runway and the Pitts drops from the sky like a sewer cap. The wind is screaming, everything is happening way too fast. I foolishly raise the nose and now my field of vision is filled with nothing but engine cowling. Where’s the runway treshold? Spastically, I push the rudder and establish a slip. The ground is rushing up, the sight picture looks completely wrong and, forgetting that you can always go around, I scream at my instructor in the front seat “YOUR CONTROL!” As an answer, he raises his hands and waves them merrily. The pavement meets us angrily and immediately we are deflected back into the air. It feels like trying to land on a trampoline.
“How about we brief this lesson and discuss landing strategies?” “Nah, you’re way too tight…what you need to do is relax and feel the plane.” In the backseat of the Pitts, all I see is a tiny sliver of pavement at the very edge of my strained vision. As we taxi to the end of the runway, I remind myself that the rudder is exquisitely sensitive and that I should do as little as possible with my hands and feet during the ground roll. “I’m calm, how hard can this be” is my last thought before I smoothly apply full throttle.
With a stupendous roar, we surge forward, launched from an invisible catapult. The right edge of the runway is widening in my limited field of vision. While the thought “feet dancing lightly on the rudder” races through my mind, I stomp on it like wishing to squish a bug. The result is instantaneous and could be likened to a maneouver we might call “quarter snap roll before takeoff”. The hangar next to the runway is suddenly looming extremely large in my field of vision before the controls are yanked out of my death grip and we become airborne, lopsided and too slow. Fortunately, the Pitts accelerates valiantly and finally we climb like a homesick angel. I’ve never been so relieved to return to the sky.
Opportunity must meet the right timing. But it’s easier to wait than being presented with a wonderful opportunity at the wrong time, in the wrong place. It’s hard to let go. Deep in my heart, I know this. Deep in my heart, I know the difference between pleasing the ego and pursuing a passion. One day, I will open the hangar and set my eyes on a stubby, tiny toy-plane, red with white stripes. I will push it out into the misty morning, ready to rock and roll the box. My Pitts is waiting for me somewhere, maybe a couple hundred hours of flying experience away.
Letting go is even harder when it comes to people. Some people leave us and rip a hole in our heart that seems to never heal. It’s ok. We let go of our desires, dreams and wishful thinking of the past and return to the present moment. We let go of the illusion that there would ever be enough time when it had already run out long ago. Only love is real. So we hold on to our love and let go.