If I Had the Dinero

From Matronics

by Austin Tinckler

If I had the Dinero, I would build a Rocket.

I was fortunate enough to get a ride in a Rocket once, and it made me a believer, born again, a dreamer. Failing that, my love affair would probably be a -4. The sexiest, most thoroughbred-looking sky machine you could feast your eyes on.

Especially with the new long legs. Sound good? Like a dream babe? But actually, any RV model will do.

They are the FW190, the Mustang — the warrior, you know you could fly.

I ambled once among a row of 20 Mustangs, at repose on the grass, all in battle dress and some scars. Climbed aboard one, opened the canopy, mounted up, rolled her closed, and, in my mind, started the Merlin. I was in another world.

I was in combat and afraid for my life, but not worrying about that at the moment. I could do this, and I could fly the Mustang. What I had to do was respect the numbers and be respectful.

(I was told on good authority, that the Mustang was actually sweet to fly, but our Macho testerone level demanded that we declare that one had to be a real jock to survive a solo flight in one, never mind survival maneuvers.)

But let us get back to RVs.

A thoroughbred indeed. Even with a nose wheel, for the airplane can't see it and doesn't know it is there.

Climb aboard and get your feet set, look at the panel and start this beast, roll out to the button, run her up and feel the power as she champs at the bit, demanding to be let loose, and give her her head and feel the push in your back and let her find her lift off point, the view gets better, and you leave the earth, see the green spread out all around. Objects get smaller and we are at 2,000, 3,000, and zooming. This ain't no spam can, although when nothing else is at hand we are still flying and that is the joy of it all. We're special, and we know that and we love it, you poor ground bounders.

I have seen the glory of this earth, from the dry desert running the length of the whole continent down to Mexico and beyond, until the sea crowds the shore and we turn back to the valleys, hills and mountain tops of white that bring us cool water and grass strips and friends and airplanes all over this part of the world. Airplanes make this possible.

Land anywhere, and the RV is a magnet. Friends are made. Here, take the keys to the jalopy over there, there is a great place to eat just yonder.

I don't care a Fiddler's fart for celebrities or fame, of any stripe. But I stand — nay, bow — in respect and reverence for an RV. And somewhat too for the man that gave her to us. For she is the FW190, the Mustang, the means to drink at the fountain of youth.

I stand before the mirror and cannot believe what I see. Who is that old guy with the grey hair? I am that guy who looks at the world through these eyes and sees adventure.

I hear Santana's "Smooth" and love it. I hear Tina Turner singing, "You Are The Best," and think she must be singing about an RV. Because they are Simply The Best.

And here we are, nose up and still climbing — ain't there no end to it? Push over just a little bit and bring your eyes back into the panel and let them pop at what you see at the airspeed needle. Just think — that's all, just think — about nudging downhill a bit and you are now in that fighter who flashes around the point, along the beach and see the ground-bound, some of whom can savour this sight, 'cause they wave. And they are fast left behind and we click off the miles like a bar code in a scanner.

Keep out of air traffic control if you can because you're only going to give them an ulcer and you crave the freedom of the open country and let her rip.

I can — if you shut your eyes — do a roll that lasts for two miles and you will never even know that we did one. Ain't sure if the same holds true for a loop, but this machine — no, this magic carpet, this thoroughbred which lives and breathes — can describe such beautiful and smoooth and gentle maneuvers that are as pretty to see as they are to experience.

I have come down from 13,000, with the setting sun filling the windscreen, leaving behind the pink snowy slopes of this dormant volcano, and been home on the ground and put to bed in just over 15 minutes. I can't think of any other medium to match that.

Ever flown down a carrier approach? Well, you can now.

The smile comes when you try, just a little bit, to slow this carpet force to a more sedate and reasonable speed that won't get the spam canners into cardiac. Bring her nicely and gently around the corners, set up the final, hold off and let her kiss the runway — grass or other — until she surrenders flight altogether, and taxi in with the sound of the pipes like no other on this airfield.

You have just brought home a living dream, made with the hands of a dreamer. A dreamer who made the idea come alive and who now dances with a partner that is as quick and lively as you could ever want. Nonstop fun. I know now that I can fly that FW190, or that Mustang, standing there on the long legs that keep the prop clear and pointing upward. I can pull on the straps and make ready to take all that power between my finger tips and play a solo that we compose together in the rhapsody of flight.

A last look in the mirror and it matters not what I see, because my mind's eye is a pilot who flies a wonder thing, and therein lies the love and happiness: flying.