I got an e-mail from Hacker this morning. Seems he was cleaning out his PC, and ran across an old column of mine from World Airshow News. Said this was still one of his favorites.
Not exactly sure when this was from...my guess is it was from the issue just prior to Reno 2001, because my follow-on about the 'non-races' sort of kept with this theme.
But still, I thought I might share something from the archives. Still rings pretty close to home.
************************************************** **
SEARCHING FOR 'THE HAPPINESS'
It’s late August as this column is being written. In a matter of a few days I’ll set out on my annual pilgrimage to the Reno National Championship Air Races. For as long as I can remember, this is something that the Haskin family men have done—just me, my dad, and my brother. We’ve always made it our “men’s getaway”, a whirlwind week of peanut butter sandwiches, sleeping in the van, and overwhelming our senses watching old warbirds go fast in the high desert. It’s something I look forward to all year. So how come I don’t feel it this year?
My brother called me from North Carolina a couple weeks ago. He said the Air Force was kind enough to let him take time off from flying F-15E’s to come to “the show” this year. It had been a few years since all three Haskin men were there, so it should be reason to rejoice. He asked me to bring him up to speed on the “goings on”. After rattling off a rather long list of race planes that wouldn’t be there for a plethora of reasons, I let out a big sigh. “I don’t know”, I told him. “Normally at this point I’d be going out of my skin to get on the road, but it’s almost like I don’t care this year. I felt this way last year too. I don’t understand. It’s just not the same anymore.”
“You’re too close, bro”, he answered. Too close. Maybe that’s it.
I’ve been around various forms of high performance racing for most of my life. Early on, I was content being “the fan”. While other kids my age were riding skateboards or racing their BMX bicycles, I skipped straight to air racing. No time for that “kid stuff” that my friends were into. Air racing was like a gospel for me to spread 365 days a year. I couldn’t get enough. My friends had their baseball card collections…I had a photo of Miss America that Howie Keefe signed for me: “To Brad—a future air race pilot!” Most kids wait all year for Christmas. Me? My Christmas was Reno. I didn’t mind huddling under a tarp in the grandstands, braving howling wind, rain, dust, and temperatures ranging from the 40’s well into the 100’s. None of it mattered because I was there, soaking in every sight, sound, and smell. A day in the pits was a luxury to be savored, wandering amongst these living, breathing race planes. I was the kid on the “outside” of the cyclone fence, wanting more than anything to be one of the lucky ones on the other side.
So I clawed my way to the other side. A guy kept his T-6 racer just a few spots down from where my dad’s Navion was parked. Every weekend I was down there hanging out in his hangar—even if he wasn’t there! That fall I was waxing his airplane in the pits at Reno. I was on top of the world. By the time I was in High School, I was reporting the air races for the Pacific Flyer—a 16 year old kid out at the pylons and roaming the pits in search of “the story”. The first time Lyle Shelton called the house asking for me, the shock on my dad’s face was unmistakable. I really had “arrived”…doing instead of just wishing, barely even old enough to have my drivers (or pilots!) license.
Twenty years later, here I am, on the inside now. Everything that little kid wanted. I’ve done just about all there is to do, short of actually flying a plane in the races (though I’ve ridden around the course, which is pretty cool!). In that time I’ve gotten to know a lot of people. I’ve made a lot of life-long friends that I look forward to seeing every year, and I’ve been on almost intimate terms with some of these airplanes. I’ve experienced the highest of highs…and I’ve watched my friends die in front of my eyes.
“See, your problem is you know too much.” my brother continued. “You can walk around the pits and think to yourself, ‘oh, that guy’s a real tool’, or know that that plane is an accident waiting to happen. You know the inside stories, and suddenly it isn’t so glamorous anymore.”
Good point. Sometimes being on the inside isn’t quite what you expected. After so long, my expectations have gotten so high, that of course it’s going to be a disappointment. I know the dark secrets that are inside the closet. Ignorance is bliss, right? The fans in the stand…the ones on the “outside” don’t see it. Or they don’t care. But I do care. I care because these people are my friends and this is something that has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.
When it boils down to the bare minimum, I love going to Reno because of the airplanes. I love watching old airplanes go fast. The sight, the sound--most of all, the smell. I LOVE the smell of avgas, hydraulic fluid, and exhaust. Forget drugs…I can get high of this stuff just fine.
So I’ve made up my mind. My mission this year is just to be a “fan”. I’m still going to go see my friends…but I’m not going to go fully immerse myself in the experience like I usually do. I’m just going to stand back and remember how to enjoy air racing with no expectations. I’m going to find that happiness again. It’s got to be out there somewhere.
Somehow I think I’ll know where it is when I hear that first Rolls Merlin fire up
Not exactly sure when this was from...my guess is it was from the issue just prior to Reno 2001, because my follow-on about the 'non-races' sort of kept with this theme.
But still, I thought I might share something from the archives. Still rings pretty close to home.
************************************************** **
SEARCHING FOR 'THE HAPPINESS'
It’s late August as this column is being written. In a matter of a few days I’ll set out on my annual pilgrimage to the Reno National Championship Air Races. For as long as I can remember, this is something that the Haskin family men have done—just me, my dad, and my brother. We’ve always made it our “men’s getaway”, a whirlwind week of peanut butter sandwiches, sleeping in the van, and overwhelming our senses watching old warbirds go fast in the high desert. It’s something I look forward to all year. So how come I don’t feel it this year?
My brother called me from North Carolina a couple weeks ago. He said the Air Force was kind enough to let him take time off from flying F-15E’s to come to “the show” this year. It had been a few years since all three Haskin men were there, so it should be reason to rejoice. He asked me to bring him up to speed on the “goings on”. After rattling off a rather long list of race planes that wouldn’t be there for a plethora of reasons, I let out a big sigh. “I don’t know”, I told him. “Normally at this point I’d be going out of my skin to get on the road, but it’s almost like I don’t care this year. I felt this way last year too. I don’t understand. It’s just not the same anymore.”
“You’re too close, bro”, he answered. Too close. Maybe that’s it.
I’ve been around various forms of high performance racing for most of my life. Early on, I was content being “the fan”. While other kids my age were riding skateboards or racing their BMX bicycles, I skipped straight to air racing. No time for that “kid stuff” that my friends were into. Air racing was like a gospel for me to spread 365 days a year. I couldn’t get enough. My friends had their baseball card collections…I had a photo of Miss America that Howie Keefe signed for me: “To Brad—a future air race pilot!” Most kids wait all year for Christmas. Me? My Christmas was Reno. I didn’t mind huddling under a tarp in the grandstands, braving howling wind, rain, dust, and temperatures ranging from the 40’s well into the 100’s. None of it mattered because I was there, soaking in every sight, sound, and smell. A day in the pits was a luxury to be savored, wandering amongst these living, breathing race planes. I was the kid on the “outside” of the cyclone fence, wanting more than anything to be one of the lucky ones on the other side.
So I clawed my way to the other side. A guy kept his T-6 racer just a few spots down from where my dad’s Navion was parked. Every weekend I was down there hanging out in his hangar—even if he wasn’t there! That fall I was waxing his airplane in the pits at Reno. I was on top of the world. By the time I was in High School, I was reporting the air races for the Pacific Flyer—a 16 year old kid out at the pylons and roaming the pits in search of “the story”. The first time Lyle Shelton called the house asking for me, the shock on my dad’s face was unmistakable. I really had “arrived”…doing instead of just wishing, barely even old enough to have my drivers (or pilots!) license.
Twenty years later, here I am, on the inside now. Everything that little kid wanted. I’ve done just about all there is to do, short of actually flying a plane in the races (though I’ve ridden around the course, which is pretty cool!). In that time I’ve gotten to know a lot of people. I’ve made a lot of life-long friends that I look forward to seeing every year, and I’ve been on almost intimate terms with some of these airplanes. I’ve experienced the highest of highs…and I’ve watched my friends die in front of my eyes.
“See, your problem is you know too much.” my brother continued. “You can walk around the pits and think to yourself, ‘oh, that guy’s a real tool’, or know that that plane is an accident waiting to happen. You know the inside stories, and suddenly it isn’t so glamorous anymore.”
Good point. Sometimes being on the inside isn’t quite what you expected. After so long, my expectations have gotten so high, that of course it’s going to be a disappointment. I know the dark secrets that are inside the closet. Ignorance is bliss, right? The fans in the stand…the ones on the “outside” don’t see it. Or they don’t care. But I do care. I care because these people are my friends and this is something that has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.
When it boils down to the bare minimum, I love going to Reno because of the airplanes. I love watching old airplanes go fast. The sight, the sound--most of all, the smell. I LOVE the smell of avgas, hydraulic fluid, and exhaust. Forget drugs…I can get high of this stuff just fine.
So I’ve made up my mind. My mission this year is just to be a “fan”. I’m still going to go see my friends…but I’m not going to go fully immerse myself in the experience like I usually do. I’m just going to stand back and remember how to enjoy air racing with no expectations. I’m going to find that happiness again. It’s got to be out there somewhere.
Somehow I think I’ll know where it is when I hear that first Rolls Merlin fire up
Comment