I sell parts for classic British sports cars. We publish a house magazine, in which every issues I write an editorial. Although it needs to be vetted, this is what I plan on saying:
There is a little known store. It sells gasoline and knives. The gasoline is obviously visible, the knives not so much. It has been in business for 48 years. Once a year, curious folks like myself wander by to see the gasoline and knives. Sometimes they have a small explosion. When this happens, the knives fly around.
No window shopper has ever before been harmed by the knives, but on September 16, 2011, there was a bigger than usual explosion and the knives got out, killing some of the passers by.
The gasoline and knife store also has a different name, one more familiar to the general public. It’s known as the National Championship Air Races, and is held every September just outside Reno Nevada. The gasoline is the aircraft and pilots. The knives are what happen when things go badly wrong.
Every pilot knows the risks, but he or she chooses to face those risks, and push themselves and their equipment near, but hopefully not beyond the flash point. While far too many pilots have experienced the knives - an in flight mechanical failure or mid air collision – we vicarious thrill seekers have always been immune.
Sure, we know the knives may fly our way, but like the pilots, we too choose the adrenaline rush. The dangers of being near by are forgotten when the throttles are pushed forward.
On that fateful day in September, when Jimmy Leeward, a very experienced and well liked pilot crashed into the crowd, my nose was pressed to the glass. His highly modified P-51 Mustang, which moments before had been rounding the pylons in excess of 450 miles per hour, suffered an apparent mechanical failure. It pitched up, rolled to the right, and then veered down in to the crowd.
The aircraft, named Galloping Ghost, shattered on impact, showering the box seats around it with shrapnel. I was not hundreds of yards away, not even a few dozen. I was in the path of that debris.
As an avid amateur warbird photographer, for me, the entire sequence of events took place through the strobing effect of an SLR shutter firing at five frames per second. The time span between my conscious understanding Jimmy was in trouble, and a subconscious realization I was in trouble too, was not more than a couple seconds. I dropped to me knees, closed my eyes and took my share of the flying knives.
Moments later, covered with fluids, dirt and biological material, I opened my eyes to a twilight zone. My box seat area, a ten by ten foot home for the races, comprised of plastic folding chairs, and delineated by rental company poles and drapes had blown apart. My friends were on the ground in various states of distress.
I stood up, and looking into the box on my left, and saw utter devastation. A couple who had been sitting to my immediate left, within touching distance, were lying face down and unconscious.
A young man, who moments before, was sitting in a wheel chair had been blown across their booth, a piece of aircraft structure wrapped around his destroyed chair. He passed away in hospital a couple days later. The tail wheel assembly and additional pieces of aircraft structure were strewn about us. Behind me, a man in obvious shock was holding his head and bleeding profusely.
And there I was, in the midst of this carnage, dirty and in shock, but with little more than some cuts and bruises. Each of us must choose his or her reasons for why things happen the way they do. The knives had gotten out, but they chose to spare me.
This story is not the typical British Motoring fare, but to help heal myself, it must be recorded and shared. To Jimmy Leeward, his family and friends, and to all those in the crowd who suffered with him, I offer my deepest condolences.
Will the gasoline and knife store reopen for business next year? This I do not know. What is certain to me, if they do, I will be there, nose pressed against the glass. Humanity to me is about horizons. We must face our fears, calculate our risks, and move forward.
Thank you for allowing me to unload some baggage and move on.
It occurs to me this should not be posted here under an anonymous sounding screen name. My name is Robert Goldman. If Wayne or anyone else feels this piece should not be posted here and taken down, I understand. I deal with personal grief and angst by writing out that which is floating in my head.
There is a little known store. It sells gasoline and knives. The gasoline is obviously visible, the knives not so much. It has been in business for 48 years. Once a year, curious folks like myself wander by to see the gasoline and knives. Sometimes they have a small explosion. When this happens, the knives fly around.
No window shopper has ever before been harmed by the knives, but on September 16, 2011, there was a bigger than usual explosion and the knives got out, killing some of the passers by.
The gasoline and knife store also has a different name, one more familiar to the general public. It’s known as the National Championship Air Races, and is held every September just outside Reno Nevada. The gasoline is the aircraft and pilots. The knives are what happen when things go badly wrong.
Every pilot knows the risks, but he or she chooses to face those risks, and push themselves and their equipment near, but hopefully not beyond the flash point. While far too many pilots have experienced the knives - an in flight mechanical failure or mid air collision – we vicarious thrill seekers have always been immune.
Sure, we know the knives may fly our way, but like the pilots, we too choose the adrenaline rush. The dangers of being near by are forgotten when the throttles are pushed forward.
On that fateful day in September, when Jimmy Leeward, a very experienced and well liked pilot crashed into the crowd, my nose was pressed to the glass. His highly modified P-51 Mustang, which moments before had been rounding the pylons in excess of 450 miles per hour, suffered an apparent mechanical failure. It pitched up, rolled to the right, and then veered down in to the crowd.
The aircraft, named Galloping Ghost, shattered on impact, showering the box seats around it with shrapnel. I was not hundreds of yards away, not even a few dozen. I was in the path of that debris.
As an avid amateur warbird photographer, for me, the entire sequence of events took place through the strobing effect of an SLR shutter firing at five frames per second. The time span between my conscious understanding Jimmy was in trouble, and a subconscious realization I was in trouble too, was not more than a couple seconds. I dropped to me knees, closed my eyes and took my share of the flying knives.
Moments later, covered with fluids, dirt and biological material, I opened my eyes to a twilight zone. My box seat area, a ten by ten foot home for the races, comprised of plastic folding chairs, and delineated by rental company poles and drapes had blown apart. My friends were on the ground in various states of distress.
I stood up, and looking into the box on my left, and saw utter devastation. A couple who had been sitting to my immediate left, within touching distance, were lying face down and unconscious.
A young man, who moments before, was sitting in a wheel chair had been blown across their booth, a piece of aircraft structure wrapped around his destroyed chair. He passed away in hospital a couple days later. The tail wheel assembly and additional pieces of aircraft structure were strewn about us. Behind me, a man in obvious shock was holding his head and bleeding profusely.
And there I was, in the midst of this carnage, dirty and in shock, but with little more than some cuts and bruises. Each of us must choose his or her reasons for why things happen the way they do. The knives had gotten out, but they chose to spare me.
This story is not the typical British Motoring fare, but to help heal myself, it must be recorded and shared. To Jimmy Leeward, his family and friends, and to all those in the crowd who suffered with him, I offer my deepest condolences.
Will the gasoline and knife store reopen for business next year? This I do not know. What is certain to me, if they do, I will be there, nose pressed against the glass. Humanity to me is about horizons. We must face our fears, calculate our risks, and move forward.
Thank you for allowing me to unload some baggage and move on.
It occurs to me this should not be posted here under an anonymous sounding screen name. My name is Robert Goldman. If Wayne or anyone else feels this piece should not be posted here and taken down, I understand. I deal with personal grief and angst by writing out that which is floating in my head.
Comment