Imagine, if you will, this comedy road gig travel day scenario:
You toss your road gear into your car, drive a leisurely seven minutes
in midday traffic to the airport, through the front entrance, and
pull right up next to the plane. Park your car right there.
Leave it there as many days as you want. Free. Carry all your
luggage on the plane with you and take a seat. No ticketing lines,
no baggage check, no stupid questions, no metal detectors, no
cavity searches, nothing. You'll have plenty of legroom,
because there is no one seated in front of you, beside you, or behind
you. Every seat is a window seat. You cannot possibly miss
the flight. The plane will not leave without you, you are
the only passenger. It leaves whenever you are ready. The
plane flies two hours directly to your destination. No long
layovers in Denver, Dallas or Chicago. Upon arrival, the
plane taxis to the ramp and you are the first, and only one
off the plane. Five minutes later, you and your bags are curbside,
waiting to be whisked away by limousine to the comedy condo.
By now you're probably thinking, "Uh-oh. Looks like Dave
has hopped a ride aboard the Cuervo Express for a spin up and
down the psychedelic streets of the Twilight Zone, and this
time, he may not be coming back." Relax. I'm stone cold
sober. Believe it or not, the above is an accurate description
of my last commute to a road gig. Really. Well, all but the
part about the limo.
The airport at which the aforementioned flight originated was
Perry Lefors Field. Never heard of it? Guess you don't fly much,
do ya, emcee? Lefors Field has one terminal, but there's rarely
anyone in it, except for the occasional pipeline inspection
pilot stopping by for a cup of coffee, which is 25 cents on
the honor system, and if you drink the last cup, you have to
make the next pot. Feel free to read one of the complimentary
magazines available in the lounge (Hope ya like Field and Stream
and American Rifleman. Please don't tear out any of the pages.
There ain't nothing worse than reading a suspense-filled
article on how to bag trophy Prairie Chickens, only to find
the climactic last page of the article has been ripped out
by some selfish, insensitive jerk who wanted to order the
camouflaged underpants advertised on the other side. Aaaarrrggghhhh!).
If you get bored, go outside and climb up the beacon tower, lean
out over the rail and yell "I'm the King of the World!"
like that kid in "Titanic." Go ahead, hawk a loogee
off as long as you're up there. You gotta make your own fun
around here. There are no taxis or rental vehicles available
at Lefors Field, but if you need to go somewhere, go find Ron,
the field's operator, and he'll give you the keys to his car.
If Ron's not there, go find Dave, the chief mechanic, he'll
give you the keys to Ron's car. Just bring back a six pack
of Icehouse from town and Ron will probably call it even.
Security is kind of informal at Lefors Field. Go ahead,
let a stranger pack your bags if you feel like it. While
you're at it, keep your shoes on your feet and your nail
scissors in your pocket, the nearest metal detector is at
Amarillo International, nearly 60 miles away. The Perry
Lefors security system is flawless. There has never been a
single hijacking or terrorist attack onboard a flight
originating from Lefors Field. Ever. After reading the
above description of the nonexistent security procedures
implemented at Perry Lefors, the frequent flyers among you
have probably started drooling all over yourselves like a
snuff-dipping Alzheimer's patient in a wind tunnel.
"Dave! No long lines for ticketing or security? No
expensive long-term parking? No screaming babies? No crowded
planes? No $7 hot dogs? What's the catch?"
Only one minor catch, my friend. You'll have to fly the plane
yourself. That's not going to be a problem, is it?
Perry Lefors Field, Common Traffic Advisory Frequency 122.7,
is located just north of Pampa, Texas, elevation 3,244 ft. That's
where I'm from. Pampa, Texas, duh, not Perry Lefors Field.
I now live at the base of Lookout Mountain, Tennessee, but I'm
on a 3-week run out this way and stopped off to visit my family
in the Texas Panhandle. My next stop was to be a week at The
Looney Bin Comedy Club in Wichita, Kansas, 400 miles and six
hours of mind-numbing Interstate highway driving away. As
the crow flies, Wichita is only about 220 miles from Pampa.
Unfortunately, crows have been systematically discriminated
against when it comes to the awarding of government highway
engineering contracts, and these airborne experts on shortcuts
had neither a hand nor a wing in the designing of the Interstate
highway system. Some schmuck draftsman who wears corrective
shoes and thinks cross country driving trips are "neato"
probably did. So 400 miles by car to Wichita it is. My dad, a
private pilot and a proud owner of N74JP, a tricked out Cessna
172, remarked "You could be there in two hours if you took
my plane." What? The same man who used to tell me that
if I valued my life, I'd have his car home by midnight is
offering to let me have his airplane for a whole week? Oh
yeah, the guy is losin' it. Age is beginning to cloud his
mind and affect his judgment. But the offer had been made,
and it was too late to take it back. Hmmm. Let's see, six
hours of staring at the words "Show me your tits!"
written in the dirt on the back of a tractor trailer while
driving through construction zones in western Oklahoma, or,
two hours of gazing out into the wild blue yonder while flying
above and around all that crap at 120 knots ("Knots"
designates nautical miles. A nautical mile equals 1.15 statute
miles) per hour. Being a man known to occasionally suffer
from fits of common sense and reason, I replied, "Okay."
I knew this damn pilot's license would come in handy someday.
On Wednesday, the day the gig in Wichita started, I got out
of bed (don't know what time, didn't matter) and had a leisurely
breakfast. Having done my flight planning the night before, all
that was left to do was to call Flight Service for a weather
briefing and to file a flight plan, which I did. I left my
folk's house, negotiated the two stop signs that stand between
their house and the airport and five minutes later was pulling
into the front gate of Lefors Field. "Move it or lose
it, you tumbleweeds!" I shouted as I coasted my truck
into my free, personal, VIP long-term parking spot in the
grass next to the hangar. I opened the hangar doors, preflighted
the plane, and ten minutes later I was Looney Bin bound at
120 knots indicated airspeed, with a 20-knot tailwind,
resulting in 140 knots of groundspeed. Yeah. Screw New York,
I love Pampa, Texas. No, I can't get a Reuben sandwich at
four in the morning in Pampa, Texas, but I don't need a Reuben
sandwich at four in the morning, because at four in the morning,
while you're picking up a Reuben sandwich to eat while standing
in security and baggage check lines at JFK or LaGuardia in
order to make that 10 AM flight, I'm still asleep. I leave
the house at 9:45 to make the 10 AM flight. If I want to
stop on the way to the airport and get a Reuben sandwich,
the 10 AM flight becomes the 10:15 AM flight, because I said
so, and I'm the pilot in command, so there. Pampa, Texas, and
Perry Lefors Field works for me.
I arrived in Wichita, tied down the plane, and waited for the
cook from the club to come pick me up in his old van (told ya
the part about the limo was a lie). I also invited the people
from the FBO (Fixed Base Operation, it's like a truck stop
for airplanes, only without the dirty magazines) where the
plane was parked to come see the show. In return, they
waived the $6 per day tie down fee to park the plane on
their ramp. Ahh, the barter system. Tax that, Dick Gephardt.
The emcee that week was a friend of mine, and she was cool
enough to let me ride around town with her. Thank God.
The only thing within walking distance of the Wichita condo
was the First United Methodist church, and Lord knows I can't
go in there. The Methodists and I have a long standing
agreement to stay the hell away from each other. I believe
the actual contract is worded "If you Methodists
promise to stay off my front porch, I promise not to shoot
you in the upper torso or head with my potato cannon."
To date, this fragile agreement has kept a potentially
explosive situation under control. God in Heaven, please
don't let some militant young SMU theology student bent on
fundamentalist Wesleyan jihad get cocky and do something
stupid. A potato cannon fired at point blank range would
leave one hell of a welt and might break a rib, but I'll do
it in a heartbeat if provoked.
Monday morning, after I was really funny all week and sold
a bunch of T-shirts, I caught a ride to the airport around
eleven o'clock, paid the fuel bill (45 bucks. 100LL aviation
fuel is $2.50 a gallon and I burned 17 gallons), preflighted
the plane, hit "reverse flight plan" on the GPS and away I
went on a heading of 221. Again, 120 knots of airspeed, but
this time a 20+-knot headwind slowed me to a groundspeed in
the 90's. Still touched down on Perry Lefors runway 23 in two
hours, 35 minutes, and that beats the hell out of six hours
of driving any day. Man, I could really get used to this style
of travel. Wonder how many T shirts I'll have to sell in order
to buy a $60,000 airplane?
See ya on the road,
Kid Dave
|
