Maroon and Very Fast

by M.T. Daffenberg

I am maroon and very fast. I have two wheels propelled by a V-four engine. I am one thousand ninety-eight cc's, called an eleven hundred. Each of my cylinders has its own carburetor, mixing the fuel with the oxygen causing miniature pressurized explosions that blast the pistons back and forth to hold an engine-idling eight hundred revolutions per minute. My tachometer red-lined at eleven-thousand five hundred and I always did well to avoid pushing the engine to that edge of bursting gaskets and a wrecked motor block. But in one night, I hit that red line twice on consecutive shifts.

I’m on my way home at one in the morning driving down a Midwestern country road, nothing but cornfields with mid-summer corn, bean-fields with mid-summer beans, and a vacant high-school, the same one I graduated from a month earlier, mid-summer empty. The road is straight; I’m doing eighty. My bike is big and has six big gears and cruises nicely at eighty with no vibrations, no noises—almost serene and meditative.

There is something Zen about driving a motorcycle, the concentration, the acceleration, feeling closer to nature, the bike and you as one. I purposefully ride sans helmet, leather jacket, long pants, and boots. My riding attire is tank-top, jean shorts, sun-glasses, and tennis shoes. Call it eighteen-year-old ignorance, but when caught up in the moment, it feels like freedom.

I approach the school and my Zen is interrupted by what, at first, looks like a police car in the parking lot, no lights. I maintain my speed, wagering it isn't a cop, that it’s a summer teacher whose tire has gone flat, or a night janitor still cleaning up. But I lose the bet, blowing by the school and seeing the cop's headlights flash on as I pass.

A decision has to be made.

Glancing down to my right, I watch the cop in my rearview mirror. I’m still doing eighty, hoping I won't see those cherries on top, and that's when I see those cherries on top, but only one's a cherry because the other one is blue. County.

It’s dark, no traffic except one motorcycle and one cop car and both were accelerating. I make my decision and kick the shift from sixth to third. To some, this may seem like I’m slowing down, but I’m actually looking for some high-torque acceleration. I rev the bike to where I should be at eighty in third and let out the clutch. The torque grabs me and the bike, twisting us, but nothing out of control. And then I’m gone.

I hit the red-line and shift to fourth. I hit the red-line again and shift to fifth. I let the engine whine and push the yellow line by the time I shift to sixth. I top a low-grade hill and hump over to the other side, out of sight from my pursuer. The speedometer reads one hundred forty and climbing slowly. I feel every pebble, every defect in the road. One hundred fifty and a surreal blurriness clings to the sides of my vision. One hundred fifty-five, the wind deafens; my eyes water. One hundred sixty—ah, Zen.

I must be about two miles past the hill when I dart my eyes to the mirror and see the cop crest. He obviously didn't expect me to run. I gain confidence knowing the space between us has more than doubled. I’m drunk on adrenaline and I’m melded with my machine. I’m maroon and very fast.

I come upon a T-intersection and a stop sign. With no stop I whip around the corner, then, I crank that handlebar grip again. No redlines this time, but I wind up the engine pretty tight getting through the gears. As I hit sixth, I begin braking for the next stop sign. The cop had not even reached the T-intersection behind me yet. My oneness with my machine seems to be paying off. The small farm-town I live in is just ahead.

I drive straight to my house, straight into my garage, straight off my bike, garage door closed, straight into the living room where I turn out the lights and peek out the front window. As I split the curtains, I see a cop car coming down my street with his spotlight on, searching yards, driving slowly, looking. As it gets closer, I see the writing on the door. County.

I lie back on the couch and smile. Ah, Zen.

Undue Arrogance and an Aviation Non-incident, or How I Almost Killed My Roommate

by M.T. Daffenberg

 



You know those summer nights, those halcyon evenings of warmth and anticipation, the ones that bring back memories of the free ventures of school-less youth, the upward view loaded with diamonds cast upon a black velvet ribbon, the western edge of which fading through hues orange, red, and purple, and you can smell grilling meats and hear people speak and laugh, and there’s a certain electric excitement coursing through everyone and everything? You know those kinds of summer nights? Well, it was one of those nights when I nearly killed my roommate.

His name was Mike, one of many Mikes I have known. If there's one thing about Mikes, you can rarely generalize about the person who is so named. Mike played guitar; with a few lessons, he helped me overcome my bar chord plateau and showed me that Carlos Santana was amazing. He was heroin-addict thin, sunken cheeks, noodle arms, and he was a recovering alcoholic. Mike smoked two packs a day and was rarely seen without a coffee cup in his hand, always half full. It was even his bedtime quaff. His dream was to get out of the military and become a crop-duster pilot, but at this time he was working on electronic boards for a P3 squadron at an Illinois Navy air base. I was one of his barrack-mates.

I straightened my gig line and fitted my sailor’s cap as I entered the living room. Mike’s guitar was loud, obnoxious with distortion and reverb—a Nugent riff I believed. He stopped to look up at me; his short stature and gaunt frame made his American made Fender Stratocaster appear large.

“When are you going to get a real instrument?” he snarled, motioning with a flip of his hand toward my Sears cheapie, the other hand spinning the volume nob on his guitar all the way down cutting the racket instantly and leaving that post-concert, muffled ringing in my ears.

I smirked at him. I was in a hurry.

“You in the cab today?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’m tower soop.”

“Well, I’ll probably be talkin’ to ya tonight. I have a few more days to get another hour or two, so I figure once the reserve planes land, it’ll be pretty slow, right?”

“Yeah. I usually just have some stragglers after seven or eight.”

“Cool, man. I’m probably hitting the flying club tonight then. I’ll just be doin’ pattern work—stop ‘n goes, touch ‘n goes, shit like that.”

“Okay. I gotta run. I’m late.”

To reach his goal, Mike was taking flight lessons from the on-base flying club. They had a couple small Cessnas and one ex-military piece—a single prop, a Beechcraft T-34A. On this night of good vibrations and happy reminisces, Mike was performing a solo in the T-34A and I was on duty as the air traffic controller in the tower. Right after sunset, I knew it was him—I recognized his voice crackling in my ear.

"Glenview Tower, November Two Niner Three Three Six is on the transient line ready to taxi to the duty runway."

"November Two Niner Three Three Six, Glenview Tower, wind one five zero at six, altimeter three zero zero two, taxi to runway one seven."

The T-34 jerked off the line and followed the taxiway, rolling slowly, carefully, out to the runway. He stopped short, performing his run-up, gunning the engine, running checks. I watched the red and green points, the wingtip indicators, flow and bounce as he taxied.

In the dark, outlines were invisible. Aircraft were merely floating lights on the sea and if the separate lights weren't moving in such perfect unison, you might think they were independent buoys, near each other, but unmoored. From the tower, technology intertwined with nature to make art. You see the lights of the city around you, but in commercial clusters crowded by the shadows of residential suburbia. You see the blue lights of the taxiways, the white of the runways, the red of the runway ends, the beacon on the tower flashing white, white, and green, and as you turn your head upward, the horizon blends with the sky and you see the mosaic background of stars, static, while a line of large passenger jets flies only three thousand feet above, descending to land at O'Hare. Mike called me, done with checks.

"Glenview Tower, November Three Three Six is ready for takeoff and would like to enter the traffic pattern."

"November Three Three Six, wind one six zero at five, runway one seven cleared for takeoff, make left traffic, report your base."

“Roger left traffic and will report base.”

"Report your base" is a safeguard for controllers. They can turn their attention to other duties knowing the pilot will call them when they need a clearance. I had nothing else at the time, so, I talked to the ground controller about his upcoming discharge date. That's when another aircraft called, coincidentally, another T-34. The ground controller had handed me the strip earlier, but with only one inbound and one in the pattern, I didn't feel I needed to look at it—I knew their call signs.

"Glenview Tower, Navy Six One Eight is with ya fifteen miles north for landing."

"Navy Six One Eight, Glenview Tower, report seven miles out for a straight in to runway one seven, wind one five zero at five, altimeter three zero zero two."

I continued my conversation and moments later, Mike reported his base turn.

"Glenview Tower, Three Three Six is three miles out on base."

"Three Three Six roger, wind one six zero at four, runway one seven, cleared for touch and go."

Then the Navy T-34 called me. I thought he made eight miles awfully fast, but I assumed he just misreported his original position. It happened more than you might think.

"Glenview Tower, Navy Six One Eight is seven mile final for one seven."

"Navy Six One Eight, roger, traffic is another T-34 at your twelve o’clock, on three mile final."

"Navy Six One Eight has traffic in sight."

"Navy Six One Eight, follow the traffic, be advised he’s a touch and go, wind one seven zero at five, cleared to land number two runway one seven."

No problems. Two T-34s, four miles apart, they go the same speed, one has the other in sight. I turned and picked up my conversation again. A few lines and a laugh later, I see the ground controller squinting over my shoulder looking at what I knew to be the tower RADAR screen.

"What? What?" I asked, turning and looking for myself.

"I only see one target. Don't you have two on final?" Yes I did. Where the hell was the other target? I turned and looked out into the dark, starry night, over the aesthetic tech art, squinting to focus on tiny moving lights in the sky over a mile away. I saw both planes; the RADAR must be wrong.

"Navy Six One Eight, say position."

"Over landing threshold."

Over landing threshold! How the hell did he get there so fast? I looked out to the end of the runway again and realized that Navy was directly over Mike, both with gear out and descending. I felt a tingling in my armpits, the beginning of sweat. I tensed and spoke quickly. If Navy didn't obey me immediately, he would surely land on top of Mike, or worse, land near him, clip his wing making the two aircraft one fireball.

"Navy Six One Eight, cancel clearance, go around left side without delay."

"Roger, goin' around."

I watched, hoping it wasn't too late. There are moments in air traffic control when watching is the only way to handle a situation—you’ve passed on the info, you've given the correct commands, you've lined the traffic up, then it's all about the waiting. Seconds as years passed. I saw the T-34 peel away, turning left crosswind, as Mike's T-34 landed. His voice startled me out of my panicked consternation.

"Glenview Tower, Three Three Six, we’re gonna make this a full stop, like to taxi."

"Three Three Six, roger, turn right next taxiway, contact ground."

Later, after his go around and a perfectly safe landing, the Navy pilot called the tower. He apologized for reporting traffic in sight he never saw. He, like me, assumed he'd never catch up to another T-34 four miles in front of him. I apologized to him for missing his quick approach. This is what we called a non-incident.

I was still stumped about how one T-34 could have passed seven miles in the time it took another to pass three miles. I looked at the Navy's flight strip; his aircraft type said "T-34C." Mike was flying a T-34A. I called Lou, the old guy who worked at base operations. He was a retired Air Force air traffic controller, a civilian now working for the Navy, and he seemingly knew everything when it came to aviation. I asked the obvious, "Lou. What’s the difference between a T-34A and a T-34C?"

He came back quickly in his rough, deep voice, "T-34C is turbocharged, Lima Delta" then hung up. Lou was like that. He talked to people on the phone the way controllers talked to pilots on the radio.

I walked across base, my floating head staring at the sky, absorbing a moment of relief and taking in the wonderful backdrop nature gave me for this life lesson. Never did I let arrogance make an aviation decision for me again. Mike was awake, playing guitar, smoking, drinking coffee, when I got back to the barracks. I apologized for almost killing him. He teased that I was after his Strat.