Beat of the Aerobat

Into the buoyant blue of a summer sky I throw my fortune and my hopes. With wings and wonder I survey the world above and need some time up there before descending back to earth. Advancing throttle up I climb, rocket like and plumb, to check the heights of clouds and skill, rolling left, then right as in a dance, light with release from gravity. Before my plane escapes my vision, too, I guide it over a graceful arch, until fast approaching ground is all I see, and while succumbing to the appetite of earth for things detached, roll again and again in defiance, cutting facets from the burnished blue. Pushing hard to inverted flight, I see things from a different point of view. Pressure on the stick reminds me that up is down, and I must concentrate to follow a horizontal path. The Extra was made for this, I tell myself, and brace for more. Throwing sticks to the corner I force a snap. In a burst of energy my wings become a blur. Like a wayward child nose and tail go off track and need correction. The stress on joints and structure is immense, yet my plane obeys with no complaint, rebelling only at my command to return wings level. Like a metronome ticking over the rhythmic pounding of my heart I count my way through a hammerhead: “Throttle up and push, and, wait, and… release! 1 and 2 and roll and roll, and 1 and 2 and throttle back… rudder!” The plane pauses in mid-air – a sentry in the sky - then pivots on a point. Opposite aileron keeps me in a geometric plane, and earthward bound once more I resume the beat: “1 and 2 and roll: to canopy, and belly! 1 and 2 and push!” The lines and arcs I draw through weather fair and foul are my signature, the salient points of aerobatic discourse, a test of nerves and steel, the embrace of fear. Breaking through that wall, I emerge free to explore the boundaries of my craft. I must look beyond the attitude of pitch, roll and yaw to see the art that I’m creating there from the power and pull of wings through air. Holding a precise line against the force of Indiana winds or the vagaries of a Midwest storm, with sunburned lips, lack of sleep or a thousand other faults... ah, there is the rub. It is no easy thing, and still I try to reach perfection, to control the direction I will fly in that endless summer sky.