Barry Schiff retired from TWA as a captain in 1998.
Last February I was having breakfast with a friend who had made reservations for a quick airline flight from Los Angeles to Las Vegas.
I couldn't resist. "A quick trip? On the airlines? These days? I could get there faster in my Citabria."
Larry knew that my American Champion 7GCBC Explorer cruises at little more than 100 knots and questioned my cockiness.
"I don't mean air time," I added. "I mean portal-to-portal."
"No way," he replied, and threw down the gauntlet. "You leave home at the same time I do, and a hundred bucks says that I'll beat you to the tables at Caesar's Palace."
With nothing important planned for the next day, I accepted. The 209-nm flight across the Mojave Desert would be a fun way to pick up easy money. Besides, this would be an enjoyable way to demonstrate anew how a 100-kt tortoise can beat a 420-kt hare. To keep track of our progress, each of us agreed to carry a portable tape recorder.
Twelve minutes after leaving home, I opened my hangar door at the Santa Monica Municipal Airport, and 14 minutes after that I pressed the starter button. I was grateful for clear skies and not having to spend time waiting for an IFR release. (When I purchased my airplane new in 1998, it was the first of the American Champion models to be certified for instrument flight.)
Larry had entered the parking structure at Los Angeles International Airport as the Lycoming began to purr. My car was in the hangar and leaving his car at Los Angeles would cost him the princely sum of $30 per day. His parking tab alone would be more than the operating cost of my airplane for the round trip to Las Vegas.
I departed at 12:37 p.m., requested a north downwind departure, and headed toward what local pilots call Kamikaze Alley, a 100-foot-thick band of unrestricted airspace that barely tops the southern boundary of Burbank's Class C airspace and skims below the northern boundary of Los Angeles' Class B airspace. As I squeezed through this narrow gap and "into the open," Larry was cooling his heels in a security line at Los Angeles and seriously wondering if the lengthy, slow-moving, and frustrating queue would prevent him from catching his flight.
Conditions were glorious as I skimmed the southern slopes of Mount Baldy and celebrated my invigoration with an aileron roll and a barrel roll, not caring that this might add a few minutes to my flight. This was at about the same time that Larry was suffering the indignity of having to remove his shoes and belt at the insistence of a security officer. (Such thoroughness inspires confidence, right?)
I pointed my spinner through the Cajon Pass and toward the Mojave Desert, spotted that time of year with colorful patches of blossoming wildflowers.
I later descended to the desert floor while following a railroad track to the miles-long Baker Grade where truck drivers struggle in the summer against gravity and heat. I smiled as I looked down on a freight train that appeared to be going backward, a reminder of when I made this same flight as a student pilot in an Aeronca Champ and watched the train pass me. I recall an instructor who claimed that he would occasionally match speed with the train and momentarily plant the taildragger's main gear on the roof of a car. It would not be difficult to do if one cared to subvert good judgment with insane recklessness.
Larry passed through security, rushed to his gate, and was relieved to find that his flight was still on time. After being herded into the Boeing 737, however, he learned that his flight would be subject to a short gate hold that was to delay pushback by 14 minutes.
The Explorer's shadow passed over Mesquite Dry Lake and reminded me of another long-ago flight. While tracking on the northeast leg of the Silver Lake Radio Range one rainy night, I was hit by turbulence of such ferocity that the windshield of the Stinson Voyager I was flying cracked open. This was not far from where a friend got hopelessly lost in his Luscombe, landed on a ranch strip to ask for directions, and was met by the friendly reception committee of the local bordello.
I washed down a Baby Ruth with bottled water from my survival kit and listened carefully to the Los Angeles Center frequency, fearing that I might hear Larry's flight overtaking mine, but I heard not a peep from it on any of the arrival frequencies as I approached Las Vegas.
After a routine landing, I parked under one of the FBO's sunshades, got a ride to the terminal in a golf cart, placed a fuel order, and found my taxi waiting just as I had requested on unicom. Larry would later have to wait in a line of 17 others in front of the airline terminal, a process that would take as many minutes.
The good news is that I won the bet handily; the bad news is that I lost more than that while waiting for Larry at a blackjack table. Even if I had lost the bet, I would have won. My flight was more fun and relaxing than any airline flight could have been, especially since September 11, 2001.
Visit the author's Web site ( www.barryschiff.com).
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