"See that tall tower at nine o'clock that looks like the Space Needle? Head directly for it," said the controller. "That'll put you on left base for Runway 19R." Banking, I peered down into Lake Mead, its ochre rock shoreline fading into azure waters. So clear is this lake that only speedboat wakes define its surface.
McCarran International Airport soon materialized at 10 o'clock. Turning final near the Stratosphere, I found myself paralleling castles, pyramids, and pirate ships. How appropriate for arrival by Flying Carpet.
Despite living only two hours away in Phoenix, this was my first time flying into Las Vegas. What drew me here today was not gambling or showgirls, but rather a curious blend of art and machine. A year or so earlier, New York's prestigious Guggenheim Museum had debuted an exhibit titled "Art of the Motorcycle." Apparently there was controversy about whether or not motorcycles should be considered art, but as a longtime slave to beautiful machines I was immediately intrigued. Unable to justify travel to New York, I had ordered the catalog for my coffee table.
Then I'd learned to my surprise that the Guggenheim was inaugurating a branch at the Venetian Resort in Las Vegas. Opening there was none other than "Art of the Motorcycle," plus an exhibit of masterwork paintings from Russia's Hermitage Museum. I set about convincing my wife to go.
Jean was less than enthused about ogling motorcycles, but fortunately we were both interested in the paintings. It also helped that longtime friends living in Las Vegas would meet us for dinner. The clincher came when Jean was invited to a Saturday-morning professional seminar in Las Vegas. "I'll meet you there," she said. Having business in Minneapolis the day before, she arranged to fly in by airline Friday night. The following morning I arrived by Flying Carpet, and we rendezvoused at the hotel swimming pool.
"How was the flight in last night?" I asked, noting bags under Jean's eyes.
"It was a nightmare," she replied. "An airline security breach delayed our flight for hours. We didn't even depart Minneapolis until 2 a.m., and my meeting was at 8 this morning!" Despite Jean's exhaustion, I was too geared up about motorcycles to take no for an answer. Following a rejuvenating dip in the pool we headed for the show.
"Art of the Motorcycle" proved to be even better than I'd anticipated. Hundreds of exquisite machines enticed me from one to the next - from primitive wooden vehicles to the latest swoopy racing designs. Vintage Harley-Davidson "hard-tails" sat alongside Indian Chiefs, Triumph Tridents, and countless other marques. Even Vespa scooters were represented.
When Jean's eyes began glazing over, I directed her attention to movie stars in film clips flashing overhead-Marlon Brando in "The Wild One" and Dennis Hopper in "Easy Rider." What a contrast it was, exiting that gallery for the smaller but equally stunning Hermitage masterworks show; there we viewed original paintings by the likes of Picasso, van Gogh, and Gaugin.
Then old friends Jeff and Susan Richards arrived, spiriting us off to a quiet neighborhood restaurant. After catching up on friends and family we turned to reminiscing. "Remember years ago when you flew us from Scottsdale to Sedona for lunch?" asked Jeff. Landing carrier-style on the airport's 500-foot-tall red-rock mesa had inspired him to become a pilot.
Next came memories of visiting the couple's Massachusetts summer home. "Ever been to Nantucket Island?" Jeff had asked, as we dined oceanside on the evening of our arrival.
"Nope," I'd replied, "though I'll admit to a fascination with islands." Having flown in the past to Mackinac Island at the confluence of the Great Lakes, and to Catalina Island off Southern California, Jean and I were intrigued.
"Let's rent a plane tomorrow at Beverly," Jeff had offered, "and fly to Nantucket for the day. It's a fascinating place." Indeed, the following morning found us vectored over Boston Harbor - scenic, for sure, but farther out over open water than we'd have wished. The engine served us loyally, however, and we soon surveyed the entire boot of Cape Cod in a single vista. Upon landing we wandered art galleries in old Nantucket and toured its famous whaling museum.
"Remember those thunderstorms when time came to go home?" asked Susan. Buildups had threatened to the north, so we returned via Providence, Rhode Island, then inland around Boston. How different that long-ago adventure had been compared to my flight this morning from Phoenix.
In Massachusetts we'd launched among cool green trees; Cape Cod soon flowed flat beneath us like paint floating on the water. Today I'd traversed barren brown desert - and skirted Arizona mountains where they bullied into my sky.
On both trips we'd turned base leg for landing over water. The Atlantic at Nantucket had sparkled endless and opaque, however, while Nevada's Lake Mead flashed seductively through translucent sapphire eyes. The two bodies of water were as different as cobalt and aquamarine.
Time flew quickly in the company of such good friends, and in what seemed like no time Jean and I returned to the hotel. There we sampled the Jacuzzi before retiring.
"Did you enjoy the motorcycle show?" I asked, as our toes mingled with steaming bubbles.
"Actually, it was quite interesting," said Jean. "And seeing Jeff and Susan was a blast. We certainly crammed lots of action into a single afternoon and evening."
As the two of us sat quietly soaking, I reflected on our many flying adventures together, and then pondered a related small mystery. Occasionally one meets former pilots who say that they quit flying because they "ran out of places to go." How is that possible? I wondered. What better way to whisk about the country pursuing our passions than flying? Be it for motorcycles or skiing or fishing or family or fashion shows, doesn't everyone have destinations worthy of flight? "Aim for the stratosphere!" I blurted subconsciously, as we collected our towels.
"What?" asked Jean.
"Just talking to myself," I said, slightly embarrassed. "What time would you like to take off tomorrow?"
"I don't feel like meeting any schedule after that horrible airline experience," said Jean. "Let's just sleep until we feel like getting up." She squeezed my hand. "Man, am I glad to be headed home in our own Flying Carpet."
Greg Brown was the 2000 National Flight Instructor of the Year. His books include The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot's Flight Manual, and Job Hunting for Pilots. His next work, Flying Carpet, is due out in spring 2003. Visit his Web site ( www.gregbrownflyingcarpet.com ).
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