Motorcycles, airplanes, and steel guitars were the topics, as we lounged under sparkling skies with Larry and Karen Howard on their vacation-home deck overlooking Lake Thunderhead, Missouri. What a weather contrast after the previous day’s challenging flight from Arizona! Unable to land at nearby Unionville Airport because of low ceilings, we’d diverted to Centerville, Iowa (see “Flying Carpet: Three Time Zones,” August 2015 Flight Training).
Larry and I were University of Illinois architecture classmates after I transferred from Wisconsin my junior year. A quiet, low-key farm kid with just a hint of a smile, at the same time Larry would have fit in the movie Animal House. Many a Saturday night we rocketed down Green Street on our Suzukis—Jean and I on my X-6, and Larry balancing his 350 on one wheel. Larry was such a whiz at wheelies that, except when parked, his motorcycle’s front tire rarely touched the ground. Our usual destination was the Rose Bowl Tavern, where even the glare of regulars at long-haired kids couldn’t dull our appreciation of the house country band.
One spring break, Larry and I teamed up with my roommate to fly from Champaign, Illinois, to the Bahamas in the Flying Illini Cessna 172. Larry’s friend Steve met us in Florida and we “flew the Atlantic” to Grand Bahama and Abaco islands under my command. It was an epic journey for a 190-hour, noninstrument-rated pilot.
The following year Larry joined me in the club Cessna 182 to visit Steve in Houston. He and Karen had moved to Waterloo, Iowa, so he drove to Champaign the night before departure. This was the 1970s gasoline-shortage era, and that night Larry phoned from Bloomington, Illinois, where he’d run out of gas because no service stations were open. By the time we rendezvoused, siphoned gas from my car into his, and drove back, it was past midnight.
We launched at dawn for Houston, but when refueling at Lufkin, Texas, I was so tired I napped on the grass before continuing. Then we were tested by finding Hobby Airport through Houston’s notorious haze. We soothed our souls that night at the famed Gilley’s nightclub, a cavernous nightspot marked by steel guitars, cowboy hats, and legions of picnic tables. Only Larry mustered the moxie to ride a mechanical bull.
Several times Jean and I visited Larry and Karen in Waterloo from Illinois and Indiana. Once our electrical charging system failed en route, and I spent our visit rectifying it while everyone else had fun. Another weekend, weather delayed our return until Tuesday; on our subsequent visit, we flew home early Saturday night to preempt an approaching Sunday storm from causing us to miss work again.
Perhaps most memorable was when Larry and Karen invited us to their southern Illinois hometown for a Halloween barn dance. Larry transported us from rural Casey Municipal Airport to Karen’s family barn, a gargantuan structure that accommodated guests, a dance floor, and a five-piece band—all in the loft. Karen’s dad, “Brownie,” was the fiddler. Everyone in that small community knew each other, so Jean and I delighted in watching everybody try to guess who we were in our Halloween costumes, when in fact they’d never met us before.
Unfortunately, our friendship dwindled to holiday cards when Jean and I moved west. Last Christmas, Larry added a note asking us to come visit, but I suspect he and Karen were mighty surprised when we actually proposed to do so for the first time in 30 years.
“We spend weekdays in Waterloo, and weekends at Lake Thunderhead,” Larry explained when I called. “Where would you rather visit?” Although a three-hour drive apart, both were convenient to our route. I told him wherever he and Karen would be, was where we’d go. Such is the flexibility of a Flying Carpet. We’d arrive on Saturday, making the lake house our destination.
“The water might be chilly, but I’ll tow you on skis if you can take it,” he chuckled. I phoned around about unattended Unionville Airport.
“Security’s no problem,” advised a local tenant, “but avoid the south tiedowns if it’s rained. I’ve towed airplanes out of mud there.” He mentioned a sloping runway and perspective issues when approaching over trees from the south, so I resolved not to land there after dark. That reconnoitering proved unnecessary when we diverted to Centerville.
Reminiscing might have consumed our visit, but there were three decades of news to catch up on. Although currently inactive, Larry had earned his pilot wings after we moved away. Amazingly, he still has his Suzuki 350, although when asked about wheelies he said he hadn’t ridden it in years. As Hank Williams Jr. lamented in his song, “All my rowdy friends have settled down.”
It was too cold for boating, so following breakfast we toured Lake Thunderhead by car, and Unionville Airport where we’d originally planned to land. Then we returned to Centerville Airport, snapped photos, and fueled the airplane.
“Larry and Karen are as much fun as ever,” said Jean, as I waggled our wings goodbye after takeoff. Our friends waved back from the ramp, and we joined the course to our next stop, flying airways through time.
