Signposts

I got my first bicycle - a gift from my godfather - for my 7th birthday.  He drove it down from Toronto in the middle of a snowstorm.  It was a Raleigh mountain bike in cherry red.  I still remember how the foam handlebar grips shrunk under my grip and then slowly returned to their original form when I let go.  It looked so new, sleek and fast.
However, there was 6 inches of snow on the ground and the mercury was moving in the wrong direction.
It was also far too big for me.
And I didn't know how to ride a bike.
So, my parents put it in the basement for the winter.  You would think that would deter me and, normally, you would be right.  I was not an adventurous child.  I was more comfortable in a library than on a sports field.  For a little boy, I put a tremendous amount of stock in not breaking things.  I was, simply put, abnormally well-behaved.
Still, something about that bike called out to me, goaded me, challenged me.  It looked fast even standing still.  Propped menacingly - almost mockingly - on its kickstand, it begged to be ridden.
One afternoon, I popped the kickstand back into its holder, wincing at the sharp sound it made, hoping no one would hear, and rolled it into the basement family room.  The spokes clicked softly, urging me onward.  I leaned the Raleigh up against the couch.  Taking a deep breath, I climbed onto the couch, then onto the bike.  Then, with a firm push off with my left foot, I took off across the basement, peddling furiously and wobbling drunkenly as I dodged the coffee table.
My first journey on two wheels ended a few seconds after it began with a crash into the love seat mercifully placed against the far wall.
I undertook a few more such journeys before the snow melted and my parents found a bike for ten bucks at a nearby garage sale.
My new ride was more my size.  It was a navy blue Canadian Tire brand relic from the 60s with stainless steel mud guards dented by falls and pockmarked by rust.  When the wheels turned, they sounded like a corroded cheese grater.  My dad had at least pumped the tires and greased the gear chains.  He added a pair of training wheels too.
At first, I took it up and down the driveway.  I didn't even try turns.  I just hammered the brakes, skittered to a stop, dismounted, dragged the bike around onto a reciprocal heading, hopped on again and aimed for the garage door.
This continued for days.  When I finally mustered the courage to try a turn, I settled on taking a right out of the driveway and down the street towards the stop sign three houses down.  I made that first turn by easing the huge, curved handlebars to the right and leaning my body into the turn so that the rust bucket was balanced precariously on one training wheel.  I'll never forget the sound - like kicking a jar full of nuts and bolts down a curved staircase.
Ah, but now the world was open to me.  I was cruising down a wide strip of asphalt that stretched to the horizon.  It was an unlimited view with unlimited possibilities.
The stop sign was now upon me and, in a rare show of bravery, I swung the handlebars to the left, leaned the bike onto the left hand training wheel and, with the sound of screaming spokes and clanging gears, swept into the turn for home.
In a few weeks, I ventured past the stop sign to the small creek a quarter mile beyond.  Then, up the hill to the main street.  After that, I attempted the same journey to the left out of the driveway.  Each ride was an adventure from which I returned older, wiser, emboldened.
One fine summer day, the right hand training wheel decided it had had enough and abandoned its post.  Whether its treachery was the result of too many right hand turns or my father's ineptitude with a spanner wrench didn't matter.  I limped back to my driveway - either balanced awkwardly on the main wheels or listing heavily to port.  Two days later, on a ride to the westernmost stop sign and back, the left hand training wheel followed its counterpart's example.  It had the decency to cling grimly to the axle, clattering along in my wavering wake.
Now, I was faced with the biggest obstacle in my young life and cycling career.  I was at least a quarter mile from the safety of my driveway.  I could either coast onto a neighbour's lawn and leap clear of my wounded mount...or press on.
I don't recall making a conscious choice but I do remember feeling things out.  I found that the faster I peddled, the easier it was to stay balanced and run straight.  More to the point, the bike was easier to control at higher speeds - needing only the slightest of touches on those ridiculously large handle bars.
And so, I set my eyes on my destination and, with the sun in my eyes and the wind in my hair, enjoyed the journey.

The Author with DSA after one of his early flights. (Author's Collection)

My early flights in the Smith were just like riding that old bike.  The signposts were much further away and the distance was measured not in mere feet but rather, in long miles...and yet, little else had changed.
At first, I wandered off to the east -  following the Ottawa River out of Rockcliffe, past Gatineau on the left wing and Orleans on the right, to that narrow strip of forest and farmer's fields just before coming upon Rockland.  Here, I would practice steep turns by tilting the airplane onto one wing and whipping it around, balancing a wingtip delicately on a farmhouse or intersection far below.  Then, as I caught my starting point creeping into the corner of my eye, I would reverse my roll, help the nose down and sweep elegantly through another orbit.
I followed the turns with lazy 8s - carving long, graceful, climbing lines into the endless skies.  Man and machine clawing heavenward, pulse quickening and the slipstream fading, to that lonely apex where wings part the horizon as a ship's prow cleaves the sea.  Then down, down, down that long, soft slope.  The earth rushes up to meet us.  The engine calls, the slipstream answers, the flying wires hum their own tune. The aviator cranes his neck around the windshield and thrusts his face into the oncoming onslaught of wind and speed and sound.  His is a stoic face, a mask of determination.  The chin is thrust forward defiantly - an immovable rock against the mighty force of God's breath.  And yet, now and suddenly, there appears a crack.  His eyes wince, a reflex, behind the safety of his goggles. The air is shockingly cool here.  The fissure deepens, the jaw softens. A deep breath is both painful and pleasant.  Now, the fissure is a fracture.  The mask of stone is chipped and broken away and the once secret smile bubbles to the surface.

The Lazy 8.  (Author's Collection)

A smooth movement of the right hand and a deft adjustment of the right boot and the earth falls away again.  Up, up and up into the crystalline blue - that intoxicating, hanging pause - and then down again.  Two thousand feet below, the solitary farmhouse acts as the unseeing fulcrum of this beautiful balancing act.
A tiny voice calls out.  It has many names but we shall call it Doubt.
"Enough fun for today," it chides.
I protest.  The sky is clear and fuel is plentiful.
An admonishing silence is my reply.
Doubt has a point.  One must not revel too long in the fancy of flight lest it make one soft, careless or neglectful.  My nerves are no longer raw from the excitement of the take off but not yet dulled to the point of ignorance. This is, after all, a new courtship and there is some merit in taking it slow.  We've had a dance or two and, thus far, no toes have been stepped on.
"Fine," I mumble.  Best to quit while I'm ahead.

Author's self portrait.  (Author's Collection)

We turn westward and ease into a dive, racing home.  In a few minutes, Rockcliffe presents itself exactly where we left it. The winds are as they were when we departed, a gentle sigh out of the west. A trio of tin can trainers ply the circuit, dutifully announcing their positions in the impossibly wide carousel.  I fit myself in as best I can, mindful of staying tight to the field but slow enough to not upset the rhythm of the pattern.
This is my fourth approach in this airplane.  The last three, upon reflection, were a random collection of single-sense snapshots. This one will prove to be very much the same.
The sound of the engine making 1700 RPM.
80 MPH on the airspeed indicator.
The comforting aroma of doped fabric.
Rockcliffe's single runway unfurled over the nose.
The clockwork ticking of my heart.
The runway falling away.
Whistling wires.
A jolt, boots jockeying rudder pedals, gloved hands moving on their own, an impressed mind behind unbelieving eyes.
Stillness.
I glance at my watch. Twenty-six minutes have passed since we switched on the engine. Truly incredible.
I never tire of the wonder I feel when I consider that we can assign such a specific number to an experience that feels like both a few ecstatic heartbeats and a wistful eternity.
The Smith, somehow, understands.  Wrapped in the rhythmic, mechanical sound of the engine ticking over is our secret.  We are beginning to understand one another.  She still has a lot to teach me and I have so much to learn but, like that old navy blue bicycle so many years ago, we have passed our first lesson.
Tomorrow, we'll add another step to this aerial dance.