Quartzsite 2005

I spend a day in Quartzsite, AZ with friends.

I know I’ve mentioned Quartzsite more than a few times on these pages. I can’t remember if I explained what Quartzsite is. So I’ll explain here.

Quartzsite, you see, is more of a what than a where. Where is easy: it’s on I-10 about 20 miles east of the Colorado River/California Border. What is more difficult. It’s a town with a population that swells from a summertime low of about 1,000 people to a wintertime high of over 100,000 people. Most of those people show up in January. They show up in RVs and motor homes, they fill the campgrounds and the overflow vehicles park on the BLM land out in the desert.

Why do they come? For the swap meets, rock and art shows, and RV show. The whole town fills with vendors selling everything from dental picks to RV toilet systems. There are tools, clothes, RV equipment, blankets, custom license plate frames, hand trucks, scooters, dried fruit — you name it. All spread out in “shows” throughout the town on what are normally dirt lots. By mid-February much of this is gone. By March, most of it is gone. Any by April, Quartzsite has a ghost town appearance. Things don’t start picking up again until November or December. Talk about seasonal economies!

I’d wanted to spend a week out at Quartzsite, giving helicopter rides. But I was too late to arrange for a landing zone. Besides, when I was out there last week, flying over with Nancy and Bill, I wasn’t very impressed by the size of the crowd. It didn’t seem worth the bother.

But yesterday, when I rode into town in the back seat of John and Lorna’s pickup, I got a different picture. What a difference a week makes! Last year I’d guessed that the biggest week in Quartzsite was the week of the RV show. Yesterday confirmed it. There were at least three times as many RVs parked out in the desert as there had been the week before. I have no idea of where all these people came from, but there’s no denying they were there. In numbers.

After inching our way through traffic in town, we found a good parking space on Kuehn Street, which runs parallel to I-10 on the south side of the highway. That became our base for exploring two of the shows: The RV show, which John and Lorna were anxious to explore, and Tyson Wells, a rock and art show across the street.

Before we hit the shows, however, I scoped out a piece of land I was interested in leasing for the following year. I’d seen it from the air and it seemed like a perfect location for basing helicopter rides. It was 20 acres, but I’d only need an acre or two. There was a For Sale or Lease sign on it with a phone number. I called the number and spoke to what I assume must have been a Realtor. He promised to e-mail me information about the property.

The RV show was packed. Walking inside the huge tent, in fact, often reminded me of the old days, when I shuffled with thousands of other commuters through the Port Authority Bus Terminal to the subway escalator in New York. (Days I don’t miss one bit.) Everyone had something to sell, some line to try on you. I especially admired the cookware sales people, with their tiny stages and ten or so audience seats, repeating, over and over, the well-rehearsed lines that expounded the benefits of their products. Imagine doing that hour after hour, day after day, for ten days? I couldn’t.

It soon became apparent that, at 43 years old, I was the youngest person in the crowd. RVers in January in Quartzsite tend to be retired folks who are escaping from some cold climate. Some of these people will show up in Wickenburg for Gold Rush Days, the town’s annual attempt to capture revenue from seasonal tourists. Later, when we went to Tyson Wells and the Main Event, the average age dropped a bit and I didn’t feel like a young whippersnapper anymore.

One thing John, Lorna, and I agreed on: the prices of some of the RV equipment seemed very high. We talked about the average cost of the rigs people were towing or driving. A fifth wheel rig averaged about $75K while a Class A motor home (the kind you drive) probably averaged around $150K. These people obviously had no qualms about spending money to make themselves more comfortable. That’s probably why there were at least eight satellite television receiver booths, ten generator booths, and countless booths for electric massage devices and drug-free pain relief products.

We picked up a smoked turkey leg to bring home for Mike, then went back to the truck to drop off our purchases. I’d bought a five-pack of micro-fiber towels ($20 inside the tent; $5 outside the tent — I bought outside). John and Lorna had bags of product literature that Lorna said they’d probably never look at. Near the truck, John bought a battery-operated, bug-zapping fly swatter and threw that in the truck, too. Then it was on to Tyson Wells for lunch.

There were a bunch of food vendors at Tyson Wells. We looked around and found Smokin’ Willie’s BBQ. The Smokin’ Willies people had spent about a week at Wickenburg Airport, at my invitation, the year before. It was my lame attempt to find some kind of “restaurant” at the airport. They did well while they were there, but they had other gigs (like Quartzsite) where they could do better, so they left. They remembered me well. John, Lorna, and I ate at their booth.

We walked around Tyson Wells for a while. I bought two 16′ telescoping poles that I could use to hang flags at helicopter ride events. (I still had four red, white, and blue flags I’d bought for the airport but had not included in my asset sale.) John and Lorna bought some ocarinas to give as gifts. I inquired at a booth about an engraved key tag. I’d bought one at Quartzsite years ago for Three-Niner-Lima: a classy leather tag with an engraved metal insert. I wanted the same thing for Zero-Mike-Lima. We were directed to the Main Event, which is where I’d gotten the other one made. So we walked back to the truck, pulled out, and got back into the inching traffic to cross the highway and hit the Main Event.

The Main Event is probably the longest-running show in Quartzsite. By that, I mean it seems to be the first to start and the last to end. We got a good parking space on the east end (the parking gods must have been watching over us that day) and got out to walk. We found the engraving booth right away. The guy remembered me. He no longer made the leather/metal key tags, but he had some other designs. I picked one and requested that he engrave N630ML on it. Then I designed a license plate frame for my Honda that said “My Helicopter is Red, Too!” and paid for my purchases. While I was there, the booth guy and his wife told me that the Main Event was now owned by two different people. The show was Main Event East and Main Event West. Interesting.

We walked around the show and it soon became apparent that the split was quite serious. A big piece of land between the east and west sides had been fenced off and was vacant. This is the same land that had been crammed with vendors the year before. A fence with a gate let people into the west side. There were fewer vendors than I remember and the overall quality of what was offered was a bit lower than the usual low I’d come to expect. Many of the vendors were what I call “garage sale” booths — booths that seem to be selling junk from someone’s garage. But the cactus people were there, along with a few better quality vendors. Among these was the pelt and feather guy (as I call him) from Sedona. I took a moment to call Janet in Colorado and see if she needed any feathers. (Janet is an artist who paints on feathers.) I wound up buying two different kinds of pheasant skins for her. So I got to carry around two dead birds with me for the rest of the day.

We crossed back to the east side and walked around those vendors for a while. We bought some dried fruit and some other odds and ends. Then we went back to the engraving guy and picked up my key tag and license plate frame. Both were perfectly done. I told the engraver that he was an artist and I think that pleased him quite a bit.

We met with John and Lorna’s friends, Steve and Sandy, soon after that. They were camping in BLM land off Dome Rock Road. We chatted at the McDonald’s, eating $1 ice cream sundaes. By the time we went our separate ways, it was about 3:30 PM.

I was beat. I spend too much time sitting on my butt, so when I do a lot of walking, it really wipes me out. But we had one more thing to try to find. Ruben, at Screamers, had asked me to pick up a machete for him. He said you could find them “everywhere” in Quartzsite. I’d been looking all day and hadn’t seen a single one. So on our way out of town, we went to the show he said he’d seen them. I don’t know the name of the show, but it’s on the north side of the highway, at the east intersection with SR 95. The machete was in the first booth we walked into. $4. I bought it. Mission accomplished.

The ride home was long — Quartzsite is about 100 miles west of Wickenburg — but pleasant. For much of the ride, there was a rainbow off to our left, where heavy rain was falling over the Harcuvar Mountains. Centennial Wash would be flowing later in the day. We got back to West Park, where John and Lorna are staying, just after sunset.

It had been a good day and I’d gotten plenty of exercise. I’d need some Ibuprofen to help work out the aches and pains today.

Will [Try to] Fly for Food

A full moon journey to Falcon Field is spoiled by restaurant operating hours.

The idea is simple. Wait until the moon is just about full, then take a sunset flight down to Falcon Field in Mesa, AZ, have dinner at Anzio’s Landing restaurant there, and fly back in the light of the full moon.

We’ve done it many times before in the R22. But now we had two extra seats. We could share the experience with friends.

John and Lorna couldn’t come. Lorna has the cold John had last week and she just wanted to rest up for the trip to Quartzsite the next day. So we asked Stan and his wife Rosemary. They said yes. The plan was to meet us at Wickenburg Airport at 5 PM. I’d left the helicopter out, so it was just a matter of a quick preflight and safety briefing before we loaded up and flew out.

At 4:45, I decided to call Anzio’s, just to make sure we could get a table. The phone rang at least eight times before a machine answered. The short story: Anzio’s was closed that night. It would be open on Sunday nights starting next weekend. Sheesh.

Time for plan B: the restaurant at Scottsdale Airport. Scottsdale is a bit closer, but I don’t particularly care to land at the airport there. For one thing, the tower controllers tend to be very cranky. I think they hate helicopters. Second, they don’t let helicopters park anywhere near the restaurant. So that meant walking a quarter mile or more. But the food at the restaurant there is relatively good and I could deal with cranky controllers. I’d done it plenty of times before. Better make sure they’re open.

The phone rang seven times before a machine answered. They close at 5 PM on Sundays.

Deer Valley and Glendale both have restaurants. But I wasn’t interested in eating at either of those, even if they were open. I wanted a nicer dining experience. Although Sedona is nicer, I wasn’t keen on crossing three mountain ranges in the dark for the return trip. So it looked as if we weren’t flying for food.

Mike called Stan and spoke to Rosemary. They decided on a local restaurant. With the possibility of a flight afterward, I decided.

So we ate at House Berlin, which is one of my favorite restaurants in town. I had the walleye, which was excellent as usual. Mike had the wiener schnitzel. (House Berlin is the only restaurant in town with veal on its menu.) Stan and Rosemary had sauerbraten and pork medallions respectively. Everything looked and tasted great. So at least the dinner portion of our evening was saved.

Afterwards, we headed out to the airport. It was dark, but not completely dark yet — we could still see lightness on the western horizon. The moon was out and nearly full (it fills out in two days), but there were a few clouds up there with it. They were light, thin clouds, the kind the moon could shine through anyway. I used a flashlight to check the fluids and we all climbed in. After starting up and warming up, I made a radio call and we took off into the night.

This was the first time I’d flown a helicopter away from Wickenburg at night. I usually fly back and that’s usually from Falcon Field. So it was extremely odd to head southeast, with the moon shining right into the cockpit. The moon reflected off the water running in the Hassayampa River, making it look like a glowing ribbon below us as we crossed. Once we left the lights of Wickenburg, I followed Grand Avenue and then Carefree Highway. The rough plan was to head out to Deer Valley. I punched it into the GPS so I could aim right for it. At night, Phoenix is a sea of lights and a GPS is a good tool to help find one set of lights among the others.

We saw Lake Pleasant to our left. The moonlight reflected off the water magnificently. We crossed over the dirt track near Pleasant Valley Airport and near the three dirt runways of that darkened field. The moon was lighting up the desert, making it possible to see some of the details of the terrain. But high clouds kept the moon from being really bright, so the experience was not as impressive as it usually is.

Seven miles out of Deer Valley, I called the tower and requested a transition down I-17 to the Loop 101 with a turn there to the west. The transition was approved — Deer Valley was dead quiet — and we agreed on an altitude. By that time, I’d entered the light zone and we were surrounded by light. Instead of the moon illuminating the cockpit, ground lights did the job. I followed my intended route as the controller talked to an inbound Bonanza pilot and a police helicopter that was probably on the south tower frequency. Then we were heading West, away from the airport. The controller approved a frequency change without me even asking. I wished him good night and continued the flight over the Loop 101.

During the whole flight, all of us were talking. Well, to be honest, it was mostly Mike and Stan. Rosemary was very quiet and, for a while, I thought she might be nervous. But the flight was smooth and I was flying about 500 feet higher than I fly in that area during the day, so we weren’t very close to the ground. Nothing to be nervous about, unless she’s just nervous flying at night. I know a lot of pilots who won’t fly at night. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Not only is it depriving the pilot of a wonderful experience, but it’s preventing the pilot from ever getting comfortable flying at night. He’ll never be able to fly at night, even if he has to, if he doesn’t get comfortable doing it.

Of course, I cheat. Most of my night flights are with a full moon providing plenty of illumination. The horizon is easy to see and there are usually at least some ground lights for reference. I’d have to have either poor vision or a bad brain to lose track of which side was up.

We left the lights after Sun City West and headed toward Wickenburg. I didn’t even have to punch it into the GPS. Grand Avenue was to our left and Carefree Highway was ahead of us. I flew over the proving grounds, where cars or trucks were driving around the track in the dark. That’s when I noticed that it wasn’t quite as clear as it had been when we left Wickenburg. The clouds had thickened up a bit and there seemed to be some haze down in the valleys. The horizon wasn’t the fine line it usually was.

After Morristown, we followed Grand Avenue back into town. I turned on the runway lights, made a call into the airport, and followed Sols Wash northwest, to avoid flying right over the houses. I was about 300 feet higher than I usually was, so my descent to runway 23 was a bit steep. But it was smooth and before long we were parked on one of the helipads and I was cooling Zero-Mike-Lima down.

We’d been out for about 40 minutes. It had been a nice flight. Stan and Rosemary really seemed to enjoy it.

I left Zero-Mike-Lima out for the night — it was cold and neither Mike nor I had brought a jacket. I’d put it away in the morning. We finished the evening with a drink and more conversation at Stan and Rosemary’s house.

Air-to-Air

An air-to-air photo shoot gives mixed results.

I needed a photo of my helicopter in flight for marketing materials. Jim needed a photo of his helicopter in flight for the cover of Trade-A-Plane. It seemed natural that we should go out together and take care of both photo shoots.

Three-Niner-LimaI’ve done this before. Years ago, when I needed photos of my R22 for marketing material, a friend took Mike and a camera up in a Piper Cub. We flew in formation around Vulture Peak. Mike snapped off 50 or so digital photos. I loaded them into my computer, discarded the really bad ones, and cropped the good ones to get what I needed.

Tristan's R44Two years ago, we did the same thing with Tristan’s R44. This time, I flew Mike in my R22. We flew in formation around Vulture Peak until Mike had about 30 pictures. For some reason, the focus wasn’t good on all of them — I think the camera’s autofocus feature was just starting to die at that point — but we had enough good photos for what we needed.

Sunday’s flight with Jim was a little different. Jim was more concerned with background than anything else. So we had to fly out to an area north of Lake Pleasant to get the interesting rock formations he wanted. He took Mike to photograph me first, then landed in a wash near what looked like a marijuana farm and let Mike out. Jim took off and I landed to pick up Mike. Then we shot Jim from my helicopter.

I didn’t enjoy the experience. Jim sits on the opposite side of the helicopter from me, so he couldn’t see me when he was next to me. He got very close twice and it really freaked me out. Mike couldn’t communicate with Jim because Jim has a push-to-talk intercom in his helicopter and Mike couldn’t push it while he was shooting pictures out of a tiny window. And the radio was a mess because every time we picked a frequency, it turned out to be a frequency already in use. We had to keep switching. Even when we got on the helicopter air-to-air frequency, some idiot kept trying to tell us to get off.

Now I know it sounds as if we dove into this without any planning. We didn’t. Jim and I discussed formation flying before we took off. We came up with a plan for getting the pictures. But somewhere along the line, the plan got thrown out the window. (It wasn’t my window; my windows don’t open.) The resulting flight was full of unpleasant surprises.

Zero Mike Lima in FlightBut Mike did get a few decent photos of my helicopter. One of them was almost perfect. A few of them were pretty funny; Mike managed to cut off various parts of the helicopter in others. Two of the photos didn’t show the helicopter at all. (That might have been when I spotted Jim over my left shoulder and veered away from him.) None of the photos, however, were as good as that first Vulture Peak shoot. In those photos, I’d been looking right at the camera. (That’s because I’d been following the lead, looking at the lead like I was supposed to. On this shoot, I’d been the lead but Jim had lost sight of me and passed me. Seeing him beside me, just after this photo was taken, scared the shit out of me.)

Jim's Hughes 500The photos of Jim’s helicopter weren’t very good at all. Jim had this idea of background firmly entrenched in his mind. So rather than form up with us and let Mike shoot photos with him relatively close, he followed the contours of a cliff face. He must have been a few hundred feet away from the cliff for the entire run. I couldn’t see him because I was ahead of him so I didn’t know how far away he was. He should have been watching me, forming up on me, adjusting his distance accordingly. I don’t know what kind of camera lens he thought we had. Mike claimed that Jim’s helicopter filled “one third to two thirds of the frame,” but Mike was seriously mistaken. In most shots, Jim’s ship is a red, white, and blue speck against the desert. I cropped the hell out of this shot here; it would not be suitable for printing.

Two Helicopters in WickenburgI was a nervous wreck when we finished up and very glad to be done. (My hands were shaking for some time afterward.) We landed and parked side by side on the ramp. Then we wandered over to the terminal to the shade to look at the photos in the camera’s tiny screen. We were both disappointed. I knew I had a few usable shots, but Jim’s were just too small to be of any use.

I do want to say that I appreciate Jim taking the time to do the shoot with us. I know his ship is expensive to fly and that he’s very busy working on a new product to show at Heli Expo early next month. I wish we’d gotten some better shots of his ship. Maybe we’ll try again sometime soon, when Jim isn’t so pressed for time.

Support Our Troops

Some rants regarding yellow ribbons.

They started appearing about a year ago on cars, vans, and trucks all over the U.S., just about the same time the flags finally disappeared. Those “yellow ribbon” stickers or, in some cases, magnets. You know the kind. They look like a looped yellow ribbon and most of them say “Support Our Troops.” Some variations include the red, white, and blue models, some of which include stars and stripes. They’re all over the place and frankly, it bugs me.

Why does it bug me? Well, let’s take a moment to think about yellow ribbons and what they represent. The first historical reference to yellow ribbons that I can think of was in the pop song from the 70s, “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” by Tony Orlando and Dawn. The song was the tale of an inmate who was soon to be released. He was writing to his girlfriend, wanting to know if she still loved him. He instructed her to:

“Tie a yellow ribbon

’round the old oak tree

It’s been three long years,

do you still want me?”

(You can get all the lyrics here.)

In this instance, the yellow ribbon was used as a signal to tell him whether he was still wanted at home, whether he should bother getting off the bus. The song has a happy ending. Not only is there one yellow ribbon there, but there’s a hundred yellow ribbons. She evidently really wanted him back.

Move forward a few years. In November 1979, Iranian militants storm the U.S. Embassy in Terhan and take about 70 Americans hostage. The “Iranian Hostage Crisis,” as it came to be known, lasts 444 days. During that time, Penelope Laingen, the wife of one of the hostages, tied a yellow ribbon around a tree at her home. Like ribbon in the song, Mrs. Laingen’s ribbon expressed her desire to have her husband come home. Soon there were yellow ribbons on trees all over the country. The ribbons stayed up until the hostages were released.

Now here’s my beef. In both of these instances, the yellow ribbon signifies a desire to bring someone who is away back home where he/she is loved and wanted. Support our troops was not the message.

I get angry when I see those ribbons. To me, they’re just another sign of the American public’s “follow the leader” mentality. Some marketing genius decided that yellow ribbon stickers that say “Support Our Troops” could sell. Some people bought them. Other people said, “Hey, I want to support the troops, too. I’ll buy a yellow ribbon and put it on my minivan.” Thus, a movement based on some money-making scheme is born. And the American public is too ignorant to realize that the symbol of the yellow ribbon has nothing to do with supporting troops.

The Chinese manufacturers of these ribbons are laughing all the way to the bank.

I’m not the only one who feels this way. In researching this entry, I stumbled across this article with comments. Could it be that I’m actually part of a group of people who think the same way? Wow.

What does a yellow ribbon mean to me? Bring our troops home. Those people are risking (and losing) their lives to fight an illegitimate war, one that we have no business fighting. Bring them home. If I had a yellow ribbon on my car, that’s what it would say. Unfortunately, you can’t buy a ribbon with that message. It isn’t a popular message and it just won’t sell.

The president’s efforts to impose a democratic government on the people of Iraq isn’t any more right than the old Soviet Union forcing communism among neighboring countries. Yes, we Americans believe in democracy and it seems to work for us, but is it right for all countries? Is it right for us to force it on a country that might not be ready for it? And while we’re discussing what’s right and wrong, is it right for us to promote women’s rights in a country where women have a traditional role that is often reinforced by religion?

Why are we trying to turn Iraqis into Americans? This absolutely reeks of what the “missionaries” did in Africa and South America, converting indigenous people into Christians when they were perfectly happy with their own religious beliefs. But rather than religion, we’re pushing politics. Oddly enough, the biggest supporters of this war are the conservative “Christians” that backed George W. Bush in last year’s election. Is there another agenda? One that goes beyond politics? What will be we pushing next?

I’m American and I’m patriotic. If an invading force came into this country and tried to make us change, I’d be one of the people with a stockpile of weapons, fighting to drive out or kill the invaders. But I can’t support a war that I feel was waged as a poorly planned publicity stunt. And I won’t be putting a “Support Our Troops” yellow ribbon on any of my cars.

But do you want to know what bothers me most about the yellow ribbons? It’s that some of them are magnetic. That means they can be easily removed when this war is over, stored in a safe place, and reapplied when the next war starts. Now that’s thinking ahead.

September 27, 2011 Update: Unfortunately, this blog post — which is SIX YEARS OLD, for Pete’s sake! — was linked to on a conspiracy theory Web site. Inappropriate comments have begun to be submitted. Rather than waste my day moderating this kind of silliness, I’ve shut down comments. Move along folks, there’s nothing new to see here.

It Goes!

I get a new set of wheels.

It’s a 1979 Marketeer. And it goes.

What?

I bought a golf cart today. No, I don’t play golf. But I needed a vehicle to leave in the hangar to tow the helicopter around the airport. I was using my Jeep, but I don’t always have the Jeep with me at the airport.

We found this golf course classic in the Arizona Republic classified ads. It was the cheapest golf cart listed, at a whopping $800 OBO. Mike called the seller and got a very talkative woman on the phone. A woman who talked so much she made me seem like a mute. After a lot of listening, Mike got to ask the right questions. When he hung up, he had directions to her trailer park off Union Hills in Phoenix. We hooked up the flat bed trailer and went to take a look.

We made two wrong turns on our way to the owner’s trailer. Trailer parks in Arizona are maze-like in design, with short blocks and few straight streets. But we finally found it and parked out front. Her son Brian was waiting for us. Beside him was a hopped-up golf cart with ATV tires and a dark green paint job. Beyond them was what would soon become my very own Marketeer.

The first thing I noticed was that one of the front wheels was not positioned vertically to the ground. It was as if the steering wheel was turned all the way to the right. That wouldn’t have been so bad if the other front wheel was parallel to it. But it wasn’t.

It was a plain off-white golf cart. The kind you think about if you live in an area with few golf carts and think about golf carts. (Although why you’d think about golf carts if you didn’t have, need, or regularly see one is beyond me.) It was almost identical, in fact, to the one that my mechanic Ed, at Wickenburg Airport, has. No frills.

There were some signs of rust — I think that’s to be expected in any vehicle that’s nearly thirty years old. But the six batteries and their cables were in decent condition and, when we hopped in and went for a ride on those maze-like streets, it ran pretty smoothly. Despite the gimpy wheel.

We drove it back to Brian. Mike voiced his approval without sounding like he was in love with it. He wasn’t, of course. It was a pretty basic and somewhat awful golf cart, with just enough right about it to make it meet our needs.

“Your mom said she’d consider other offers,” Mike said. “Would you consider $500?”

Brian smiled. “No,” he said simply.

“How about $600?” Mike asked. (This is what we’d hoped to pay.)

“I’d feel better about $650,” Brian replied.

“We’ll, we’d feel more comfortable with $600,” Mike told him. “We have cash and can take it right now.”

“Cash is king,” I chimed in.

“Cash is king,” Brian repeated thoughtfully. “Okay.”

I pulled the six $100 bills I’d put in my left rear pocket out and counted them as if I wasn’t sure how much was there. I counted again to act surprised that it was just the right amount. Then I handed them over. Brian handed me the title, which had already been “signed over.” (There’s more to that, but it isn’t worth talking about here.)

Mike drove it up the ramp onto the trailer and Brian helped us tie it down with some straps we’d brought along. The whole time, he talked to us about hunting and doing other weird things with his hopped up golf cart. About the only thing he didn’t use it for was golf course transportation. It was street legal, which isn’t so unusual in Arizona, and had a stereo. On the way to our meeting, I’d asked Mike how a golf cart could be worth $4K or more used. Brian’s golf cart showed me the answer.

We drove home, making a few stops along the way. We went right to the airport where we unfastened the cart and drove it down the ramp. Rob, from Ed’s place, was there working on a plane. He pulled Ed’s cart out and parked it next to ours. They were virtually identical, although Ed’s had fringe along the roof and a bunch of welded-on pieces to hold various airplane tow bars.

Mike hopped into our Marketeer and he and Rob took off, racing down the ramp between the hangars. Mike was quicker off the line, but Rob quickly caught up and passed him. They disappeared around a corner. A minute or so later, Rob was back. Mike followed a bit later. Okay, so it wasn’t fast. Maybe it just needed a charge. Or maybe the gimpy wheel was holding it back.

But it is a classic. And it goes.