Below
is an article written by Rick Reilly of Sports Illustrated. He details
his experiences when given the opportunity to fly in a F-14
Tomcat. If you aren't laughing out loud by the time you get to
'Milk Duds,' your sense of humor is seriously
broken.
'Now
this message is for America's most
famous athletes:
Someday
you may be invited to fly in the back-seat of one of your country's
most powerful fighter jets. Many of you already have . John Elway,
John Stockton, Tiger Woods to name a few. If you get this
opportunity, let me urge you, with the greatest sincerity... Move to
Guam
Change
your name.
Fake
your own death!
Whatever
you do.
Do
Not Go!!!
I
know.
The
U.S. Navy invited me to try it. I was thrilled. I was
pumped. I was toast! I should've known when they told me
my pilot would be Chip (Biff) King of Fighter Squadron 213 at Naval Air
Station Oceana in Virginia
Beach.
Whatever
you're thinking a Top Gun named Chip (Biff) King looks like, triple
it. He's about six-foot, tan, ice-blue eyes, wavy surfer
hair, finger-crippling handshake -- the kind of man who wrestles
dyspeptic alligators in his leisure time. If you see this man, run
the other way, Fast.
Biff
King was born to fly. His father, Jack King, was for years the
voice of NASA missions. ('T-minus 15 seconds and counting .'
Remember?) Chip would charge neighborhood kids a quarter each
to hear his dad. Jack would wake up from naps surrounded by
nine-year-olds waiting for him to say, 'We have
liftoff'.
Biff
was to fly me in an F- 14D Tomcat, a ridiculously powerful $60
million weapon with nearly as much thrust as weight, not unlike
Colin Montgomerie. I was worried about getting airsick, so the night
before the flight I asked Biff if there was something I should eat
the next morning.
'Bananas,'
he said.
'For
the potassium?' I asked.
'No,'
Biff said, 'because they taste about the same coming up as they do
going down.'
The
next morning, out on the tarmac, I had on my flight suit with my
name sewn over the left breast.
(No
call sign -- like Crash or Sticky or Leadfoot. But, still,
very cool.) I carried my helmet in the crook of my arm, as
Biff had instructed. If ever in my life I had a chance to nail
Nicole Kidman, this was it.
A
fighter pilot named Psycho gave me a safety briefing and then
fastened me into my ejection seat, which, when employed, would
'egress' me out of the plane at such a velocity that I would be
immediately knocked onconscious.
Just
as I was thinking about aborting the flight, the canopy closed over me,
and Biff gave the ground crew a thumbs-up. In minutes we were
firing nose up at 600 mph. We leveled out and then
canopy-rolled over another F-14.
Those
20 minutes were the rush of my life. Unfortunately, the ride lasted
80.. It was like being on the roller coaster at Six Flags Over
Hell. Only without rails. We did barrel rolls, snap
rolls, loops, yanks and banks. We dived, rose and dived again,
sometimes with a vertical velocity of 10,000 feet per minute.
We chased another F-14, and it chased us.
We
broke the speed of sound barrier. Sea was sky and sky was sea.
Flying at 200 feet we did 90-degree turns at 550 mph, creating a G
force of 6.5, which is to say I felt as if 6.5 times my body
weight was smashing against me, thereby approximating life as Mrs.
Colin Montgomerie.
And
I egressed the bananas.
And
I egressed the pizza from the night before.
And
the lunch before that.
I
egressed a box of Milk Duds from the sixth
grade.
I
made Linda Blair look polite. Because of the G's, I was egressing
stuff that never thought would be egressed.
I
went through not one airsick bag, but two.
Biff
said I passed out. Twice. I was coated in sweat. At one
point, as we were coming in upside down in a banked curve on a
mock bombing target and the G's were flattening me like a tortilla
and I was in and out of consciousness, I realized I was the first
person in history to throw down.
I
used to know 'cool'. Cool was Elway throwing a touchdown
pass, or Norman making a five-iron
bite. But now I really know 'cool'. Cool is guys like
Biff, men with cast-iron stomachs and freon nerves. I
wouldn't go up there again for Derek Jeter's black book, but I'm
glad Biff does! every day, and for less a year than a rookie
reliever makes in a home stand.
A
week later, when the spins finally stopped, Biff called. He said
he and the fighters had the perfect call sign for me. Said he'd
send it on a patch for my flight suit.
What
is it?? I asked.
'Two
Bags.'
I
love my country ... it's the government I'm afraid
of.
God Bless
America
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