Wanna fly? (cool story)
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Wanna fly? (cool story)
I can't remember if I've ever posted this before, and I'm too lazy to search. Enjoy 
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On a Wing and a Prayer, by Rick Reilly
Now this message for America's most famous athletes: Someday you may be invited to fly in the backseat 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 a 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, that 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 unconscious. 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. 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. 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 did not even want to 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 onsciousness, 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."
Don't you dare tell Nicole.
.--------------------------------------------------
On a Wing and a Prayer, by Rick Reilly
Now this message for America's most famous athletes: Someday you may be invited to fly in the backseat 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 a 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, that 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 unconscious. 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. 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. 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 did not even want to 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 onsciousness, 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."
Don't you dare tell Nicole.
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From: Austin
My condo was in the landing pattern for Oceana Naval Air Station in Virginia Beach, which was fine until the pilots got hotshot and thought it would be cool to come in low and buzz us.... grrrr.....
I learned to hate those jets as much as that guy hated his new nickname!
I learned to hate those jets as much as that guy hated his new nickname!
Joined: Aug 2001
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From: Leyland, Lancs.
2 bags or not I'd give a lot to fly in an F14D or any other front line fighter.
Reminds me very much of footage I saw of Jeremy Clarkson (a well known car reviewer and TV personality in the UK) who got to fly in an F15E. Jeremy is renowned for his love of all things fast or powerfull, he lives for adrenanline rushes.... he went through way more than 2 sick bags courtesy of the USAF
I doubt anything at all can compare to the physical experience of a front line jet fighter on the edge - awesome!
I think the Russian airforce still accepts paying passengers for rides in Mig 29s, Su 27s etc. - anyone remember their "Cobra" manouver
Reminds me very much of footage I saw of Jeremy Clarkson (a well known car reviewer and TV personality in the UK) who got to fly in an F15E. Jeremy is renowned for his love of all things fast or powerfull, he lives for adrenanline rushes.... he went through way more than 2 sick bags courtesy of the USAF
I doubt anything at all can compare to the physical experience of a front line jet fighter on the edge - awesome!I think the Russian airforce still accepts paying passengers for rides in Mig 29s, Su 27s etc. - anyone remember their "Cobra" manouver
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From: San Diego
Originally posted by Sondra S2K
My condo was in the landing pattern for Oceana Naval Air Station in Virginia Beach, which was fine until the pilots got hotshot and thought it would be cool to come in low and buzz us.... grrrr.....
I learned to hate those jets as much as that guy hated his new nickname!
My condo was in the landing pattern for Oceana Naval Air Station in Virginia Beach, which was fine until the pilots got hotshot and thought it would be cool to come in low and buzz us.... grrrr.....
I learned to hate those jets as much as that guy hated his new nickname!
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From: Clovis
Tedow, when I first looked at your post and noticed you were from FWB, I thought for sure that you had to be one of my buds from the Nomads at Eglin AFB. Eglin AFB was my last assignment and I made some good friends in the Eagle driver community.
Anyway, I loved your story. It reminded me of my first ride back in 98. I went up in a Viper or F-16 as is more commonly known outside the AF. We did many of the same things you mentioned, imagine that.
I was down at Cannon AFB, NM for a three week program and got a ride with the 522 Fireball squadron. My pilot was a real good guy. He callsign was Latex, unfortunately I can't remember the exact crazy story why. Our mission was an air-to-air training mission that launched just as the sun came up. Our jet was one half of a two-ship formation providing red air(bad guys) to a four ship of vipers who were the blue air(good guys). We did three simulated encounters. Our formation got to chose how to surprise the four ship, and we knew in advance the tactics blue air was trying to practice. So as it turns out, our little two-ship won two of the three encounters. I got to fly most of the mission until the actual encounters came along, then Latex took the jet. He was what we call a 'G' monster. We were consistently pulling 7-8 gs. I had just tore a muscle in my arm, and every time we g'd it up it felt like my arm was going to fall off. The g-suit helped me remember to strain though, so I only greyed out once. Other than that, the viper is a smooth jet. I am so in love.
Back then I didn't know what was going on, but I remembered every little detail I could, so that when it came my turn I could figure it all out. I'm still in pilot training at Vance AFB, but I promise in less than a year I'll be smoking S2000s all over the world in my own personal Mig part distributer.
Until then, try to live by the famous words of the honorable Lt. Gen Tad Olestrom
"Check six, Falcon One"
Anyway, I loved your story. It reminded me of my first ride back in 98. I went up in a Viper or F-16 as is more commonly known outside the AF. We did many of the same things you mentioned, imagine that.
I was down at Cannon AFB, NM for a three week program and got a ride with the 522 Fireball squadron. My pilot was a real good guy. He callsign was Latex, unfortunately I can't remember the exact crazy story why. Our mission was an air-to-air training mission that launched just as the sun came up. Our jet was one half of a two-ship formation providing red air(bad guys) to a four ship of vipers who were the blue air(good guys). We did three simulated encounters. Our formation got to chose how to surprise the four ship, and we knew in advance the tactics blue air was trying to practice. So as it turns out, our little two-ship won two of the three encounters. I got to fly most of the mission until the actual encounters came along, then Latex took the jet. He was what we call a 'G' monster. We were consistently pulling 7-8 gs. I had just tore a muscle in my arm, and every time we g'd it up it felt like my arm was going to fall off. The g-suit helped me remember to strain though, so I only greyed out once. Other than that, the viper is a smooth jet. I am so in love.
Back then I didn't know what was going on, but I remembered every little detail I could, so that when it came my turn I could figure it all out. I'm still in pilot training at Vance AFB, but I promise in less than a year I'll be smoking S2000s all over the world in my own personal Mig part distributer.
Until then, try to live by the famous words of the honorable Lt. Gen Tad Olestrom
"Check six, Falcon One"
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From: Clovis
[QUOTE]Originally posted by Tedow
[B]
Heh, they should call that the "Looks cool at an airshow but absolutely guaranteed to get you dead in a real fight" maneuver
. Giving up all your momentum is a pretty sure way to get yourself killed in a furball...unless you're Maverick, in which case it works great .
Actually...
I wouldn't underestimate that cool little manuever. Say you're in a fight with one of these bad russians. We are flying in none other than the mighty viper. We've outmanueved the 27 and have gained a superior position above and behind the enemy jet. We have more energy, good firing position, and we feel relatively safe. That's where the Cobra strikes. It is apparently at a disadvantage, low on alt. and energy. Optimal parameters for their famous air show thriller. Sitting in our viper we see the 27 apparently trying to go vertical but realizing that he lacks the airspeed to gain the advantage deduct that he must be up to no good. The 27 continues to track it's nose toward the sky to what seem like dangerous angles of attack until, low and behold, his nose is pointing right at the botton of our fuselage. Clean shot, the viper is caught off guard and we're forced to revert to plan B, "Bail Out, Bail Out, Bail Out"
[B]
Heh, they should call that the "Looks cool at an airshow but absolutely guaranteed to get you dead in a real fight" maneuver
. Giving up all your momentum is a pretty sure way to get yourself killed in a furball...unless you're Maverick, in which case it works great .Actually...
I wouldn't underestimate that cool little manuever. Say you're in a fight with one of these bad russians. We are flying in none other than the mighty viper. We've outmanueved the 27 and have gained a superior position above and behind the enemy jet. We have more energy, good firing position, and we feel relatively safe. That's where the Cobra strikes. It is apparently at a disadvantage, low on alt. and energy. Optimal parameters for their famous air show thriller. Sitting in our viper we see the 27 apparently trying to go vertical but realizing that he lacks the airspeed to gain the advantage deduct that he must be up to no good. The 27 continues to track it's nose toward the sky to what seem like dangerous angles of attack until, low and behold, his nose is pointing right at the botton of our fuselage. Clean shot, the viper is caught off guard and we're forced to revert to plan B, "Bail Out, Bail Out, Bail Out"
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