When I was a young kiddo, up through high school, I had two passions: biology and airplanes. You can guess which one won out, but I still sometimes dream of flying. In those days, I’d bicycle out to one of the local airports — Boeing towns had no shortage of them — and just hang out at the chain link fence by the end of the runway, or bike around the hangars. It was a treat to take a long bike trip to the Museum of Flight, which at the time was a big hangar where people were reconstructing a biplane, but has since expanded into a magnificent complex with all kinds of planes.
I am suddenly reminiscing about this because YouTube randomly served up a video about one of my favorite old-timey airplanes, the P-26 Peashooter.
That great big radial engine, that lovely post-war color scheme, and it’s wearing pants! Before retractable landing gear became a must-have for any high performance plane, they were outfitted with aerodynamic coverings, which I find irresistibly charming. Planes from the 1930s hit a sweet spot for me, so this random video in which nothing really happens was something I had to watch. It’s an odd trigger that reminds me of being 15 years old again.
So why did I give up my fascination with planes? One factor was that I only learned in high school that I was extremely near-sighted, and needed glasses — that felt like discovering that I was broken, and nature was telling me that certain pathways were closed to me. I was also getting deeper and deeper into that scholarly stuff, reading constantly, which probably contributed to my optical failures. I still sometimes think it would be awesome to take flying lessons, except a) no time, b) no money, and c) age has taught me that there are many things that look easy, but actually require a great deal of skill and discipline to do well. Flying is one of those things that is unforgiving of dilettantes.
But still, those aircraft from the Amelia Earhart era give me a little tingle.











