When I left the Army in 2010, my plan was concrete: I was going to go to school and I was going to learn to fly. I had managed to push through the bureaucracy of the Veterans Administration and the Federal Aviation Administration, had managed to get what is effectively a learner’s permit to fly, and had made my way down to Arizona to start flight training at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University. Once I managed to get a few issues sorted, the workload was pretty even: I’d be in classes for a few hours a day, then I’d fly for at least a couple of hours a day, or be in a trainer, or be in a tutorage program with a flight instructor. After a decade of working on flightlines as a technician, I would switch roles and would take to the skies. So…why am I sitting here, typing to you, instead of running a regional jet across the country?

“Sasquatch In Flight”, 2011.

Well, let’s start with the first flight. A Cessna 172 Skymaster III isn’t a big aircraft to begin with, but it’s a form of torture when two guys who are both pushing 250 pounds and are well over six feet tall try to occupy the front controls. No joke, we actually had to de-fuel the plane to go on my introductory flight. That flight…August, northern Arizona, hot, no air conditioning whatsoever, not even a decently cooling breeze in the interior, and bumpy as hell from the thermals…right about the time he was about to hand me the controls was about the time I turned Kermit The Frog green and told him we needed to land. I puked six times between the moment I got out of the plane on the ramp and over three miles later, when I got to the Student Veterans Organization office. I was the color of my Mustang, a sickly, ashen green and my stomach kept threatening more harassment. I managed to fly without puking, but when the FAA told me to go through the VA rigamarole again for my license, I made the decision to end the program. It was too expensive and the VA and FAA were too time consuming for what I was getting out of it. Do I wish I had completed the training? Kind of. I would’ve loved to have earned my license, but at my age now, it would be for nothing but recreational purposes.

Somehow, Cleetus has managed to talk himself into an impromptu flight lesson in a Flying Chevette. He ran his mouth at the beginning saying that he thinks he could do it himself with ho help. Riiiight…let’s see how that worked out, shall we?