Back from the craziness

I am back from the craziness that is the Reno Air Races. Each year, George and I take a long weekend and head south to the Biggest Little City in the World. We end up at Stead-Reno Air Field, at my brother's hangar, a huge edifice smack in the middle of the pit area where the big planes, crews and pilots work on the planes, sign autographs, and are stared at by hundreds of thousands of passing fans like zoo animals.

It is a celebration of the fuel powered aviation engine, speed, courage, and history. It is the early morning smell of aviation fuel exhaust accompanied by the whap-whap-whap of decades old propellers turning over for the first time that day. It is the deafening roar of jet engines screaming overhead at less than five hundred feet, heating upturned faces with blue flame. It is the tears and tight throat that come with the national anthem being played as our flag descends from the sky with a skydiver.

We get to see historical war planes lovingly tended. We get to see gorgeous young women dressed like porn stars on the arms of paunchy homely old millionaires, hanging on like he's a 401k. We see folks at their best and their worst, both stages often involving alcohol.

We learn that karaoke is nondiscriminatory; the brightest, richest or most beautiful can produce wincingly terrible vocals. (We secretly delight that the brightest, richest and most beautiful are not also blessed with the voice of an angel...)

We laugh until our faces and sides hurt, we cry when we see a rickety and ancient man wearing his WWII military uniform proudly. We return home exhausted and full of stories to last a year, proud to live in the U.S.

Pictures, top to bottom: Daft Wench, the knarly crew of the good ship Bucket o' Blood (can you find the author in the crowd?), Keelhaul Kayser, mechanics hands on the engine of Strega, Strega in the hangar with onlookers. (Black Mackster, photo credit)