I’m writing this post on the day of Winter Storm Thor’s wintery mix. The roads are slushy; maybe half of the stores & restaurants in my area are open. The library where I wanted to write this was locked.
I should be in my warm home, where I have multiple comfortable places to write; but I’ve been there all day. Also, I like to navigate bad road days here in the South as some weird challenge (1) to prove my Buffalo, NY, roots and (2) to not let inhospitable roads win.
In January of 2001, my wife and I somehow walked away from a slushy-road crash that should’ve maimed or killed us. Neither of us were wearing seat belts. (Mine was broken. Hers had been removed to give her freedom to touch up her makeup on the way to church.) Long story short: we flipped once end-over-end and then rolled five times. At least that’s what the marks in the snow where we landed indicated. We sheared a “<“ sign off halfway up its pole. It could’ve impaled or decapitated my wife. Instead, it now hangs in the stairwell to my office.
I never drove that corner the same. It took me a while after that to get comfortable driving in the rain again. It gave me more respect for driving in the effects of winter weather.
This afternoon on Facebook, a friend of mine posted a photo of a Delta M-88 that slid off a snowy Laguardia runway and through a fence, coming to rest just a few feet from Flushing Bay. The first two comments explained, “This is why I don’t fly on planes.” In response, I came to the defense of commercial flying, pointing out that the safe-and-sound passengers and cargo on that plane were far outnumbered by the injuries and damage today from people driving in the East Coast’s current mess. I used the account above as a supporting anecdote.
One of the other commenters replied with the assertion that humans were not meant to fly.
To the contrary, I think humans were destined to fly. As a species, we were flying decades before television, before computers, before the Internet. We were escaping gravity before the science of the atomic bomb was imagined, let alone tested. Yet so many of us who trust other mind-boggling technology fail to fully trust the proven reliability of a commercial jet.
Including me.
I love the sensation of flying as much as I love its convenience. I’ve flown in multiple categories of aircraft, including experimental ones. That said, I hate turbulence—even though I understand it. I am anxious, watching those wings flex at hundreds of miles per hour. I regularly use the napkins from the flight attendant to absorb the profuse sweat from my hands. I’ve gripped the armrests multiple times—as if they would save me.
Believe it or not, when I skydive, I’m more anxious in the plane than I am once I leap from the open door. (I’d really like to wear a heart monitor one time while doing it to see if my heart rate would support that assertion.) The last time I jumped, someone actually put a hand on my vigorously-bouncing knee in an attempt to relax me on the ride up to exit altitude.
So, why do I fly?
Because it’s worth it. The destination is worth it. The convenience definitely is. I’ve flown to a dozen countries, all of which gave me indelible memories—if not adventure and accomplishment. I can’t imagine erasing those experiences from my life. The same goes for skydiving. The sense of freedom and exhilaration while free falling can only be explained by experience. Hang gliding and paramotoring prove that indescribable, too.
I find that Life gives us a lot of challenges like that. There’s a gratification waiting for those who press past obstacles, detractors, or fear. That doesn’t mean that we should all run to to play with venomous snakes or tight rope walk between skyscrapers. Part of fear’s biological role is to help us measure and evaluate situations before proceeding. But part of that natural response also scares up enough dopamine and adrenaline to reward the courageous.
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