You'd awake every morning at 6:30am to the beautiful music of Merlin V12s at full power as half a dozen P-51s roar overhead to embark on the dawn patrol....
You'd cheerfully chat with perfect strangers while standing in line for a lukewarm shower in a portable shower block....
You'd plan every day over eggs & pancakes at Tall Pines Cafe, deciding who you want to hear speak more that afternoon: Burt Rutan or Bob Hoover....
You'd forget that air conditioning exists, spend every day gloriously bathed in sweat, thank heaven for every little wisp of wind, and find yourself pausing in the shadows of DC-3s, B-17s, and A350s....
You'd come to find farmer's tans incredibly sexy...and your standards for attractiveness in the opposite sex would ease considerably....
Instead of traveling overseas, you'd take a 10-minute bus ride to the Seaplane Base and marvel at how quaint and beautiful and relaxed it is....
You'd almost never see litter on the street. On the rare occasions you did, someone would usually swoop in to pick it up before you could get to it....
You'd live off of burgers and cheese curds, and you'd still stay skinny from walking twenty miles a day....
You'd never actually talk to Air Traffic Control, only rocking your wings in reply. All air traffic controllers would be extremely proficient, calm under fire, and unfailingly friendly....
You'd think IFR stands for "I Follow Railroads...."
You'd be an ace at last-minute runway changes, short approaches, and spot landings....
You'd check your Facebook feed, see that a good friend just landed, and arrange to meet under the Brown Arch in an hour. Really good friends would insist on trekking two miles to admire your airplane parked in the South 40....
Your musical tastes would narrow to 70s rock, modern country, and Jerry's One Man Band....
You'd swear off airshows forever, declaring you've seen Sean Tucker doing enough impossibly violent things to airplanes to last a lifetime, only to spy a new act featuring something improbable, graceful, and arresting, and you'd end up right back on the flight line with every other slack-jawed, sky-gazing rube....
You'd go to an off-airport party, run into random friends and former coworkers and aviation journalists and airshow performers and aviation legends, and the most remarkable coincidence of the night would be meeting a guy whose hangar is right next to yours back home....
You'd find sitting in the bleachers of the ultralight grass strip at dusk, watching powered parachutes making endless circuits and passes just for the sheer joy of flight, a perfectly acceptable form of evening entertainment....
You'd drift off to sleep every night under the wing of your own airplane, bedded on soft grass, knowing you'll wake up to the roar of Merlin V12s and the promise of another full day in Airplane Heaven....
Alas, Oshkosh comes but once a year. Only 51 more weeks to go!
You'd cheerfully chat with perfect strangers while standing in line for a lukewarm shower in a portable shower block....
You'd plan every day over eggs & pancakes at Tall Pines Cafe, deciding who you want to hear speak more that afternoon: Burt Rutan or Bob Hoover....
You'd forget that air conditioning exists, spend every day gloriously bathed in sweat, thank heaven for every little wisp of wind, and find yourself pausing in the shadows of DC-3s, B-17s, and A350s....
You'd come to find farmer's tans incredibly sexy...and your standards for attractiveness in the opposite sex would ease considerably....
Instead of traveling overseas, you'd take a 10-minute bus ride to the Seaplane Base and marvel at how quaint and beautiful and relaxed it is....
You'd almost never see litter on the street. On the rare occasions you did, someone would usually swoop in to pick it up before you could get to it....
You'd live off of burgers and cheese curds, and you'd still stay skinny from walking twenty miles a day....
You'd never actually talk to Air Traffic Control, only rocking your wings in reply. All air traffic controllers would be extremely proficient, calm under fire, and unfailingly friendly....
You'd think IFR stands for "I Follow Railroads...."
You'd be an ace at last-minute runway changes, short approaches, and spot landings....
You'd check your Facebook feed, see that a good friend just landed, and arrange to meet under the Brown Arch in an hour. Really good friends would insist on trekking two miles to admire your airplane parked in the South 40....
Your musical tastes would narrow to 70s rock, modern country, and Jerry's One Man Band....
You'd swear off airshows forever, declaring you've seen Sean Tucker doing enough impossibly violent things to airplanes to last a lifetime, only to spy a new act featuring something improbable, graceful, and arresting, and you'd end up right back on the flight line with every other slack-jawed, sky-gazing rube....
You'd go to an off-airport party, run into random friends and former coworkers and aviation journalists and airshow performers and aviation legends, and the most remarkable coincidence of the night would be meeting a guy whose hangar is right next to yours back home....
You'd find sitting in the bleachers of the ultralight grass strip at dusk, watching powered parachutes making endless circuits and passes just for the sheer joy of flight, a perfectly acceptable form of evening entertainment....
You'd drift off to sleep every night under the wing of your own airplane, bedded on soft grass, knowing you'll wake up to the roar of Merlin V12s and the promise of another full day in Airplane Heaven....
Alas, Oshkosh comes but once a year. Only 51 more weeks to go!
