I have long endured because I have chosen to do so.
Passion has an inherent, impenetrable amour that permits one to see beyond
the myopia that is the reward of a closed mind and the energy-draining
burden of a vengeful heart.
When Al Teague drives the 76, I am with him, along with every other soul who
wishes him well. As Don Vesco spools up the Lycoming, my spirit rises
exponentially past the power of the axial shaft, through the mesh of the
gears and thunders out through the whirring bearing boxes. When Jack folds
himself into the tiny orange dart, I fly through air alongside. It is the
smile that Tanis wears inside her helmet that radiates out covering the salt
with speed's gossamer, giddy glow. The boulevard cruise that Rick and his
Hayabusa take is a ride we should all be lucky enough to share from
sidelines.
I stand alone, silent, rocking my center of gravity ever so gently from toe
to heel and back again taking comfort in the sound the saline crystals
crunching below waiting for the next car to unzip the sodium in my
viewfinder. Tracking the image, I hold my breath and pray the focus holds as
the shutter trips at the exact moment the parachute plucks the racing
machine from the chilling thrill of accel drawing it back fitfully into a
mundane reality called stop.
Laying in the intake nacelle of Andy Green's black beauty just hours after
it had romped to supersonic land and back again, or watching from above
suspended in flight by a mechanical dragonfly wing were the best hammocks
this gal ever had.
It has been my great pleasure and good fortune to steer, coax and flog many
fine machines on land, at sea and in the glorious air. Whether it be the
snap and crack of 1/4 zip, the raw fatigue that gnaws at your concentration
during an endurance contest like the La Carrerra Pan Americana and the Mille
Miglia, the throbbing euphoria as I find groove of Willow Springs, Road
America, or the dear curves of Laguna Seca, the struggle to climb the banks
of the Las Vegas tri-oval at 175mph trying to find the courage to stab the
pedal further into the floor.
Nine knots might sounds slow, but try holding the helm of a 60-foot racing
Swan on third watch in the Atlantic with your toes. Alone on-deck, leaning
against the backstay watching the moon unmelt from the watery horizon and
disappear up through the foot of the spinnaker in the wee hours of the
morning and you ache with swelling joy as you fly across the sea caressed by
warm Caribbean breezes whispering past your cheeks. We ran that sail for 29
hours straight, normally suicidal, but never once did it misbehave. Magic,
pure magic.
It may have only been a stinky little Cessna 150, but flying solo for the
first time . . . right into a glowing harvest sunset remains a tingling
highlight in my life: that first moment of flight by my own hands and wits!
Stupid grin was evident for days afterward.
>From the Goodyear Blimp that takes forever and a month to spin a doughnut,
to the high-speed blast down the active at Point Mugu Naval Air Station with
the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile (only 87mph with tail wind) or riding shotgun
in the Baja 1000, its all about the speed, the control of a machine as you
hunt for its limits and yours.
Because God saw fit to toss a little perspicacity my way, it has been rather
easy to soldier on even when surrounded by prevaricating bullys. It leaves
more time to enjoy the larger view and share it with others.
Tell me more about Bridgett . . . sounds a great story.
Be Vigilant,
"LandSpeed" Louise Ann Noeth
LandSpeed Productions
Telling Stories with Words and Pictures
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