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Sam told me a story. The young flight instructor is pounding the pattern in a basic trainer. Half watching his student and half thinking of getting a real flying job. Some twin-engine time, a little cross-country IFR. Boy would that be sweet, that would be real flying. Above him at 8,000 feet a freight-dog in a beat-up Beech Baron bounces along. Cursing the turbulence and the heat and the holes in the instrument panel, he thinks about one day getting a turbine job.At 18,000 feet the crew of a King Air are droning along on autopilot, enjoying the air-conditioned cockpit. But the noise and vibration of the propellers is annoying, and the turbine-twin will not climb out of all the weather. The lady PIC is close to a jet job, and keeps looking up above the tops of the building cumulus. At flight level 390 dinner is being served to the major airline captain. Life is sweet. But his schedule sucks again next month, stupid recurrent training, and the mustard for the steak is too spicy again. He looks out the windshield as a glint of sunlight catches his eye strangely above the horizon. "It's the space station," says the first officer. "Now that would be sweet."Floating over to a window, the astronaut looks down on the colorful blue and green quilt set amongst the void of space. A former fighter and test pilot, the Space Shuttle commander is picking out ground features as he orbits over middle America. "You see those two rivers, just east of the city?" he says. "There is a little airport down there. I first soloed in a Piper Cub right there.""Now that is real flying."
If there ever was a dead horse that needed a routine beating, 65 is it.
Well, I guess if pissing in the wind makes you feel better, go for it.
:laugh: ......you said it. The grass ain't always greener on the other side.He'll b!tch at sears too.