I need $200,000. No, really. I know that would normally only happen when pigs fly, but seriously, I want my car to fly. And for a mere $200,000, I can live out my dream.
My father, also known as Sky King for his prowess as a pilot both pre-war, during two wars, and post war, was blessedly cursed with four daughters who would rather play with our Barbies than show any interest whatsoever in his airplanes, stories of airplanes, his stash of airplane magazines or rides in his airplane. Luckily for him, a son came along, and dad finally nabbed my poor brother in his web of glue-sniffing-model-airplane-building and all other activities aeronautique…
I think one reason I dislike roller coasters to this day is from some buried emotional trauma I experienced sitting in the cockpit of my dad’s airplane as a child. During one flight, he mumbled something about “testing” the gas tanks. Well, in order to test them, he shut down everything and we descended quickly while he revved everything back up. “He’s kidding, right?” I thought to myself as we dropped from the sky like a free-fall ride at an amusement park. Meanwhile, my peanut butter sandwich was jammed somewhere between my esophagus and my tonsils, and my milk was jettisoning out of my nostrils.
It wasn’t until I was older that I learned to finally relax and fully enjoy the bonding time that flying enabled me to have with my father, just the two of us, with him pointing out various landmarks and me soaking up the colors and imagery of the beautiful landscape. Soaring through the skies, like a bird finally uncaged, is like no other sensation. And deep inside, I’m a bit jealous that my brother was the only one who was the beneficiary of his flying knowledge, while we girls learned how to iron (yoke first) and make a really good meatloaf. And I do make a damn good meatloaf…
Well, move over, Amelia, because as soon as I can afford it, I’m buying a Terrafugia, which in Latin, means “escape from land.” Although the name doesn’t slip off the tongue as sweetly as Jag or Beemer and sounds like something my Italian mother-in-law used to whip up in the kitchen, with my “roadable aircraft” I could fly up to 400 miles on a single tank of gas at a cruising speed of 115 mph in the air, or fold my wings up like an umbrella and hit the highway.
OK, so I’ll still need a pilot’s license….and, oh, a major long driveway….and, oh yeah, how about them blind spots!? This would give us the option to now have “air rage,” but how are they going to position stop signs in the sky?? And what does one do when that cute officer asks you to, “Kindly step out of the car, ma’am.” ??
Shoot, there goes my envisioning being able to hit the beach this summer without sitting in 25 miles of backups on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, or legally parking on the rooftop of the closest DSW.
Oh, well, I guess Wilbur and Orrville had a lot of naysayers and kinks to get out of their contraption also. One should always dream.
But if this does ever come to fruition, this could give a whole new meaning to the term “flipping someone the bird.”
CAT'S OUT OF THE BAG 