Wild Tomcat
Below is an article written by Rick Reilly for Sports Illustrated.
He details his experiences when given the opportunity to fly in an
F-14 Tomcat
... very amusing.
This is a great story.
Now this message is for America's most famous athletes: Someday
you may be invited to fly in the back-seat of one of your country's
most powerful fighter jets. Many of you already have -- John Elway,
John Stockton, Tiger Woods to name a few. If you get this
opportunity, let me urge you, with the greatest sincerity .
Move to Guam. Change your name. Fake your own death. Whatever
you do, do not go. I know.
The U.S. Navy invited me to try it. I was thrilled. I was pumped. I
was toast!
I should've known when they told me my pilot would be Chip (Biff)
King of Fighter Squadron 213 at Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia
Beach. Whatever you're thinking a Top Gun named Chip (Biff) King
looks like, triple it.
He's about six-foot, tan, ice-blue eyes, wavy surfer hair, finger-
crippling handshake -- the kind of man who wrestles dyspeptic
alligators in his leisure time. If you see this man, run the other way.
Fast. Biff King was born to fly.
His father, Jack King, was for years the voice of NASA missions.
("T-minus 15 seconds and counting...." Remember?) Chip would
charge neighborhood kids a quarter each to hear his dad. Jack
would wake up from naps surrounded by nine-year-olds waiting for
him to say, "We have a liftoff."
Biff was to fly me in an F-14D Tomcat, a ridiculously powerful $60
million weapon with as much thrust as weight. I was worried about
getting airsick, so the night before the flight I asked Biff if there
was
something I should eat the next morning.
"Bananas," he said.
"For the potassium?" I asked.
"No," Biff said, "because they taste about the same coming up as
they do going down."
The next morning, out on the tarmac, I had on my flight suit with my
name sewn over the left breast. (No call sign -- like Crash or Sticky
or Leadfoot -- but, still, very cool.) I carried my helmet in the crook
of
my arm, as Biff had instructed. A fighter pilot named Psycho gave
me a safety briefing and then fastened me into my ejection seat,
which, when employed, would "egress" me out of the plane at such
a velocity that I would be immediately knocked unconscious.
Just as I was thinking about aborting the flight, the canopy closed
over me, and Biff gave the ground crew a thumbs-up. In minutes we
were firing nose up at 600 mph. We leveled out and then canopy-
rolled over another F-14. Those 20 minutes were the rush of my life.
Unfortunately, the ride lasted 80.
It was like being on the roller coaster at Six Flags Over Hell. Only
without rails. We did barrel rolls, sap rolls, loops, yanks and banks.
We dived, rose and dived again, sometimes with a vertical velocity of
10,000 feet per minute. We chased another F-14, and it chased us.
We broke the speed of sound. Sea was sky and sky was sea.
Flying at 200 feet we did 90-degree turns at 550 mph, creating a G
force of 6.5, which is to say I felt as if 6.5 times my body weight was
smashing against me.
And I egressed the bananas. I egressed the pizza from the night
before. And the lunch before that. I egressed a box of Milk Duds
from the sixth grade. I made Linda Blair look polite. Because of the
G's, I was egressing stuff that did not even want to be egressed.
I went through not one airsick bag, but two. Biff said I passed out.
Twice. I was coated in sweat. At one point, as we were coming in
upside down in a banked curve on a mock bombing target and the
G's were flattening me like a tortilla and I was in and out of
consciousness, I realized I was the first person in history to throw
down.
I used to know cool. Cool was Elway throwing a touchdown pass, or
Norman making a five-iron bite. But now I really know cool. Cool is
guys like Biff, men with cast-iron stomachs and Freon nerves. I
wouldn't go up there again for Derek Jeter's black book, but I'm glad
Biff does every day, and for less money per year than a rookie
reliever makes in a home stand.
A week later, when the spins finally stopped, Biff called. He said he
and the fighters had the perfect call sign for me. Said he'd send it on
a patch for my flight suit.
What is it? I asked.
"Two Bags."
Below is an article written by Rick Reilly for Sports Illustrated.
He details his experiences when given the opportunity to fly in an
F-14 Tomcat
... very amusing.
This is a great story.
Now this message is for America's most famous athletes: Someday
you may be invited to fly in the back-seat of one of your country's
most powerful fighter jets. Many of you already have -- John Elway,
John Stockton, Tiger Woods to name a few. If you get this
opportunity, let me urge you, with the greatest sincerity .
Move to Guam. Change your name. Fake your own death. Whatever
you do, do not go. I know.
The U.S. Navy invited me to try it. I was thrilled. I was pumped. I
was toast!
I should've known when they told me my pilot would be Chip (Biff)
King of Fighter Squadron 213 at Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia
Beach. Whatever you're thinking a Top Gun named Chip (Biff) King
looks like, triple it.
He's about six-foot, tan, ice-blue eyes, wavy surfer hair, finger-
crippling handshake -- the kind of man who wrestles dyspeptic
alligators in his leisure time. If you see this man, run the other way.
Fast. Biff King was born to fly.
His father, Jack King, was for years the voice of NASA missions.
("T-minus 15 seconds and counting...." Remember?) Chip would
charge neighborhood kids a quarter each to hear his dad. Jack
would wake up from naps surrounded by nine-year-olds waiting for
him to say, "We have a liftoff."
Biff was to fly me in an F-14D Tomcat, a ridiculously powerful $60
million weapon with as much thrust as weight. I was worried about
getting airsick, so the night before the flight I asked Biff if there
was
something I should eat the next morning.
"Bananas," he said.
"For the potassium?" I asked.
"No," Biff said, "because they taste about the same coming up as
they do going down."
The next morning, out on the tarmac, I had on my flight suit with my
name sewn over the left breast. (No call sign -- like Crash or Sticky
or Leadfoot -- but, still, very cool.) I carried my helmet in the crook
of
my arm, as Biff had instructed. A fighter pilot named Psycho gave
me a safety briefing and then fastened me into my ejection seat,
which, when employed, would "egress" me out of the plane at such
a velocity that I would be immediately knocked unconscious.
Just as I was thinking about aborting the flight, the canopy closed
over me, and Biff gave the ground crew a thumbs-up. In minutes we
were firing nose up at 600 mph. We leveled out and then canopy-
rolled over another F-14. Those 20 minutes were the rush of my life.
Unfortunately, the ride lasted 80.
It was like being on the roller coaster at Six Flags Over Hell. Only
without rails. We did barrel rolls, sap rolls, loops, yanks and banks.
We dived, rose and dived again, sometimes with a vertical velocity of
10,000 feet per minute. We chased another F-14, and it chased us.
We broke the speed of sound. Sea was sky and sky was sea.
Flying at 200 feet we did 90-degree turns at 550 mph, creating a G
force of 6.5, which is to say I felt as if 6.5 times my body weight was
smashing against me.
And I egressed the bananas. I egressed the pizza from the night
before. And the lunch before that. I egressed a box of Milk Duds
from the sixth grade. I made Linda Blair look polite. Because of the
G's, I was egressing stuff that did not even want to be egressed.
I went through not one airsick bag, but two. Biff said I passed out.
Twice. I was coated in sweat. At one point, as we were coming in
upside down in a banked curve on a mock bombing target and the
G's were flattening me like a tortilla and I was in and out of
consciousness, I realized I was the first person in history to throw
down.
I used to know cool. Cool was Elway throwing a touchdown pass, or
Norman making a five-iron bite. But now I really know cool. Cool is
guys like Biff, men with cast-iron stomachs and Freon nerves. I
wouldn't go up there again for Derek Jeter's black book, but I'm glad
Biff does every day, and for less money per year than a rookie
reliever makes in a home stand.
A week later, when the spins finally stopped, Biff called. He said he
and the fighters had the perfect call sign for me. Said he'd send it on
a patch for my flight suit.
What is it? I asked.
"Two Bags."
