Before I even understood that my biggest yearn in life is to fly, I’d read an extract of an autobiography by someone who flew for living – and it was one of the coolest things I’ve ever read. The book in question was Sled Driver: Flying the World’s Fastest Jet, by Brian Shul (good luck buying a copy). But in the most boring way possible, it’s a memory of Brian’s of the time he and his co-pilot conducted a speed test in their plane. I’m going to link the extract at the bottom of this article, if you have the time, take a read, it’ll help you to appreciate why part of ✓ Project Bucket List revolved around seeing a hunk of metal in a museum.
On our trip to Los Angeles, my partner Kymberley had a few days where she was busy with work, and I was free to drive around in the coolest car in the planet – soaking up that Hollywood lifestyle, so I decided to go to a museum. Yeah, I know, the pinnacle of cool. One of these museums was the California Science Center. I found that they have an A-12 Blackbird, an ever so slightly different model to the one in the story below, but nonetheless, functionally the same thing in my eyes.
I checked that they had one online, made sure they were open, and decided to head in, without any more planning. I expected to have to walk around quite a bit, ask for directions, read some signs, maybe I’d find this thing in a big ole’ warehouse filled with yellow and black tape and old planes.
What I didn’t realise is that the second you get out of your car, you can see it from the car park. I’m talking, the moment you stand up, the first exhibit you see is this beautiful silver plane sat dead centre between you and the main building. There is no way to miss it.
You can even take the steps down and walk underneath the thing. There’s something the pictures don’t quite seem to capture which is how BIG this thing is, and how FAST it looks.
I’m going to put some fun techie specs here. They might mean something to you. The Blackbird was a spy plane, and it was the first airplane built from titanium. They flew these “go fast” machines in the late 60s, and they travelled 3 times the speed of sound, way up high at 90,000 feet – that’s 3 times the height of most commercial flights nowadays.
Let me just say that last bit again, I feel like I glossed over it.
These aeroplanes flew at 3 times the speed of sound. It took them 12 minutes to fly over North Vietnam. It takes me 12 minutes to get out of bed on a good morning – after my third alarm, of course.
So, having seen this kickass piece of human engineering, I headed inside to explore the rest of the museum, and found that in the entry hall they have these other jets just strung up there in the middle of the room to look at. You walk in and they’re just there, and there’s another jet out the back just positioned out there like a water fountain, but instead of a water fountain it’s this ex-bajillion dollar piece of the future just turned into a monument with a little plaque.
Not only did they have a full on history lesson on the whole flight thing we humans decided to do – there’s a whole section on space flight. It’s quite emotional to walk around and see actual wreckage and parts from previous missions. Everything has this texture of singed metal, where it’s re-entered the atmosphere, and you start to get this new feeling of pride for being a part of the human race. You can even see clothes that astronauts wore, which this old guy seemed to love.
The rest of the museum was outstanding too. It was heavily tailored for kids and had a lot of interactive exhibits, but even I found that the whole thing was a human built marvel, with these great open rooms full of natural history and science. Then, afterwards I went to the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County. I could talk about this place for hours, but I know that your time is important and you’re supposed to be rehearsing lines for that interview with the cops, so I’ll stick a few photographs below of my adventures around museums, and you can read the nice bit of storytelling from the great Brian Shul below.
Extract from “Sled Driver: Flying the World’s Fastest Jet” by Brian Shul
There were a lot of things we couldn’t do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.
It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.
I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn’t match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.
We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed.
Center replied: “November Charlie 175, I’m showing you at ninety knots on the ground.”
Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the “HoustonCenterVoice.” I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country’s space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the HoustonCenterControllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that… and that they basically did. And it didn’t matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after the Cessna’s inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed.
“Ah, Twin Beach: I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed.”
Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren.
Then out of the blue, a Navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios.
“Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check.”
Before Center could reply, I’m thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it — ol’ Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He’s the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet.
And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion:
“Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.”
And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done — in mere seconds we’ll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now.
I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn. Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet.
Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke:
“Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?”
There was no hesitation, and the reply came as if was an everyday request:
“Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.”
I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice:
“Ah, Center, much thanks. We’re showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.”
For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the HoustonCentervoice, when L.A. came back with,
“Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one.”
It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day’s work.
We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.