"The Hurrier I Go..."
						The magnetos were off. "What? The mags are off! I'm a 15,000-hour pilot and I forgot the stupid mags! Give me a break!" Yes, I yelled all of those words. Ok, so I forgot to switch the magnetos on-get a grip and lets get going. I'm already two hours behind schedule. Flipping on the mags, I walked around the front of my little airplane and made one pull through on the prop. Roar! The engine started all right-at full power. I fell back on my butt and watched in total horror while the Pitts was dancing in place, tail still strapped to the light post but off the ground, and me, three feet directly in front of my whining prop. It was a nightmare. It was as if my own airplane was screaming at me, "You idiot, now look what you've done!" After coming to my senses, I jumped to my feet and ran around the little biplane, bending my aerobatic sighting device 90 degrees. Dang, I needed that for my competition, I thought, then pulled the full throttle off and then the mixture. I slid down the side of the fuselage and sat on the ground. It was quiet, even peaceful, for several minutes, and then it happened-those words from my childhood came streaming through my lips. I didn't think of saying them out loud -it just happened. "The hurrier I go, the behinder I get." I think I said it about four times. I was talking to myself as if I had just taught myself a valuable lesson. "The hurrier I go, the behinder I get." I must have sat there next to my little orange biplane for 20 minutes wondering how I could have allowed myself to get so wrapped up in getting to that contest that I could forget about all of the things that I had learned about flying over the last 23 years. I pulled my parachute off, gather my gear and pushed the orange machine back into the hangar, then got in my truck and drove home. I mowed the lawn that day. Beaut- iful sunshine, blue skies and me, taking my time mowing the lawn and thinking, "The hurrier I go, the behinder I get." Slow down, take your time and think. Aviation has a funny way of reminding us that it doesn't matter how much experience you have if you're in to big of a hurry to use it. Dirty side up!
	by Mike Wiskus
I grew up in a home that had an em- broidered framed phrase hanging on the kitchen wall. Mom had it placed by the table so it could be seen from any one of the chairs at breakfast, lunch or supper. It read, "The hurrier I go, the behinder I get." I always thought that a picture of an airplane would have looked better in its place, but hey, it was mom's kitchen. If she wanted that dumb phrase hanging on the wall, that was up to her. Who would have thought that embroidered phrase would have come trickling from my lips 23 years later. The winter of 1999/2000 wasn't that bad-not much snow and only a few weeks of ultra-below-zero cold. I remember flying my Pitts until December 10 or 15 and then tucking it away only until March. Still, I was very anxious to start the new aerobatic season, and when I finally got to roll my orange beauty out into the early spring sunshine, I began practicing with every free moment. I wanted to be ready for the first competition scheduled in Nebraska in early May. I was pumped for the contest and wanted to start the season off with a win. The first contest date came quickly, and I was anxious to get to Nebraska to practice in their aerobatic box and get used to the references. Unfortunately, the tone of the trip started when at 7 a.m., just after stowing my gear, putting on my parachute and getting ready to prop my non-electrical bird, I realized that I had for-gotten my wallet at home. The race began. After a few choice words and the slamming of my pickup door-mom would not have been proud-I made the round trip home and back in record time. Again, after putting on the parachute, checking my gear and attaching the cable to the tailwheel and the light post so I could prop-start my bird without it getting away, I began my morning workout routine by hand-propping the Pitts. "Now what? It usually starts in the first three tries!" Priming again, sweating, propping, mixture off, throttle forward, mixture on. What's the deal? Time is wasting! It never acts likes this! More propping, sweating and breathing hard, and with arms that felt like rubber, I walked around the airplane and looked over the settings in the cockpit one more time.
				Mike Wiskus is the president of the Cloud Dancers, the Minnesota chapter of the
		International Aerobatic Club. To find out more about the group, check out its website at www.isd/chapter78 or call (952) 943-2182. Chapter meetings usually are held the third Saturday of each month at Flying Cloud Airport in Eden Prairie.
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