Not for me the fast cars or faster women of middle age - though I did mentally go back to my childhood and the desire aged 14 to be a pilot. That notion was extinguished when I needed corrective glasses to read the blackboard and the received wisdom of 1984 was that men with specs never fly planes.
Like many dreams (good and bad) they never fully die. They sometimes fester and need to be itched. Then a BBC colleague’s daughter passed her Private Pilot’s Licence just before we were all locked down again (in Britain) for January and much of February and as they say in Alabama: ‘I got’s to thinkin’.
Could I do it? Should I do it? How expensive is it? How long would it take and what would I use the PPL for?
The answer to the final question was and remains very unclear. In my imagined future, I’d retire to Italy and offer flights to wealthy tourists over Lake Como or Garda - buzzing George Clooney’s house as often as possible.
Of course Brexit means that any UK licence I might earn wouldn't be recognised in the EU and so I'd have to cough up more money and do another series of tests in order to fly a plane on the continent.
Although that future plan in Lombardia is doable, it’s probably not the real reason I’m training to be a pilot.
I’m doing it because I refuse to ‘go gentle into that good night’. I refuse to acknowledge that the best days are behind me and that I should act my age and slow down. I’m kicking against the convention that 51 year olds should or shouldn't do certain things. But most of all I’m itching a 37 year old scratch and keeping my heart beating at an elevated pace in doing so.
I tried golf and it’s a great pastime but it’s not for me. It simply passes time. It also drives me nuts as spoiled good walks always do.
Of course flying an object with an engine not much more powerful than a Ford Ka at 3,000 feet is a hugely risky ‘hobby’ but it’s like starting a brand new degree and learning something new every day - like being 18 again (but with a gut and double chins) when I used to jump into any long queue on campus even if I didn't know what they were queuing for.
I hadn't a clue how the 4 stroke engine really worked nor how instruments such as speed and height calculated their readings mechanically. Nor did I know the principles of Lift, Thrust, Weight and Drag nor weather patterns nor the codes, acronyms and mnemonics used in the world of aviation. Now I do and am better for it. It’s like being back at university without the hangups, obsessions or residue acne.
So for those of you out there who think they’re too old to do something completely new or taxing (or even taxying). You're probably not. What was it that some overpriced sportswear brand might say?
No one ever said on their deathbed: ‘I should have stayed in more and or played more golf’
Taking off in a Cessna 152
