OR TAKE-OFF GRANTED by Sean Clancy Let me peel back the ceiling | was focusing on, and reveal the sky; snow white and projection ready. Picture this: We had just returned from a sojourn to the Ivanhoe and its partner in crime, the Cobalt. Juicehead and | met at the bar for some Dutch courage. "One for Bacchus, and one for Billy Bishop," we exhalted. Ten minutes later, off the stools, onto the saddles and into the night air we wafted. We had surveillance duties until 4 am, and the antici- pation alone was enough to keep you clenching your teeth, let alone should something out of the ordinary happen. It was the first time in Vancouver that | felt afraid, | was... "BOGIE AT SIX O'CLOCK!" The alarm bells in my head went off just like at the beginning of that Pink Floyd song on the album, "Dark Side of The Moon", that no one can remember the title. | pulled back, and hard to port, my wingman to starboard, in less than a second we were behind the aforementioned naysayer with annihilative tendencies. | squeezed (and really, that is just what it felt like) the trigger and what started out as a small orange ball suddenly erupted into a cornucopia of entrails, gears, cans, and bottles. It was merely a civil- ian transport, so we returned to cruising altitude and that was when | heard the "BANG!" Yep, that was me with the flat tire in the alley behind the Army and Navy. All of a sudden my wings were clipped, | was flying out of formation, and | knew that the dreaded Red Baron had set his sights on me: | was hit. | knew that | was down to one engine, and decided to ride it out. Damn the torpedoes! You could keep time by the regular thumping of my valve-stem in my rim. | was going to have to do a quick emergency landing. | chose the curb | saw outside of the alley, and set down to a rough landing. | peeled back my oil-schmeared goggles, tossed off my gloves, and got down to business. My wingman flew cover for me, managing to clear six bogies in the course of bun- nyhopping a small garbage can. He did barrel loops to keep the triplanes from making easy pickings of me. There was no way they would blow me away. My tool kit was out in a flash and the neccesary repairs made in less than five minutes. | per- sonally had not been hit and my guns hadn't even had a chance to cool and finish expanding before | was back in the cockpit, not that there were any cocks present, and it didn't really make much of a pit. Details, nonetheless. | went to War Emergency Power. The torque twisted the tubular frame. The tires peeled and warped the pavement, my left hand released the lever. There was a split second before all this could mechanically compute - that time stood for just that moment, suspended. An unmuffled, balanced and blueprinted drag- ster launch would be appropriate at this point ("Jesus Built My Hotrod" by Ministry would fit, or, for those of you manufactured before 1976, substitute with "Kickstart My Heart" by Mdtley Crile). The torque twisted the tubular frame. The tires peeled on the pavement. My left hand released the lever. -the ride home>>: Se ee w 2 xO 0 ie Yet for all the commotion, not a sound was heard. Only a “SWOOSH” as | was once again in flight, searching for my nemesis. The arena was empty. It wasn't to be this eve, as fate would determine. It would be another evening before | got to realize what happens when one crosses the threshold of the living into that of the dead. And yet | knew my demise would not be in this. arena, but something much more docile, something “dumb- er", like peeing on an electric fence. And it got me thinking, for all those billions who have taken one last look around them — and decided that this world of the living just wasn't for them, that not too many of them have decid- ed they have made the wrong choice and tried to make it back. What started out as a small orange ball suddenly erupted into a cornucopia of entrails, gears, cans and bottles 13_(@) PERMISSION FOR TAKE-OFF GRANTED by Sean Clancy Let me peel back the ceiling | was focusing on, and reveal the sky; snow white and projection ready. Picture this: We had just returned from a sojourn to the Ivanhoe and its partner in crime, the Cobalt. Juicehead and | met at the bar for some Dutch courage. "One for Bacchus, and one for Billy Bishop,” we exhalted. Ten minutes later, off the stools, onto the saddles and into the night air we wafted. We had surveillance duties until 4 am, and the antici- pation alone was enough to keep you clenching your teeth, let alone should something out of the ordinary happen. It was the first time in Vancouver that | felt afraid, | was... "BOGIE AT SIX O'CLOCK!" The alarm bells in my head went off just like at the beginning of that Pink Floyd song on the album, "Dark Side of The Moon", that no one ‘can remember the title. | pulled back, and hard to port, my wingman to starboard, in less than a second we were behind the aforementioned naysayer with annihilative tendencies. | squeezed (and really, that is just what it felt like) the trigger and what started out as a small orange ball suddenly erupted into a cornucopia of entrails, gears, cans, and bottles. It was merely a civil- ian transport, so we returned to cruising altitude and that was when | heard the "BANG!" Yep, that was me with the flat tire in the alley behind the Army and Navy. All of a sudden my wings were clipped, | was flying out of formation, and | knew that the dreaded Red Baron had set his sights on me: | was hit. | knew that | was down to one engine, and decided to ride it out. Damn the torpedoes! You could keep time by the regular thumping of my valve-stem in my rim. | was going to have to do a quick emergency landing. | chose the curb | saw outside of the alley, and set down to a rough landing. I peeled back my oil-schmeared goggles, tossed off my gloves, and got down to business. ‘My wingman flew cover for me, managing to clear six bogies in the course of bun- nyhopping a small garbage can. He did barrel loops to keep the triplanes from making easy pickings of me. There was no way they would blow me away. My tool kit was out in a flash and the neccesary repairs made in less than five minutes. | per- sonally had not been hit and my guns hadn't even had a The torque chance to cool and finish expanding before | was back A in the cockpit, not that there were any cocks present, twisted the and it didn’t really make much of a pit. Details, tubular frame. nonetheless | went to War Emergency Power. The torque twisted the tubular frame. The tires peeled and warped the pavement, my left hand released the lever. There was a split second before all this could mechanically compute - that time stood for just that moment, suspended. ‘An unmuffled, balanced and blueprinted drag- ster launch would be appropriate at this point ("Jesus Built My Hotrod" by Ministry would fit, or, for those of you manufactured before 1976, substitute with "Kickstart My Heart" by Métley Criie). The tires peeled on the pavement. My left hand released the lever. -the ride home>>: Yet for all the commotion, not a sound was heard. Only a "SWOOSH" as | was once again in flight, searching for my nemesis. The arena was empty. It wasn't to be this eve, as fate would determine. It would be another evening before | got to realize what happens when one crosses the threshold of the living into that of the dead. And yet | knew my demise would not be in this arena, but something much more docile, something "dumb- er", like peeing on an electric fence. And it got me thinking, for all those billions who have taken one last look around them and decided that this world of the living just wasn't for them, that not too many of them have decid- ed they have made the wrong choice and tried to make it back. What started out as a small orange ball suddenly erupted into a cornucopia of entrails, gears, cans and bottles 13_@)