Ideal Glide Speed

The ideal glide speed is not just an aeronautical strategy. It is a life lesson.

I don’t know why I decided to learn to fly a plane, but I did.

The selection of this pursuit surprised me because I had, up to now, always stressed the importance of being grounded. I would jokingly, which is to say seriously, state, “God intends for us to have both feet on the ground.”

Learning to fly, though, has not been nearly as difficult as experiencing how other people, those who have not selected to fly, feel about it. In fact, I have had to stop learning to fly because my doing so causes my husband too much emotional distress. I love my husband more than flying, so the choice was not hard once I understood the character of his feelings about my learning to fly.

Sometimes, it really sucks to be loved. I joke, of course.

It is also the case that my husband’s intervention was accompanied by the FAA’s. The FAA is entirely opposed to pilots taking Adderall, and it is highly suspicious of the category of “anxiety.” I grew up gay in the 1980s and 90s in rural Idaho. So, I am inherently anxious — and Adderall, which I have been taking for approximately two years, has changed my life.

I could have successfully appealed the FAA’s denial of my medical certificate, but that would have meant coming off Adderall for good. A successful appeal would also have meant spending eight to ten thousand dollars, on top of what was already a twenty-or-more-thousand-dollar pursuit, and subjecting myself to psychiatrists, a battery of tests, and ongoing FAA scrutiny.

So, just shy of ten hours into flying, I gave up on earning my wings. In just ten hours, though, I had learned a lot about the meaning of ascending and descending.

When I stopped flying, I was taxiing and taking off with almost no assistance. It was a great feeling.

Up in the air, I learned that Chapel Hill is a shining Carolina blue city. And it’s impossible to grasp how much farmland and rural country abuts the Triangle area until one is practicing maneuvers in the airspace surrounding Raleigh.

Taking off felt like launching into a big, undiscovered world. I remember saying strange things to myself and others: “It feels great to be in this big life; I want more of this big life.”

For whatever reason, we react to a desire for this big life in unfortunate ways, especially when people in their forties are learning to embrace it. We shit on this immense gratitude for life by dismissing it as a “midlife crisis.”

Just as people get the clarity, time, and resources, if they are lucky, to take off, we define them as mentally sideways. I have learned to read this reaction for what it is, the clutches of the death drive, and I have insisted on keeping my desire alive and moving.

Midlife is not a crisis, unless, that is, wanting to live a life is a crisis.

The real midlife crisis, I think, is the shock of how big life can sometimes feel when you’re halfway through it. What goes up must come down, indeed.

The final thing one does in a sequence of flight maneuvers is land. Slow flight, stall recovery, and steep turns all relate to the intricacies of landings. It’s important to know how to land in various conditions and, sometimes, to land as fast as possible.

It does not feel good to be left up in the air.

Recently, I was overwhelmed by how big life felt. I was downright traumatized by the very thing I was learning to enjoy. So, I lay down on the couch and focused on making my life smaller, on landing it.

I thought about joining a gay bowling league. I cried.

I thought about attending more lectures and book events. I cried.

I thought about making a few more friends. I cried.

I thought about where I might want to retire when I am older. That did the trick.

Something about placing myself in a place in the future, in a vision of the future, helped me land.

That’s weird; I know.

Speaking of landing, I have been trying to stay in touch with a longstanding friend, a friend who indicated that more consistent attention from me would be welcome. I have texted and I have called — and nothing for weeks. Even when we schedule a time to talk, there is a 50/50 chance it will happen.

All of that is disappointing, but I refuse to be left up in the air. It is the case that my friend is somewhat introverted. Their job is very socially demanding, and most of what they decide is high stakes. I assume there is a good reason for the silence.

Of course, we learn from an early age to interpret silence negatively. It is not a bad instinct. If your plane all of a sudden goes silent, that is a truly jarring moment. Safe and normal flight is very noisy.

Nonetheless, you can achieve the ideal, quieter glide speed and safely land the plane; that is, without engine power, you can configure the plane in the best way to achieve the greatest distance or sink rate (if over water) to land safely, if there is space at all to do so.

Admittedly, life is quieter now that I have put flying aside and returned to my first surprise passion, boating. Quite a few engines have mercifully shut off. Yet, I also confess that flying always felt intense. The skies do not easily forgive mistakes.

On the very best of days, I make a lot of mistakes — often noisily.

Flying, though, has changed me. The experience has certainly made me even more fearless here on the ground. And even if the immensity of life scares the shit out of me, at least I know I can bring the plane safely down to the ground.

It may not always be pretty, but as any reasonable pilot will tell you: a good landing is one you walk away from.