Robert Moore
November 1st 03, 02:14 AM
> Below is an article written by Rick Reilly of Sports Illustrated.
> He details his experiences when given the opportunity to fly in a
> F-14 Tomcat.
> "Now this message for America's most famous athletes:
>
> Someday you may be invited to fly in the back-seat of one of your
> country's most powerful fighter jets. Many of you already have.
> John Elway, John Stockton, Tiger Woods to name a few. If you get
> the opportunity, let me urge you, with the greatest sincerity,
> Move to Guam. Change your name. Fake your own death! Whatever you
> do, do not go.
> I know. The U.S. Navy invited me to try it. I was thrilled. I was
> pumped. I was toast! I should've known when they told me my pilot
> would be Chip (Biff) King of Fighter Squadron 213 at Naval Air
> Station Oceana in Virginia Beach.
>
> Whatever you're thinking a Top Gun named Chip (Biff) King looks
> like, triple it. He's about six-foot, tan, ice-blue eyes, wavy
> surfer hair, finger-crippling handshake.....the kind of man who
> wrestles dyspeptic alligators in his leisure time. If you see
> this man, run the other way.....Fast.
>
> Biff King was born to fly. His father, Jack King, was for years
> the voice of NASA missions. ("T-minus 15 seconds and counting
> ..." Remember?) Chip would charge neighborhood kids a quarter
> each to hear his dad. Jack would wake up from naps surrounded by
> nine-year-olds waiting for him to say, "We have a liftoff."
>
> Biff was to fly me in an F-14D Tomcat, a ridiculously powerful
> $60 million weapon with nearly as much thrust as weight, not
> unlike Colin Montgomerie. I was worried about getting airsick, so
> the night before the flight I asked Biff if there was something I
> should eat the next morning.
>
> "Bananas," he said.
> "For the potassium?" I asked.
> "No," Biff said, "because they taste about the same coming up as
> they do going down."
>
> The next morning, out on the tarmac, I had on my flight suit with
> my name sewn over the left breast. (No call sign like Crash or
> Sticky or Leadfoot but, still, very cool.) I carried my helmet in
> the crook of my arm, as Biff had instructed. If ever in my life I
> had a chance to nail Nicole Kidman, this was it.
>
> A fighter pilot named Psycho gave me a safety briefing and then
> fastened me into my ejection seat, which, when employed, would
> "egress" me out of the plane at such a velocity that I would be
> immediately knocked unconscious.
>
> Just as I was thinking about aborting the flight, the canopy
> closed over me, and Biff gave the ground crew a thumbs-up.
> In minutes we were firing nose up at 600 mph. We leveled out
> and then canopy-rolled over another F-14.
>
> Those 20 minutes were the rush of my life. Unfortunately, the
> ride lasted 80. It was like being on the roller coaster at Six
> Flags Over Hell. Only without rails. We did barrel rolls, sap
> rolls, loops, yanks and banks. We dived, rose and dived again,
> sometimes with a vertical velocity of 10,000 feet per minute.
> We chased another F-14, and it chased us. We broke the speed of
> sound. Sea was sky and sky was sea. Flying at 200 feet we did
> 90-degree turns at 550 mph, creating a G force of 6.5, which is
> to say I felt as if 6.5 times my body weight was smashing against
> me, thereby approximating life as Mrs. Colin Montgomerie.
>
> And I egressed the bananas. I egressed the pizza from the night
> before. And the lunch before that. I egressed a box of Milk Duds
> from the sixth grade. I made Linda Blair look polite. Because of
> the G's, I was egressing stuff that did not even want to be
> egressed. I went through not one airsick bag, but two.
>
> Biff said I passed out. Twice. I was coated in sweat. At one
> point, as we were coming in upside down in a banked curve on a
> mock bombing target and the G's were flattening me like a
> tortilla and I was in and out of consciousness, I realized I was
> the first person in history to throw down.
>
> I used to know cool. Cool was Elway throwing a touchdown pass, or
> Norman making a five-iron bite. But now I really know cool. Cool
> is guys like Biff, men with cast-iron stomachs and freon nerves.
> I wouldn't go up there again for Derek Jeter's black book, but
> I'm glad Biff does every day, and for less a year than a rookie
> reliever makes in a home stand.
>
> A week later, when the spins finally stopped, Biff called. He
> said he and the fighters had the perfect call sign for me. Said
> he'd send it on a patch for my flight suit.
>
> What is it? I asked.
>
> "Two Bags."
> He details his experiences when given the opportunity to fly in a
> F-14 Tomcat.
> "Now this message for America's most famous athletes:
>
> Someday you may be invited to fly in the back-seat of one of your
> country's most powerful fighter jets. Many of you already have.
> John Elway, John Stockton, Tiger Woods to name a few. If you get
> the opportunity, let me urge you, with the greatest sincerity,
> Move to Guam. Change your name. Fake your own death! Whatever you
> do, do not go.
> I know. The U.S. Navy invited me to try it. I was thrilled. I was
> pumped. I was toast! I should've known when they told me my pilot
> would be Chip (Biff) King of Fighter Squadron 213 at Naval Air
> Station Oceana in Virginia Beach.
>
> Whatever you're thinking a Top Gun named Chip (Biff) King looks
> like, triple it. He's about six-foot, tan, ice-blue eyes, wavy
> surfer hair, finger-crippling handshake.....the kind of man who
> wrestles dyspeptic alligators in his leisure time. If you see
> this man, run the other way.....Fast.
>
> Biff King was born to fly. His father, Jack King, was for years
> the voice of NASA missions. ("T-minus 15 seconds and counting
> ..." Remember?) Chip would charge neighborhood kids a quarter
> each to hear his dad. Jack would wake up from naps surrounded by
> nine-year-olds waiting for him to say, "We have a liftoff."
>
> Biff was to fly me in an F-14D Tomcat, a ridiculously powerful
> $60 million weapon with nearly as much thrust as weight, not
> unlike Colin Montgomerie. I was worried about getting airsick, so
> the night before the flight I asked Biff if there was something I
> should eat the next morning.
>
> "Bananas," he said.
> "For the potassium?" I asked.
> "No," Biff said, "because they taste about the same coming up as
> they do going down."
>
> The next morning, out on the tarmac, I had on my flight suit with
> my name sewn over the left breast. (No call sign like Crash or
> Sticky or Leadfoot but, still, very cool.) I carried my helmet in
> the crook of my arm, as Biff had instructed. If ever in my life I
> had a chance to nail Nicole Kidman, this was it.
>
> A fighter pilot named Psycho gave me a safety briefing and then
> fastened me into my ejection seat, which, when employed, would
> "egress" me out of the plane at such a velocity that I would be
> immediately knocked unconscious.
>
> Just as I was thinking about aborting the flight, the canopy
> closed over me, and Biff gave the ground crew a thumbs-up.
> In minutes we were firing nose up at 600 mph. We leveled out
> and then canopy-rolled over another F-14.
>
> Those 20 minutes were the rush of my life. Unfortunately, the
> ride lasted 80. It was like being on the roller coaster at Six
> Flags Over Hell. Only without rails. We did barrel rolls, sap
> rolls, loops, yanks and banks. We dived, rose and dived again,
> sometimes with a vertical velocity of 10,000 feet per minute.
> We chased another F-14, and it chased us. We broke the speed of
> sound. Sea was sky and sky was sea. Flying at 200 feet we did
> 90-degree turns at 550 mph, creating a G force of 6.5, which is
> to say I felt as if 6.5 times my body weight was smashing against
> me, thereby approximating life as Mrs. Colin Montgomerie.
>
> And I egressed the bananas. I egressed the pizza from the night
> before. And the lunch before that. I egressed a box of Milk Duds
> from the sixth grade. I made Linda Blair look polite. Because of
> the G's, I was egressing stuff that did not even want to be
> egressed. I went through not one airsick bag, but two.
>
> Biff said I passed out. Twice. I was coated in sweat. At one
> point, as we were coming in upside down in a banked curve on a
> mock bombing target and the G's were flattening me like a
> tortilla and I was in and out of consciousness, I realized I was
> the first person in history to throw down.
>
> I used to know cool. Cool was Elway throwing a touchdown pass, or
> Norman making a five-iron bite. But now I really know cool. Cool
> is guys like Biff, men with cast-iron stomachs and freon nerves.
> I wouldn't go up there again for Derek Jeter's black book, but
> I'm glad Biff does every day, and for less a year than a rookie
> reliever makes in a home stand.
>
> A week later, when the spins finally stopped, Biff called. He
> said he and the fighters had the perfect call sign for me. Said
> he'd send it on a patch for my flight suit.
>
> What is it? I asked.
>
> "Two Bags."