Out in the middle of Nevada the desert is almost unforgiving. But it’s perfect – flat, smooth, and oddly stable, compared with the pitch and roll of the carrier. John kicks the bike up another gear and screams down the side road that parallels the runway, racing an F-16 as it lifts from the ground and streaks into the sky. John laughs, his body alive with the reverberation from the afterburners and the power of the motorcycle, and he knows that this, the complete immersion in nothing but flying for the next six weeks will be everything he knew it would be, everything he and Murray had dreamed of when they were teenagers and watching the planes race wingtip to wingtip across the sky.
SOLD. Sign me up for this!