Don Love passed away at the age of 87. He was my first father-in-law, the most amazing man I’ve ever known and – in my late teens and twenties – my hero. In his memory I’d like to tell a story – about Don and me and our race across Wichita, Kansas, in airplanes.
The year was 1969. I was twenty-two years old and employed as a parts salesman for Skyliners, the Cessna distributor for the states of Kansas and Oklahoma. Don was the sales manager for a small Cessna dealership located at Redwing Airport, east of Wichita.
My wife, Becky, and I lived just two miles from Redwing in a mobile home on my parents’ rural acreage, located on Pawnee.
Pawnee is one Wichita’s main east/west thoroughfares, and at the time it ran as straight as a string from just off the south end of Redwing’s runway to the far west side of Wichita. Both my parent’s home and their factory were located on Pawnee Avenue. From Redwing it was just two miles to their property, another mile to cross Andover Road, then five more to Webb Road where it passed less than a half mile north of the runways of McConnel Air Force Base, then immediately skirting the north end of the runway at Cessna’s main plant (Years ago Pawnee Ave. was detoured a half-mile northward to allow lengthening of Cessna’s runway) and Land Manufacturing Company was just another mile further west.
On the morning of my story Pawnee Avenue was about to become a race course – an impromptu air race from Redwing to Municipal.
I stopped by the sales office where Don and his wife and secretary Barbara had already arrived for work. Don asked me where I was headed for the day and I told him Oklahoma City. He said he’d like to bum a ride because he needed to pick up an airplane there, but first he needed to fly a 150 – Cessna’s smallest two-passenger plane – to Yingling Aviation, the Cessna retail dealership located at Wichita Municipal. He asked me if I’d fly over and pick him up there, and I had readily agreed. I always enjoyed our time together, especially in the air.
I was chatting with Barbara when suddenly I knew – and to this day I don’t know how I knew, but I knew as surely as if I’d heard “Gentlemen, start your engines,” over a loud speaker – that Don intended to beat me to Yingling.
“I’ve got to go,” I said, picking up my flight bag and rushing out the door. Don had left without saying a word and was already taxiing for takeoff to the south.
It was not unusual for Don to climb into a plane without fooling with the pre-flight inspection that flight instructors consider sacrosanct. As Don put it, “Hell you don’t check the oil in your car every time you start it do you?”
I quickly untied the Skyhawk I was flying and cranked the starter. The engine fired immediately and I too dispensed with the mag check, and the pull on the carb heat knob to check for the drop in rpm that says you’ve got heat to prevent ice. It wasn’t a cold day anyway.
By the time I lifted off Don was banking right, ignoring the traditional 90 to the left followed by a 45 to the right. He hadn’t even cleared the end of the runway before angling toward Pawnee Avenue where he leveled out just above the tops of the hedge trees lining the road. I was a mile behind him.
My Skyhawk was a four-passenger with 150 hp Lycoming engine. I was flying a faster plane, but only if I was giving it all she had. I knew Don would have the 150’s Continental 100 hp engine red-lined – throttle to the firewall. I shoved the throttle all the way to the stop and locked it there.
By the time Don reached Web Road I was less than a quarter mile behind him and gaining. What the hell was he doing? He was still less than 50 feet above Pawnee and crossing just north of McConnell Air Force Base. I’d been broken in by the hotshots that worked in airplane sales at Skyliners and they’d shown me the corridor south of McConnell that saved us from climbing to the “legal” 2,000 feet to fly over the base, but what Don was doing was nuts. This was north of the base, over Pawnee Avenue, and it wasn’t a gravel road any longer. It was a busy city street.
I wasn’t about to chicken out. I would have followed Don Love through hell and as we passed a wing’s length from the end of Cessna’s runway I was only a couple of hundred yards behind him. Once past the Cessna plant, just about even with my parent’s factory we began climbing to 1,000 feet – traffic pattern altitude.
Over Wichita and just off my right wing I saw Don lift the mic to his mouth. “Crap,” I thought to myself, “he’s going to call the control tower before I do.”
“Wichita tower, this is Cessna one-two-three-four tango over Wichita for landing,” I heard him say. The tower operator replied with “Three-four tango report downwind runway one-eight.”
That meant he was to report when he entered the downwind leg, parallel to the runway but headed north. Then he’d be cleared to land, make a turn to the left – west – for a crosswind leg, then another left for final, line up and land.
I called the tower. “Wichita tower, this is Cessna five-six-seven-eight whiskey, over Wichita for landing.” And the tower replied as they had to Don, “Seven-eight whiskey report downwind runway 18.” And then he added, “Seven-eight whiskey also be advised of other traffic, a Cessna, also over Wichita.”
Be advised? I was looking him dead in the eye less than 100 feet off my right wing.
It was then that Don made his mistake. It was a tactical move, and I knew what he was up to as soon as he lowered his right wing slightly and his course began diverging from mine – towards the north. He was going to try a shortcut and enter the landing pattern on the crosswind leg. I held fast, hoping I could get close enough to report downwind before he could report crosswind.
I had begun my turn from west to north and was easily a half mile further from the runway than I usually would have been. I was just about to key my mic when I heard Don, “Wichita, Cessna three-four tango request crosswind entry.”
The tower didn’t reply. Had they not heard him? I didn’t wait to find out. I keyed my mic,“Wichita, Cessna seven-eight whiskey downwind for landing.”
The tower replied “Cessna seven-eight whiskey cleared for landing one-eight-right. Cessna three-four tango you’re cleared behind seven-eight whiskey.” The race was over.
I heard one more transmission from the tower just as my tires squeaked on the runway. “Cessna three-four tango go-round go-round, you’re too close to landing traffic.”
I parked on the tarmac in front of Yingling’s office and positioned the Skyhawk facing north so I could watch Don taxi past. To say I was pumped would be an incredible understatement. I was grinning from ear to ear, flooded with residual adrenaline and bursting with pride as my hero taxied past saluting my victory with an upraised finger. You know which one.
Don Love, you lived your life, and more than any other man I’ve known have inspired me to live mine. I can’t wait for the next one. I hope you’ll be a part of it as well.