Friday, April 25, 1997 | 11:59 a.m.
THE CT-114 jets flown by the Snowbirds precision air team can slide through the heavens at 470 mph. The jets were built and delivered to the Canadian Air Force in the 1960s and still run like thoroughbreds. Before a pilot can even audition for the Snowbirds, he must have logged more than 1,500 hours of flying time. The team will fly 63 shows this year alone.
As Capt. Chris England is spelling out these facts, I'm trying my best to follow, but the room is spinning and what should be one affable Canadian guy looks like a dozen. It's early Thursday, I'm terrified and I'd kill for coffee. In about half an hour, I'll be strapped into one of those jets for a 40-minute formation flight with the team. England emphasizes that there will be no aerobatics this morning and the team won't pull more than 3 G's, which soothes my nerves a little.
"Has everybody eaten?" England asks. "If not, you'd better get some coffee and doughnuts up the hall. You're less likely to get sick if you've eaten."
The room steadies after a cup of joe and a maple bar. However, my stomach insists that this is only a stay of execution and it still plans to clean house in short order, perhaps over Lake Mead. I study the faces of the other media reps and wonder how many of them might toss their cookies. Perhaps we could form some sort of precision team ourselves.
Meeting my pilot, Rod Ermen, boosts my confidence somewhat. A tall, mustachioed fellow with a quick chuckle and a manner so easygoing he might be preparing to play golf. This is the kind of guy I want driving the chariot. There's no cockiness to him at all, just quiet confidence.
Soon after, we take to the field. Basically a training jet, the CT-114's cockpit configuration is such that the pilot and passenger sit next to each other. I am strapped into the "passenger" seat (both seats have controls), put on my mask, helmet and false confidence. Less than 10 minutes later, we are airborne.
"I'm lined up with the boss' wing," Ermen says, eyes left.
We're at the lead's right wing, with barely five feet between us. Another plane stands at our right wing, maintaining an equal distance. Despite the speed, it almost seems like one could pop the bubble open, run down the wing and jump to the next plane. This is, of course, absurd. During the pre-flight safety briefing, we were informed that the wind pressure up here could easily dislocate our arms if we had to bail out for any reason.
Ermen never takes his eyes off the leader -- not during takeoff, not during the flight and not during landing. Never looks forward at all.
"The guy next to me is watching my wing," he says. "I have to keep it tight."
We bank left and head for open desert. Periodically, Ermen grunts as if he's lifting something heavy and talks to himself. "C'mon, Roddy, level out. C'mon, Ermen, you dope."
Airsickness is the furthest thing from my mind. I went in certain I would blow chunks at the first sign of turbulence, but as we hit the air pockets I find myself exclaiming "Wow!" and wishing these planes were available to the public at large. This is the most exhilarating ride I've ever had.
"You ready to fly?" Ermen asks.
We break to a wide formation, I take the stick and suddenly realize why Ermen makes this sound like work. Just keeping the plane level is an overwhelming effort. The jet is so responsive that if the stick goes even a centimeter to the left or right, we begin to bank. Ermen talks me through, as if we were defusing a bomb.
"Just a little to the left ... now pull back on the stick the slightest bit. Great! Hey, I'm pretty calm here, so I can just imagine how you're feeling."
Flying pretty much corrected any notions I might have had of learning this overnight, but I'm thrilled nonetheless. We soar over Lake Mead and my nerves claim victory over my gag reflex.
"We've got to get back," says Ermen, disappointed. "No more time. We don't even get to see the dam."
Nellis comes into sight in short order, but there's one last great rush. The team heads up, then banks left and heads down at a precarious angle. We're pulling considerably more than 3 G's as we descend. Ermen and I cry "Whoo" in tandem.
Sadly, the flight ends. I shake hands with Ermen, wish him the best and then meet up with the rest of the media. One of them tells me -- sotto voce -- that somebody barfed, but they didn't know who and the pilots weren't talking.
"Heh, heh," I say, grinning. "You'll excuse me. My editor promised to buy lunch."
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