There were a lot of things we couldn't do in a 172, but we were the slowest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the plane. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the slowest guys out there, at least for a moment.

It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 40 hours in the plane to complete our training so I could do my checkride. Somewhere over Colorado springs we had passed 38 hours. We had made the turn into bravo and the plane was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying $100 hamburgers but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Putting across the barren deserts 3,000 feet below us, I could already see the pine trees around the airfield. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the plane.

We listened as the shaky voice of an SR-71 pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: "Aspen 20, I'm showing you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground."

Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the " Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.

Just moments after the Blackbird pilot's inquiry, a Navy F-18 piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. "Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground." Boy, I thought, that F-18 really must think he is dazzling his Blackbird brethren. Then out of the blue, a Beachcraft Baron pilot came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a twin prop jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. "Center, alpha kilo 3 ground speed check". Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, AK3 has a GPS in that hundred thousand-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol' AK3 here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the slowest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Baron. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: "AK3, Center, we have you at 210 on the ground."

And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done - in mere seconds we'll be out of the bravo and the opportunity will be lost. That Baron must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.

Somewhere, half a mile above Colorado springs, there was a pilot screaming into his headset. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the side seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: "Los Angeles Center, 1438 uniform, can you give us a ground speed check?" There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. "38 uniform, I show you at 95 knots, across the ground."

I think it was the five knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to 94 on the money."

For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A.came back with, "Roger that 38U, Your equipment is probably ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ than ours. You boys have a good one."

It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Slow, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the downwind.

For just one day, it truly was fun being the slowest guys out there.