I grew up near a small municipal airport. The buzz of small planes is ingrained in the sonic memory of everyone who ever lived in that neighborhood and, for me, it’s a pleasant memory.

My dad loved airplanes. The Civilian Aviation Administration taught him to fly as the United States prepared to enter World War II. He was trained as a soldier to recognize military aircraft by their silhouettes. Although he never became a military pilot, he served with the 351st Fighter Squadron near London until the end of the war. He spoke fondly of his time stateside flying Piper Cubs.

I always hoped to learn how to fly so I could take Dad up into the sky again. As with too many postponed hopes for our parents, he passed away before it happened. I received my private pilot license less than two years later.

It was a wonderful learning experience but I found that the process of “flying in the system” that is, under air-traffic control, is a bit oppressive. Wasn’t really as fun as I thought it would be. Aerobatic flying — flying for the pure joy of it — would probably be more satisfying.

I also didn’t find flying to be very practical in terms of getting from place to place. It’s very expensive and you still have to arrange for transport to and from the airport.

In the end, I gave it up and went auto racing instead. Not much cheaper to be sure, but I have more control over the vehicle, getting to and from events, and there’s a lot of camaraderie at the track.

I do miss it though, Dad, so maybe I’ll be back someday. It would be wonderful to get up there again, maybe in a small plane from grass strip out in the country.