Airplane Motors Forever:

Subtitle: Nothing to do with anything


I don’t own the name, now. I don’t own the machines. About all I have left is a handful of faded photographs. These are photographs, too. The last one was recovered during the consolidation of Dad’s meager estate.

I did – back in the bad old days – imagine a letterhead similar to that.

It’s a big picture, maybe twenty inches wide and sixteen inches top to bottom, that last one, water damaged, weathered, soiled in one corner. I took it to the “cheapo-deluxe” frame shop. Standard sized frame, a custom matt inside that, and the damages are covered. Hidden.

The old guy at the framing corner, he looked at the picture, at me, back at the picture, “I recognize that photo.”

I seriously doubt it. It was me, a younger me, in full leathers, my right knee out and angled towards the inside of the curve, the “horseshoe” as that turn was labelled, no doubt for its 180-degree shape, and the picture has languished in various states, various locations, and lately, in storage until I rescued it.

At that race track, at that time, that was the slowest corner on the course. Faulty memory, I’m guessing I was going about 40 MPH at the time, it was a fast race track. Shutter speed, frame, fast film, I don’t recall what was involved.

But that single image, now framed and proudly on the wall, that single image and an imaginary letterhead, that’s about all that is left.

    Laeti edimus qui nos subigant!

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