By Stuart J. Faber

The more I travel, the more travel I crave. The more I fly, the more flying I crave. If this is an addiction, I plead guilty. Rehab is not an option. I recall a trip from the East Coast back to my home base in Burbank, California. I flew my Centurion from Greensboro, North Carolina against some persistent headwinds and touched down at home about a half day after I started. In retrospect, I could have exercised better judgment. Exhausted, I stepped out of my airplane and headed for the couch in the FBOs office. I thought I’d take a nap before driving home. I should have tied down way back at Tucumcari, New Mexico. As I headed toward the office, a friend approached me with his recently acquired Stearman.

“Want to go for a ride,” he asked? A few feet from the FBO, I executed a 180 and climbed into his plane. Only another pilot would understand my decision.

Today, many years later, still an inveterate traveler, I exercise better judgment and hopefully, possess greater wisdom. I won’t get into my airplane unless I’m fully rested and free of recent consumption of geezer-like aches and pains. I avoid countries and neighborhoods where I might end up as a hostage or a crime victim. I’m careful that the food I consume does not contain organisms not listed on the menu.