Saturday was a nice day in Chicago. The temperature and humidity belied what should normally have been the front end of the hot, Midwest summer season. It was simply beautiful and BC, my two-year-old Harley Fat Boy, was projecting a subconscious message to me, "Let's go ride, writer-boy."

I have always been good at resisting pretty much anything except temptation. Thus lured, I wheeled BC out of the garage onto the driveway, put on a pair of sunglasses and an American flag do-rag, and hit the starter. The distinctive, deep Harley-Davidson "pop POP, pop POP" rumble instantly evaporated any thought of deadlines, bills stacked up waiting to be paid or wading through the stack on my desk labeled: Do This Today or Die.

I shifted into first gear, let out the clutch, opened the throttle, and $400 worth of custom tuned Rush exhaust pipes caused my deaf-as-a-stump, 14-year-old golden retriever to bark from within the house. Life was good and I had a plan.

Exactly 43 years earlier I had my first flying lesson. It was in a Cessna 150 at Mitchell Field in the west suburbs of Chicago. Since Mitchell Field long ago succumbed to urban sprawl and is now an industrial park, I took up a heading for a small rural airport where they give flight instruction.

My plan was to ask for an introductory flight and keep my mouth shut about having an ATP, instructor ratings and being an aviation journalist. Just a brief, nostalgic connection with a past that was full of awe and anticipation, both of which reality and longevity have long since turned into dead-flat road kill on the highway of life.

I arrived at the airport, parked the bike and just strolled down the row of hangars looking at Cessnas, Pipers and the odd homebuilt or warbird. I was basking in the warm sun and comforting memories of the joy of learning to fly in these wonderful little machines when 1969 ran smack into 2012 like Wile E Coyote into a cliff while chasing Road Runner.

"What are you doing?" some two-day-shadow dimbulb barked at me. As I looked at him in his overalls, resplendent with red handkerchief hanging out of the back pocket and old, torn-up boots, it occurred to me I might be closer to the 1960s than I expected.

"Admiring the airplanes; I've always thought they were cool," I responded.

"This is a restricted area; it's under federal control and you're trespassing," he growled. I swear I heard faint strains of banjo music.

I looked around: the area was bereft of any form of security control except a black lab—a wanton, killer beast laying on his back, semi-comatose, with his tongue hanging out. The paws of this coiled spring of death were twitching—presumably participating in a dream about running down and slaughtering a terrorist attempting to gain access to a Cessna 150 for nefarious reasons. I was thankful he wasn't awake, as I might well have slipped in his drool, fallen and hit my head on a rather large chunk of old ramp that had managed to rise above its station in life and become potential FOD. I made a mental note to check to see if Cujo had a Homeland Security badge duct taped to his collar.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I must have missed the Airport—Secure Area signs." The irony escaped the pillar of entrepreneurialship as he chewed deliberately on Lord-knows-what in his mouth.

In fact, the only signs on the property were one next to the door of the squatter’s shack serving as the Pilot Center that said, "Reserved Parking for Proud Aircoupe Owners" and, I would subsequently discover, one in the men's restroom saying, "Pilots with short stacks and low manifold pressure please taxi close."

“Whatcha want?” he asked, then, noting I’d almost accidentally stepped in the pit cave left behind by the FOD, he expectorated a large mass of chewing tobacco with laser precision into the hole and added, “Gotta get that fixed.” Unique method of conserving the energy required to raise his hand and point to it with a finger, I thought.

“Good idea,” I replied. “You always have to guard against potential foreign object debris.”

“You a pilot?” he asked, squinting at me with an eye covered by an unkempt eyebrow that would make Andy Rooney proud.

Afraid my cover was blown, I replied, “No, I’ve just seen the movie Airplane. Look, I was thinking I might take an introductory flying lesson,” I added.

“Flyin’s expensive,” he responded. Apparently my denim jacket and do-rag belied the vast wealth of a journalist. I wondered if he would say the same thing if I’d driven up in a Lexus wearing an Armani suit. Not that I actually own either; I really am a journalist.

He quoted me the cost of a one-hour introductory flight in a Cessna 152 and my own, official Pilot Logbook endorsed by a professional FAA certified instructor—him. That alone could have been worth the price of admission as I’d never seen an “X” for a CFI endorsement before.

Two things were apparent. First, after giving me the price I realized he rightfully would have said the same thing if I’d driven up in a Lexus wearing an Armani suit; and second, graduating from a 150 to a 152 forty-three years later increased the tab by more than $125.

“Could I wash an airplane in exchange for a flying lesson?” I asked.

“What the hell you talkin’ about,” he growled.

At that moment I gained insight as to why no one is going into flight training anymore. As I walked away, Cujo emitted a sound whose exact point of origin defied identification, then rolled over, adjusted his tongue appropriately and passed out again; so much for nostalgia.