To the Editor:
It is July 1979. The 99’s, a women’s pilot organization, is having a convention in Colonie, New York. 

Piper, Cessna, and Beechcraft want to bring some of their wares to the convention. In order to do this, we will taxi nine planes from Albany county’s airport down the streets of Colonie to get them into the parking lot of the then Turf Inn on Wolf Road.

I was one of the pilots selected to take part in this event. As a Piper representative, I will present a new Tomahawk and Super Cub.   Here is my story.

It is 4:45 a.m. as I leave the ramp and jockey the Super Cub into position to follow the road leading to the traffic light.

Our escorts are the Colonie Police and the Albany-based Federal Aviation Administration. All roads leading to the Turf Inn are now blocked.

I am last in line. Looking over the nose to get a glimpse of our procession, I see the wings of each airplane outstretch the two-lane road leading to the airport.  

I realize this is going to be one interesting trip.

Periodically, one of our escort people would remove a no-parking sign to make way for our wing tips.

There are moments we would have to shut down and wait for our ground crews as we negotiate light poles, or the narrow overpass we must encounter on our way to Wolf Road.

On one shutdown, I am approached by a truck driver who hands me a pen and pad of paper. He tells me his boss would never believe why he is an hour behind schedule. With my sense of humor and his pen, I write him a note:

“Dear boss, please excuse your driver for being tardy. He made a wrong turn approaching the airport and ended up on the runway, where he asked me for directions. Signed, Ed.”

The next stop: Wearing a robe, slippers, and hair still in curlers, a woman I am watching tries to extract her morning paper out of her mailbox, the one that the right wing of my airplane is parked over.

“Good morning!” I say. “What service, your newspaper was delivered airmail today.”  I was not well received.

Shaking her finger at me, she tells me that my sense of humor is as bad as my navigation skills, and that I should remove my airplane immediately!

“Young man, the airport is that way!” she shouts.

I close the doors of the Cub and proceed to Wolf Road.

The sun has just started painting morning shadows as I arrive onto Wolf Road.

The faces of bystanders range from disbelief, awe, and in some cases cheering us on as we make our way into the Turf Inn parking lot.

During breakfast, I am questioned about a conversation someone had with a woman retrieving her newspaper; it seems she called the police to report a lost airplane blocking her driveway.

“Really?”  I reply.  “Any idea who that was?”

Our escapade made headlines and news as far away as Germany. Our humor is still making news today.

E.A. Chevrette Jr.

Guilderland

Editor’s note: E.A. Chevrette Jr. is the author of the book, “Wings of Fortune: Personal Tales from the ‘Golden Age of General Aviation.’”