This summer one of my skydiving students named David noticed me limping around on my bad hip and offered to see if he could help me.  Turns out he’s a sports therapist who works on a lot of NFL and NBA players.    After examining me he determined that if he started me on a series of needlessly painful sessions on the rack in his dungeon we could improve my tolerance for pain, oh and also keep me from having to get hip surgery at this time, but I think torturing me is the main goal.  As the summer wore on, my hip got better, and I was able to pay David back by teaching him and his wife how to skydive and getting them both totally addicted to the very expensive sport.  Payback’s a bitch, aint it?  Yesterday I continued my evil plan of revenge by taking David up in the mighty Cessna 150 for his first flight lesson.  Now, I’m not an official FAA flight instructor but I can still teach the basics of flying to my friends so when they actually start official lessons they have a bunch of bad habits to unlearn.  David did a great job flying, he was able to hold a heading, more or less, and wasn’t too afraid of steep turns and stalls.  Teaching him how to land was scary as hell interesting.  When he was two thousand feet in the air he could control the plane very smoothly, but as soon as he got close to the ground the effects of the alcohol he must have ingested took effect.  It was a fun but stressful flight that only reinforced my decision not to get my flight instructor license.  I’ve got enough grey hair already.

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