The sun hasn't quite pushed the horizon down. Stars blink out at the squint of coming morning. A clean chilly breeze rushes down, mountain tips warming soft orange-yellow. I shiver.
 
Solo.
 
Left wing tank. Squat down. Feel for push valve. There. Bleed fuel. Hold flask up to brightening sky. Good, no water. Clean gas.  I like the smell of gas. Sling gas out. Right wing. No water. Clean. Sling out. Walk about. Leading edge left, smooth. Leading edge right, smooth. Ailerons, up, down. Rudder, full right, full left. Check. Elevator, up, down. Nice. Tires, tight. OK.
 
Step up and in. A little warmer. The list is memorized but you read it anyway, little flashlight following. 
 
Key in, all instruments lighted. Good. Brake. Check. Pump primer twice. OK. Fuel, full. Ignition. The noise, solid roar, pushes against the silent night. The nose jumps down, begs purchase. Back wash strong, air cold, the door still open a crack. Feels good. Face flushed, palms sweating. OK. Back to idle. OK. Breathe. OK. Remember to breathe. OK. Funny, "Breathe" is not on check list. OK. Toes high and hard on brakes. OK. Here we go. Push throttle in, seventy percent power. Magneto right, RPM drop two. Cool. Left, RPM drop two. Cool. Back off mixture, drop five. OK. Back up, full rich. OK. Now, controls. Yoke full back, heart slamming back of thumbs. Full forward, full right, full left. All smooth. OK. Check. Back power down. Check. Check. Check. OK. OK. OK.

Breathe. 
 
Breathe. 
 
Breathe.
 
This is it.
 
OK.
 
"Phoenix Tower, Cesna Bravo Niner Niner Zero Four, ready for take off." Roger that, Niner Niner Zero Four, cleared for takeoff. No traffic. Nice morning."
 
"Roger that. Nice morning." Oh boy. Breathe. 
 
Brakes off, feet full on pedals. Push, throttle full in. Rolling, rolling. Stay on center line. Thirty. Thirty five. Forty. Forty five. Fifty. Sixty. Spongy. Squishy. Sixty five. Shaking rubber grinding asphalt. Smack. Smack. Smooth. Can't hear the roar of the motor, rush of the wind, only the pounding, rushing blood in my ears. Center line blurring, orange-yellow growing.
 
Morning! Solo!
 
Breathe. Breathe. Scream inside my head, "This is what God felt like when He created the Universe!"
 
Flying. Wow. WOW! OK. OK. Check again, everything . Instruments on. Eighty miles and hour. Good. Horizon indicator flat. Five hundred feet a minute. Altitude, one thousand five hundred, climbing. RPM's, check. Climbing. Climbing. Relax, shaking legs. OK. Breathing easier. So quiet. Climbing. Five thousand five. Trim nose down a little. Speed moving up, one hundred ten. Smooth. Pull back power, seventy five percent. Lean mixture. There. Nice. Level. Check. Check. Check. OK.
 
Mountain shadows quickly draw back, running east. The sun is up and I'm flying.
 
Solo.
 
My passion for leaving the ground and returning safely, was conditional on my commitment to following the checklist. 
 
A few years earlier, passion drove me into an ultralight aircraft. Training consisted of thirty minutes of half-heard instructions and a slap on the back. No checklist but hey, I got up the first time. I got up on the second and third time and by the forth flight, I was a pro, a little cocky, showing my girls I could fly backwards in a strong wind. Cocky stalled. I plummeted from sixty feet, tennis-shoes first into hard hot gravel asphalt. Both feet turned sideways. Three weeks after getting the casts off, landing in a construction yard stacked with steelform work and bad luck, the motor quit. S ... h ... i .... eeeeee ... T! Slow motion ... ten foot barbed wire security fence, rotating up, stalling, stalling, falling, stack of steel formwork, feet again, first, shoes popping off, feet folding out and up, no feeling, hear snapping, hear crunching, hear me laughing,  smelling gas, wet, stuck cocky pig on a steel peg, eight feet off the ground. Stuck, bleeding, broken, soaked in gasoline. "This is it." 
 
God gave me nine months on crutches between university study and flight instruction to uncockify my passion to fly. I read, I memorized, I devoured every word on flying and on architecture. I listened and I learned to listen hard, to my flight instructor and to my professors. I was committed to becoming an architect with a pilot's license. My passion finally followed my commitment and I flew again. I still do. And I still design. I am sustained in my committed passion and I am passionately committed.
 
Commitment to mental and written checklists, proven rules and laws and requirements, allow my passion for flying and for architecture and building to continue. I've learned the hard way, flying and building, that dogged and daily commitment frees me to do what I love to do. Following one's passions without dedicated commitment is like trying to fly like a bird, without so much as a bird's brain.
 
We hear always, "Follow your dreams."
 
Better said, perhaps, "Be committed. Your dreams will follow."

PS ... a few weeks back I told you that John Hancock was my sixth great grandfather. I had been told this since I was a child and so identified with his bold determination and commitment to freedom. I asked my mother to send me the genealogy, the CHECKLIST, to substantiate the claim. A week goes by and finally, Mom writes, "I checked with Aunt Helen who has the records. Turns out, our grandfather Hancock, lived at the same time but was born and died on different days." WHAT?!!! I looked it up personally and discovered that our great Hancock lived within sixty miles from the signer of the Declaration for Independence but was not THE John Hancock. But who knows. They might have been related or knew each other. Regardless, following the rules of discovery would have avoided this awkward moment. 
 
Commitment to exactitude and fact would have proved a better flight. And these shall prove a better fight for freedom.