Earlier, when the runner was telling me he’d arranged for a plane, I imagined some thrashed beater of a single-engine prop plane about as old as I am, if not older. A Piper Club, maybe, or a fragging Comanche dating back to the turn of the century. (When I was a kid, I used to read everything I could about planes, old and new. Not really as a hobby, but trying to eradicate the irrational fear I’ve always had of flying. Didn’t work worth a frag.) As we cruise past the aircraft parking area, I see enough of those ancient planes, death-traps looking like they’re held together with chewing gum, baling wire, gaffer tape, and positive thinking.