The resident pilots at Cleveland were fantastic. They helped me in every way possible, including Alf [bed and beer], Charles Proctor (engine hoist tools and beer), Armando the Mexican (tools and beer)Richard and Charles Maklin [beer],and many others. Sam and Shirley, my close friends from Houston, paid regular visits and supplied me with bedding and other creature comforts including cold beer. At night I was entertained by the arrival of Apache Attack Helicopters, their pilots practicing night flying and vision equipment. Without them all I would have had to abandon the trip and ship the bits home and would also not now be a registered alcoholic. Alf allowed me the use of the office couch for a bed and the pilot training room as a base. Also the Pepsi fridge to keep my small store of food, he also took me home every few days to block his drains, by allowing me the use of his shower and a cold beer. Everybody, took me into town to local restaurants and supermarkets for food supplies and clothes.

At the top end of the mile long runway they kept a gigantic corrogated sheet metal oven where I carried out all the repairs to my Blade. At first I thought it was for baking giant Texas cakes (everything is always big in Texas). After a short time I realised it was in fact, a hangar, because it had other planes in it. I was allowed my own little corner and each morning at 6:00am, first light, I would cycle up the long runway on my rusty old bike, which I became very attached to,and keeping a very wary eye on the long grass nearby for poisonous snakes , open the huge oven doors, start up two giant cooling fans kindly loaned by Larry and Bob, who appeared every Saturday rebuilding their ancient twin Apache aircraft.

Within a few hours the heat was terrific and during those few weeks I lost more than ten pounds in weight.The baking Texas sun heated up those steel walls and the temperature rose well above 100 degrees ,the sweat poured from me and at one point almost fainting I made my way back to the air-conditioned office to recover from oncoming heatstroke. It took me almost a week to strip down my wing and trike with Mainair's guidance and check for stress and damage. Having made up a parts list, and being very careful not to omit anything important, I emailed the list to Roger Patrick in Rochdale. For those who know Trikes the list included a Wing keel and a Trike keel.

The parts arrived by carrier just over a week later and by that time I had laid everything out and was ready for reassembly. Within two weeks (slight delay awaiting a replacement propeller blade] I was ready for the big test flight.

I ran it up and down the runway the mile long runway keeping it firmly on the ground just below take off speed and felt the wing, everything felt good so I held my breath, swallowed hard , revved up the 912 and took off along the runway at about thirty feet. It flew like a dream.

A few more runs and I soared up to one thousand feet, carrying my rucksack, filled with concrete blocks for ballast in the back seat. Alf, by now convinced that this strange Limey machine was safe, leapt in the back and off we went. Throughout the rebuild I had been impressed with the quality and precision of Mainair's parts,everything fitted perfectly, with no drilling or hammering needed.

The fact that it flew perfectly first time says more for Mainair's quality then my skill of putting it together. I was now ready to go. My Blade was fully tested and operational. I had agreed to stay over a further four or five days, because the local newspaper manager Trish of The Illustrated Paperboy, together with Alf Vien, the FBO my charismatic and generous host at Cleveland had asked me to attend an Open Day to create local publicity for the airfield.

A big full page article appeared in the paper advertising the day , I was to be famous. People were asked to bring their autograph books and meet the distinguished British flier.

Thursday arrived. The sandwiches were laid out and by 5:30pm we were ready to go.

I thought I'd be eating stale salami for the next three weeks I honestly expected one local bum, a local stray coyote and a disorientated tourist to turn up. In fact about fifty people turned up and the sandwiches disappeared within minutes. Alf took people flying in his Cessna , Scott whizzed up and down the runway showing off his remarkable little gyrocopter. Charles Maklin showed off in his fixed wing ultralight. Tom Street, an airline captain, flipped around the sky in his Kitfox, trying to make us believe that he knew how to fly. And I waited in vain, hair carefully positioned to cover my bald spot and stomach pulled in. My pen was poised, ready to sign autographs, trying desperately to look intelligent.

The evening was a great success and everyone was very pleased with the sandwiches, except me, who got nothing and I didn't sign one autograph book. Many important local City Hall officials turned up and appeared to be justifiably proud of their local airport. I was particularly impressed with the City Manager Charlene Piper , a distinguished business lady who controlled all the city finances , without the slightest hesitation she hitched up her skirt and showing more than a decent amount of leg climbed in behind me and soared to 1500ft, she loved every minute of it with the local tax payers looking on in amazement , what a lady , find a local dignitary in the UK prepared to do that.

I couldn't entice the Mayor Joe Ivy to ride but Councilman John Davis had a go and was very impressed. The following day a Houston Chronicle reporter and photographer arrived for the story. This paper has a four million copy circulation and is the most popular paper in Texas.

The reporter, a very nice lady, asked every question imaginable including the colour of my underwear and the photographer decided he would like some aerial shots. By now the weather was closing in yet again and I agreed to fly him at very low level for the length of the one mile runway. A big mistake! As we taxied, a very low level black and ugly looking storm cloud began to drift in my direction along the runway with the usual gust front (A strong wind that precedes this type of cloud).Alf warned me twice and I ignored him.

As soon as I left the ground to twenty feet the cloud raced by overhead at about three hundred feet. Without any additional use of power, my machine, myself and my passenger, were sucked up into the base of the cloud to about one hundred and fifty feet and immediately thrown back down towards the concrete. I totally lost control for a few seconds and in that time I had a vision of pieces of my Mainair Blade 912 lying back in the hangar for the next four weeks. With a great deal of effort I managed to regain control and just avoiding a big heavy duty crop dusting plane parked below I landed very badly but with the rear wheels touching down together, just off the edge of the wide runway. It was a frightening moment. The whole thing was filmed by Alf Vien and Scott, who were following in a truck, and found the whole thing very entertaining, they were even playing background music for the video about somebody losing their mind . The only thing they didn't film was the growing wet patch on my trousers and me changing my underpants as soon as I could sneak away. The photographer thought it was a great ride. If only he knew how close he had come to some exclusive pictures of wreckage Number 2.

Friday June 9th

I was up and out early, but the ubiquitous weather-front still sat overhead, and I spent the day polishing my machine, boring the local pilots, and hand washing my laundry behind locked doors.

Saturday and Sunday June 10-11th

The weather front still hovered above. Monday morning was looking good and I packed my equipment and fueled up ready for an early start .

Monday June 12th

Up at 4:30am to a beautiful clear starry sky. By 6:00am I was packed and ready to go. It amazes everybody who witnesses this performance the amount of equipment that can be packed into the Mainair Blade safely. Amongst a few other odds and ends I carry a tent, ground sheet ,sleepingbag, air bed and electric air pump, bag of clothes, wash kit with electric razor,medical kit , torches, spare radio, spare GPS . spare headset ,satellite distress beacon,laptop computer with modem and disc drive,engine parts kit, tool kit,spare shoes, trike cover, stove and gas cannisters,cooking pots, food bag, two filled water containers,two cameras with mounts, smoke and distress rockets, minidisc stereo and 15 discs,spare inner tube and tyre inflater, a novel various reference books and documents, insect repellant .

I had said my good-byes to all on Sunday including Moon, a retired local photographer, and National Rifle Association (NRA) member, who yesterday brought across a collection of weapons and took me to a safe and legal firing place so that I could behave like Clint Eastwood for a few minutes, telling a collection of Coke Cola cans at twenty paces to “Make My day”, and filling them full of semi-automatic lead. All this strutting around was highly amusing to Moon and the other pilots who joined us, realising that I would be unable to do this in the UK, under any circumstances. In the UK handguns are totally banned to the public.

Moon was the classic and generous 'old-fashioned Southern gentleman', with impeccable manners, who would remove his hat whilst talking to a lady. A rare and dying breed.

Early that morning, as the sun rose and still in semi-darkness I said goodbye to the office couch and the hangar and my rusty old bike, and without looking back, but with a quivering chin, I climbed into my Blade and took off to the North in a mixture of moonlight and rising sun feeling very much alone again and already feeling homesick for my old push bike and oven.

Alf Vien,one of the most knowledgeable people on the subject of weather, I have ever met, had given me many lectures on the vagaries of American weather, including the often dangerous whiteouts caused by the early morning mist rising from the trees. So, I had planned a number of alternatives on my track North, to my first stop, Athens or Paris, Texas.

The air was particularly smooth as it usually is at this time of the day , and as the sun began to rise in the East, I noted the fingers of fine mist rising from the forests around me. I had covered about forty miles and spotted to the West, the infamous Huntsville prison, where Texas State carries out most of its executions by lethal injection. I could see even from this distance, the high barbed wire fencing and the ominous watch towers manned by armed guards.

It wasn't just the sight of Huntsville and the morning chill that sent a shiver down my spine, because within a very short time whilst I had been day-dreaming, the mist was now forming a thick pure white ,low level blanket as far as I could see. time to head for one of my alternatives, and quickly.

To the non-fliers reading this I should explain that this can be dangerous stuff because in the event of an engine failure and the need to glide in to a usually safe landing on the local farmer's field, we need to see the ground. Impossible in these sort of conditions. This fog (ground hugging cloud) is unlike daytime cloud, which is usually a thousand feet high or above, and flying over the higher cloud it's usually possible to glide through the holes and pick your spot. In these conditions you would just hit the obstacles, i.e. wires, towers, trees, poles, etc. As the sun rises it heats the ground and the low lying fog rises to form fair-weather puffy cumulus cloud two or three hours later, they usually settle out at about two to three thousand feet.

Huntsville airstrip was still visible, but rapidly fogging over. The nearest to me was Madisonville. I banked sharply to the left and rapidly descended towards the gathering beautiful but deadly white stuff below, where Madisonville should be. Through a closing hole in the cloud I spotted the airstrip but was too high for a direct in approach, and in my haste made the classic blunder of turning away from the landing site to reduce height on a longer approach. I turned back but too late, the airstrip had gone, and so had the ground, as far as the eye could see. It looked like an Arctic winter scene, beautiful, but to my form of flying, very dangerous. The alternative was to fly on looking for a hole in the cloud or until my fuel ran out. I tried for the field and pressed the zoom-in button on my Skymap GPS.

I banked more to the right to where the indicator showed the position of the airfield, and with a huge knot in my stomach, shot down through the cloud, gritting my teeth and once again cursing my foolishness. Luckily it had not thickened up in this area yet. I broke through the fog at about one hundred feet and instead of trees and powerlines to greet me there was the runway. Muttering “Oh gosh, aren't I a lucky boy.“ I dived straight at the south end,and with a quick glance around, I noted a golf course with buildings on the left, where perhaps I could obtain some breakfast and coffee while I waited.

Funny how that dangerous situation was forgotten within a few seconds and my stomach became more important. In a few minutes I was down and parked up. The place was totally deserted. For my wife, Kerry, it was about midday in England, so I decided to make my usual daily phone call, and to tell her that I had broken free of Cleveland. The open phone booth was nearby and on picking up the handset I disturbed a swarm of wasps that had taken up residence inside. Plan B! I quickly started up my machine and taxied down the runway through the mist toward the golf course, totally forgetting my new jacket which I had absent mindedly hung on the propeller it lay on the ground minus the right hand sleeve which lay in tatters 20ft away.

As I pulled to a stop near the golf course I caught the attention of a teenager in an electric cart who ferried me to the clubhouse. There I was met by Sherman, the manager, and his daughter, Alicia, who drove me into town to pickup a take-away breakfast. Alicia is a big Country and Western fan and recently herself and her boyfriend desperate to obtain rare tickets to see their favorite singer, entered a competition run by the local radio station , first prize two tickets. They totally immersed their heads in a bucket of mayonnaise to fish out with their teeth a Ping-Pong ball of the right colour. Alicia coolly told me that they failed, wrong colour, and spent the next few days digging the mayonnaise out of their ears. Her dress was ruined. She didn't put mayonnaise on her salad for about ten days after that. It could only happen in America.

Alicia and her father, Sherman, were lovely people and came to see me off when the fog had lifted. Now 2 hours later I climbed out into the clearing sky and headed North. All was well for about twenty miles and would you believe it? Ahead of me the sea of low lying morning cloud was still there as far as the eye could see and right in my path. I did a one hundred and eighty degree turn and headed back to Maddisonville.to wait it out. There I found Mark, a local helicopter and Continental Airlines pilot, sweating over an electrical fault on his veteran helicopter, which was now up for sale. I assisted him for a while then we headed off for lunch at his ranch house a few miles away.

Here, he lived an idyllic life on his hundred-plus acre ranch, small by American standards, with his wife Anny, a French lady. Over lunch we discussed holidays in France and on my next visit I promised to visit Anny's mother when next over there. After filming some wild deer and an Armadillo in the garden , we headed back to the airfield and continued to work on Mark's problem while I waited for the low thick cloud and heat turbulence to die down.After a few hours Mark kindly drove into town and returned with enough fuel for me to make my next stop, Athens, Texas.

Now fuelled up I decided to make one last change in my plans and head now due North, direct to an English friend and author, Kevin Rutland and his buddy, Steve, a solitary trike flier. Kevin is a well known author who writes regular articles for the British Microlight Flying magazine and various American publications and is now resident in Council Bluffs Iowa, (Midwest America), after being heavily into microlighting in England for many years. His latest book all about the early days of Microlights is called FLYING WITH ANGELS and is available from amazon in the UK or contact Kevin on his email kev3031@aol.com . He will tell you how to obtain it and even autograph it for you. I carry it with me and have read it twice, I couldn't put it down . He married Anne, a local Iowa beauty, and settled down to the American weather and way of life, and is currently building a Fisher Avenger ultralight. Kevin is an ex-woodwork teacher from Derbyshire; the ideal skill to build this all wooden fixed wing ultralight.

It was now almost 5:00pm and I immediately climbed to five thousand feet to check cloud conditions ahead. Apart from some scattered puffy cumulus two thousand feet below it was all clear. The low lying fog had dispersed with the heat of the day. Descending now to a comfortable three and a half thousand feet I settled in to the one and a quarter hour flight across the plains of Texas. The flight was very bumpy as the sun was still fairly high in the West.

Ahead was now the town of Athens, Texas and there below me was the airfield exactly where it should be according to the Skyforce Skymap GPS and the Jepperson database software. This database covers almost all of the airfields in the USA and the Skymap is like a small television screen showing all the relevant flight information in the world around me. The system is extremely accurate and takes all of the guesswork out of visual flight rules navigation and is accurate to within a few feet. I also carry a pre-plotted sectional aviation chart across my knees as we all do in the UK, so that should in the very unlikely event that the GPS should fail, I could continue to navigate. Problem is that I would be navigating over totally unfamiliar territory with very limited landmarks and could easily pass the airfield I am aiming at within a mile and not notice.

I radioed ahead to Athens' traffic identifying myself and my intentions and within a few minutes was parked alongside the airfield office and received the usual big friendly smile, handshake and welcome from the airfield manager and FBO, Ralph. A scene that had repeated itself through all the Southern states so far, and across Texas. These are wonderful open and friendly people, often hospitable beyond belief.

Ralph immediately filled my tanks and offered me his office and facilities for the night . Wanting to cover as much ground as possible before the next weather front moved through, I regretfully and very politely declined asking what was a hundred miles ahead of me. Ralph strongly suggested Sulphur Springs, Texas, my last stop in this great State, before Oklahoma. He suggested I speak to Dick Caldwell, the man in charge, who would welcome me there and allow me to stay the night. BIG MISTAKE RALPH!!!!!

Climbing out over Athens I headed for Sulphur Springs, about ninety miles North and my next over night stay. I was to regret choosing Sulphur Springs as my farewell stop in Texas. Approaching Sulphur Springs from the South its name belied its description. It was a lovely place, surrounded by lakes and green countryside. The stories we hear of dry and arid Texas are just not true except for a few areas in the West.

After making the usual unicom blind radio calls as I flew the airfield pattern, I turned over a lovely lake on the North end and landed to the South. Sheryl, standing in for the FBO, approached me with the usual smile and offered me the office couch after I had explained what I was doing and where would it be convenient to pitch my little tent please. I gratefully accepted the couch and began to unload my equipment into the office. Suddenly, Mr. Dick Caldwell appeared, unsmiling and cold and without leaving his car questioned me like a police officer and pretty much telling me that I was not welcome here.”No camping , city ordnance [rules ]” he gruffly pointed out [I later found out this was a lie] he had told me quite bluntly in so many words that I wasn't welcome here in Sulphur Springs of course given my experiences so far this was quite a shock. He suggested I leave and fly back to “Commerce” about 20 miles behind my route, but I pointed out that it was nearly dark and this would be a very dangerous thing to do. “ No Camping” he snapped, and drove off without another word. A number of local people had now gathered to inspect my machine and ask questions. I returned to the office and began moving my gear back outside, and cynically said to Cheryl “Welcome to Sulphur Springs, Dave.” Cheryl looked very embarrassed and said nothing

Outside Bill Smith, a local businessman had heard everything, and immediately offered a place for the night. Bill had seen me arrive overhead and along with a few others had driven over to take a look.

Bill and his wife, Carolyn run a local business excavating ponds on new property, and live next to the airfield. Bill is a fellow ultralight flier and hangars his aircraft there. Rotten luck having to deal with Dick Caldwell I thought.

Back at their lovely home I was made more than welcome and Bill took me to a local restaurant for a light evening meal. He was a retired firefighter and had many photographs and momentos of his long and dangerous career. He was also a singer and played me some of his professionally recorded tapes. He was pretty good. Carolyn and himself were well traveled and had once visited Paris, France where typical of a big city they felt very unwelcome. I told them I knew exactly how they felt.

I did not think for one second that Dick Caldwell represented Sulphur Springs, or was indeed typical of American hospitality, but for what I had experienced so far it was quite a shock to come up against this attitude. Bill and his wife were typical American Christians, proud of their country and its achievements.

Next morning Bill ran me across to the airstrip and went off to work. I began to rig my Blade and load up as fast as I could. I just wanted to leave this airfield as long way behind. Suddenly Mr. Caldwell appeared about twenty minutes later, still with that cold look on his face , approached me and said “ If I had known last night that you were still here I would have had you arrested.” I was speechless [very unusual] This was unforgivable. What was this man's problem? He obviously did not like strangers flying in to “His” airfield. I followed him into his office and told him that I had stayed elsewhere and that he was the most ignorant, and rude man I had ever met in the United States, and that I intended to warn all other fliers to avoid Sulphur Springs at all costs,while he was in control, via the internet and the many ultralight and flying magazines. There were plenty of other alternative airfields in the area. for cross country flyers like me. Unfortunately, I had to buy his fuel. I paid and without a word departed, heading north and vowing never to return to Sulphur Springs Texas, again, while this man was managing the airfield ,a pity it is a very picturesque place, Sulpher Springs City Hall had made a strange choice to greet passing strangers and tourists.

Bill and Carolyn had promised to look me up when they visit Great Britain in the future, they were the true representatives of this picturesque town and typically American.

Approximately one week later I contacted City Hall at Sulphur Springs.I related my story and it turned out that they already new what had happened and had been trying to contact me to apologise they also confirmed that a city ordinance did not exist against camping, and this sort of treatment was not uncommon towards passing pilots, by this man, I also got the impression that he would be looking for another job soon due to the growing number of complaints. A few days later Kerry my wife received a very nice letter from City Hall Chamber of Commerce , profusely apologising they were very embarrassed and included a letter of complaint to the relevant airport department.

Tuesday June 13th

I was now heading for Stigler Oklahoma almost due North but luckily never made it.

Note
In two weeks I had made the Canadian border in Minnesota and am now busy writing my story from Oklahoma to Canada titled Indians, Aircraft Graveyards,Amelia Earhart and Crop Dusters which should be ready within a week I am also sightseeing with some retired friends up here before moving on to the East and hopefully Oshkosh the biggest Aircraft meeting in the world.

Because I will not now complete the 10,000 miles due to the unavoidable delay in Texas I would ask those that have agreed to pay a donation per 1000 miles to make the same donation per state pro rota up to the max of 30 states ie the same amount every 3 states flown over.

States Covered So Far

Florida Alabama Mississippi Louisiana Texas Oklahoma Arkansas Missouri Kansas Nebraska Iowa South Dakota North Dakota Minnesota Oklahoma, Missouri, Kansas, Nebraska, Iowa, South and North Dakota, Minnesota and points East.