15 August 07: Watch the BS fly

Hungry after a typical morning of walking around Center City with a camera looking for new ways to see Comcast Center a few weeks ago, I stopped into Reading Terminal Market to fill my belly with the Salumerian goodness. My previous two times there, I saw Mike Quick and Suzette Parmley (not together, though that would be pretty awesome if they were). Wondering if I might see someone interesting on this go round, I order a prosciutto hoagie with roasted red peppers and look for a seat. Well whattaya know, there's one right in front of Bruce Schimmel.

"Hey Bruce, mind if I have a seat?"

"Sure, sure," he says, graciously interrupting his read of A Field Guide to Sprawl to say hey. He practically gives me his copy of the book in his insistence that I read it and check out its photography. I was sold on the first page he opened to. A Field Guide to Sprawl is Yale architecture professor Dolores Hayden's fascinating study of American excess from the air, accompanied by stunningly beautiful photos by Jim Wark.

"What the fuck are we doing?" Bruce asks. "When are we going to put it all together cohesively, a full integration?" This quickly becomes a conversation about green building and sustainability, peppered with anecdotes about Comcast Center and the McDonald brothers and Buckminster Green. He then gets into where this all comes from, asking simply, "wanna fly?"

Bruce Schimmel founded City Paper in 1981 on an investment. Then he was sued for more than that investment. Then get got through it, made the paper work. In '95, he took it online to a little baby internet as City Paper Interactive, where the paper's content could permanently reside and where people could discuss it, BBS style. Then he sold that paper and bought a plane. (He's still Editor Emeritus at CP, and his column appears regularly HERE.

About ten years ago, Bruce decided that planes were too fast and left too big a footprint. (And who wants to pay for all that fuel at six bucks a gallon?) So he checked out gliders . . . nice, easy, relaxing gliders. He bought an Aeromot Ximango model and is so satisfied with it that he administers a listserv for Ximango owners.

"They're the easiest things in the world to fly," he says, pausing. "If I die in the air, you can land it without a problem. If the engine goes, you have 20-some miles to figure it out because you glide."

* * *

Do I want to fly . . . Hell yes I want to fly! Bruce and I made arrangements for the morning of Thursday, August 9th. Whattaya know, my 31st birthday - it'll be a treat. After two consecutive 100°+ days, the 9th was a relief, even at 80° in the early morning. We were to meet at 10:30, so I hit the road a half hour early, plenty of time to spare, right? Yeah well, the first thing I did wrong was to NOT check where to meet, the main terminal of the Northeast Airport (PNE). I went to the Jet Center, where I went for my flight in October 2003. The Jet Center's way the hell on the other side of the airfield.



"That's ok," the guy in the Jet Center says, "just go out here, make a left, then another left, then a left onto Ashton (Road) and you can't miss it." Sounds easy enough, but as it's exactly 10:30, I call Bruce to apologize in advance for being late. That was before realizing one left was from Red Lion onto the Boulevard, the second deadliest intersection in the country, and the next from the Boulevard onto Grant Ave, the third most dangerous intersection in the country. [CBS.] Oh, and Grant Ave is all ripped to hell for maintenance, with traffic cones and merges, rendering traffic to a standstill.

A good half hour's worth of freaking out and yelling at the back of a Septa bus and its Westrum ads later, I finally arrived, anxious to all get-out and fearing that our flight would be canceled, Bruce standing there with his arms folded and his foot tapping.

Not a chance. Bruce is one cool, chilled out dude. He's inside relaxing, President Bush on the television. He (Bruce, not the president) is telling a guard about the time during the 2000 RNC when Governor Bush told Bruce "get out of my way" in his Texas accent with a Texas smile. "Wanna fly?" he asks me again.

* * *



On the other side of the security gates, I'm standing at his hangar inspecting Bruce's inspection of his aircraft. "What do the airplane pilots think of gliders?" I ask.

"Oh, they love 'em," he's quick to reply. "They have significant ramp appeal."

We're all strapped in now, aviator shades (naturally) and headsets ready to roll. He shows me where to keep my feet, where not to put my hands, where the barf bag is (like I'll need that), then kindly asks that I be quiet for the taxi and takeoff as he communicates with air traffic controllers. No problem. We do those, I giggle at all the "niners", and we're in the air. He tells the controller that we're going to fly above the Boulevard to the Schuylkill River, where we'll hang a left and head down to South Street Bridge for some revolutions and photos. Good deal.

As soon as we're in the air, he looks over to me and smiles. I blurt out "hey, the Turnpike Bridge!" He puts his finger to his lip in a "shhh" motion just as the controller comes over the headset again. Oops.

I shut my mouth and watch the sky blue skyline come our way, way down past Old York Road, the Logan Triangle, Temple Hospital, Temple University, and thousands and thousands of rowhomes. Somewhere in the area above the Boulevard Home Depot, Bruce makes a photo-snapping motion and I take my camera out of the bag, 70-200mm L-series lens already mounted and ready to roll.

Snap snap snap snap. The Wissahickon, 76's interchanges, Roxborough TV Towers, the Zoo, the Art Museum. Show me the world as I'd . . . love to see it.

Bruce volunteers a number of revolutions -- flying in circles with the wings angled at nearly 45° -- for maximum perspective. Cira Centre, UPenn, G-Ho, Comcast Center, the Philly Skyline.



Here's where it gets a little tricky. The glider's angle allows for maximum perspective, sure, but a viewfinder barely larger than a square centimeter is what a novice like myself might consider minimum perspective, at least peripherally speaking. Looking through an image stabilizing lens is not convincing enough to the rest of your body that the glider is in fact still jostling, vibrating, bouncing through the turbulence an aircraft that weighs less than a ton experiences. I feel sick. But I'll make it.

"How ya doing?" Bruce asks. "Getting some good shots?" I can only nod yes.

We've been in the air barely a half hour when we start doing a second set of revolutions near the South Street and I-76 bridges. The nausea is starting to consume me. A gulp of bottled water helps along a built-up burp, reminding me of the two toasted coconut donuts that sat by themselves in my stomach. What was I thinking??? Blarg.

Snap snap. Gulp. Snap.

It's finally too much. "Hey Bruce, I think I may need to use that bag."

"Oh no," he says. "Here, put one of these on your tongue." He hands me a ginger Altoid. "Just let it sit there -- don't suck on it or swallow it. Take a drink of water. Take deep breaths and put your face by the portal (out of which my telephoto had been sticking), let the air hit your face. Pick a point on the horizon and just focus there.

"You wanna go home? We've got a couple hours left, it's no problem."

I don't want to go home, but the queasiness has consumed me. A couple hours in the air? Hell yeah . . . provided I'm not gonna puke all over the interior of someone else's expensive aircraft. I nod yes again.

He asks again to be sure (I get the feeling he doesn't want to go back just yet), and we turn around and start back toward the Northeast. We pass Fairmount Park, East Falls, the Wissahickon again. We're approaching the TV towers again, so I try taking another photo. "Better not play with fire," he advises. I look back to the horizon.

As we're approaching the runway preparing to land, the controller asks on behalf of a waiting charter plane if he's going to be much longer. "Roger that, these (gliders) only go so fast." I know the feeling.

* * *

Back on the ground and now at Albert's Cafe, I recover with a bad caesar salad and a Sprite. Should've gotten a ginger ale, duh. Bruce's tuna salad looks much better. We pick back up on perspective and I think about things I could do differently. Not go on a mostly empty stomach, for starters. Consider cutting the haze with a UV filter, which I usually vehemently oppose. (I like my glass to be as unobstructed as possible for the clearest photos possible.) Maybe pause between every 10-15 pictures to focus on the horizon.



We chat a little more about green building and its fight for the future in Philadelphia, a little about the South Street Bridge, and a little about Mark before our perfectly Northeast Philly young waitress brings us the bill, which I happily (and obviously) grab.

"Send me a link to those pictures, and invite me to parties!" he says as we head outside. "Oh and hey, happy birthday!"

Thanks, Bruce.

* * *

CLICK HERE to launch photos.




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