"This turn's going to be tricky," Luke says as he surveys the 90-degree angle onto Runway 18/36 at Oshkosh. I glance around the Mustang speedster convertible we've borrowed from Roush Racing for this particular job. There is a roll bar, but it's also still a convertible. "Just don't roll it," I say. Luke shoots me a look. His left arm, ensconced in the casually rolled-up sleeve of a military flight suit, is draped over the steering wheel as he checks the frequency on the boat-anchor-sized "portable" military radio between us with his other hand. He's wearing sunglasses, so I can't actually see his eyes. But I get the gist, which is something along the lines of not trying to teach your grandmother how to suck eggs.
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