Altitude. Altitude.

Back on my plane kick, I'd like to relate how I nearly shit myself flying on the CRJ-70.

Here it is.

Sweet little plane, actually. It seats four across (three in first class—I got the single) and what seemed like 12 or 15 rows. My flight involved the quietest takeoff I've ever experienced, although this may be due to the rear-mounted engines and the front-mounted me. It was also probably the noisiest in-flight (except for a certain 1978 172 that's close to my heart) but not to the point that it was bothersome.

I've mentioned already that takeoff seemed short and swift—impressize stuff.

What got me, however, was the landing.

Let me start by saying that jets are fast. Very fast. The take off at high speed, haul ass across the sky, and land like lawn darts. Landing a general aviation plane is sortof like trying to pull a kite down on a windy day. Landing a jet is is closer to riding a jetski at 180mph.

This is why, when on approach, the abrupt loss of forward velocity scared the living shit out of me. What's even better is that we lost a not-insignificant amount of altitude right as the inner OMI beacon sounded. Imagining a low-altitude klaxon while doing 50kts in a business jet is not a good thing.

Now clearly, the rumors of my demise are somewhat unfounded—we touched down just past the numbers and rolled to a crawl damned quickly. But the pilot was still coming in low and slow—a combination I try to avoid as often as possible.

Now, to change my shorts.