When I was a kid, I was fearless....

She was the complete opposite of me. I was a walking advertisement for “retired and sensible”: no tattoos, no jewelry, and hair that used to be the thrilling color of damp cardboard. She was a walking fireworks show — tattoos from here to tomorrow, a silver stud bullseyed dead-center in her chin like she’d lost a bet with a piercing gun, and bright shimmering purple hair that was clearly trying to outshine the Bonneville sun itself. I liked her immediately. My inner old-man radar went off like, Warning: cool person detected. Do not embarrass yourself. I was at the Bonneville Salt Flats trying to set a national speed record on my motorcycle, because apparently turning 71 doesn’t come with an off switch. Every time I blasted down the salt like a slightly arthritic missile, this purple-haired force of nature flagged me off. During a break she took my picture — and honestly produced the best photo anyone has ever taken of me on two wheels. When I asked her name for credit, she flashed a grin and said, “Rocky Wingwalker.”

Not a stage name. She really walks on airplane wings for fun. Like those gloriously unhinged people at airshows who treat physics like it’s optional. I was equal parts impressed and concerned for her life choices. As we talked, her bulletproof confidence and “fear is for quitters” energy were infectious. Then she hit me with it: “You should try wingwalking.” I laughed the laugh of a man who still gets dizzy on the second rung of a ladder. Look, as a kid I had zero fear and negative common sense. Speed was my love language. Mom calls “lunch!” one day and I turned the hallway into Talladega. The scar I still rock in the middle of my forehead is proof that drywall beats forehead in overtime. I also pioneered several terrible aviation experiments: rooftop bedsheet parachute (failed), classic umbrella drop (failed harder). Gravity kept the receipt. Miraculously, I never outgrew the speed thing. At seventy-one I finally set that national motorcycle record at Bonneville. Boom — checked. Heights, however, betrayed me like a bad ex. I developed a perfectly rational, soul-deep terror of becoming a messy pancake. Stand me near a drop-off and my brain starts drafting my obituary. Put me on a ladder and I enter monk-like focus mode, refusing to acknowledge that “down” exists. Yet somehow — possibly possessed — I found myself at the Mason Wingwalking Academy. In the hangar I rehearsed the routine like a man training for the apocalypse. Three points of contact at all times. Special foot spots so I didn’t accidentally kick a hole in a perfectly good airplane. I was so locked in I almost forgot I was secretly terrified of heights. The instructors promised muscle memory would take over up in the air. They are professional liars. We’re cruising at 3,500 feet over the Strait of Juan de Fuca when the pilot gives the signal. I unbuckle and stand up into a wind that immediately tried to delete me from existence. Muscle memory? Gone. Brain? Factory reset. I’m fumbling around like a drunk toddler on a jungle gym. At peak dignity I’m balanced on the fuselage like a confused garden gnome when I commit the ultimate sin: I look down at the water thousands of feet below. My body instantly voted to shut down. Full prehistoric shutdown. This is how it ends — as a temporary hood ornament. Concentrate, you fossil, I snarled at myself. Hand here. Foot there. Swear word. Other hand. Somehow, through sheer stubbornness and mild panic, I clawed my way onto the top of the wing, jammed my feet into the loops, and buckled that safety belt like it owed me money. Only then did I peek. Holy crap. The fear evaporated. The view was stupidly gorgeous. I gave the pilot the thumbs-up. He took that as permission to try and peel me off like a price tag — loops, hammerheads, rolls, sky and ocean playing violent musical chairs. My face skin was flapping like a loose tarp in a hurricane, my heart was redlining in the stratosphere, and I was laughing like a complete lunatic. Best panic attack I’ve ever had. Climbing back down required the same white-knuckle focus. The second my butt hit the seat and the belt clicked, my legs filed for divorce and turned into wet noodles. Some people say facing your fears conquers them. I faced mine, laughed like a hyena in their face for a few glorious minutes… and then they moved back in, redecorated, and raised the rent. I still hate ladders with a burning passion. Would I go wingwalking again? Are you kidding? Sign me up yesterday. Thank you, Rocky, you magnificent purple-haired enabler. You ruined my perfectly good fear of heights… for about twelve minutes.