As a former SR-71 pilot and professional keynote speaker, the question I hear most often is, “How fast would that SR-71 fly?” But there isn’t one number: the jet always seemed willing to give you a little more. Thirty-five miles a minute was common.
On most missions we flew a programmed Mach number and, unwilling to harm the plane, never pushed its temperature or speed limits. Every SR-71 pilot therefore had his own personal high. Mine came over Libya, when Khadafy fired two missiles our way and maximum power became necessary. Let’s just say the plane effortlessly took us to Mach numbers we hadn’t seen before.
So I was surprised when someone at a presentation asked, “What was the slowest you ever flew the Blackbird?” That was a first. After thinking about it, I recalled a story I had never shared.
My back-seater, Walt Watson, and I were returning to RAF Mildenhall, England, from a mission over Europe and the Iron Curtain when home base called. As we crossed Denmark in three minutes, we learned that a small RAF airfield had requested a fly-past. Its air cadet commander, a former Blackbird pilot, thought seeing the mighty SR-71 make a low approach would inspire the young lads. We were happy to oblige.
After a quick aerial refueling over the North Sea, we set off to find the field. With his sophisticated navigation equipment, Walter vectored me toward it. Descending to subsonic speed, we found ourselves over dense woodland in a slight haze. Like many former WWII British airfields, this one had a small tower and little surrounding infrastructure.
Walt said we were close and I should see it. I saw nothing but trees.
We descended a little farther, and I pulled the throttles back from our 325 knots. With the gear up, anything below 275 was uncomfortable. Walt said we were practically over the field, yet there was still nothing in my windscreen. I banked into a gentle circle, searching for anything resembling an airfield.
Below us, the commander had assembled the cadets on the tower’s catwalk for a prime view. It was a quiet, windless day under partial gray overcast. Walt kept telling me the field should be beneath us, but I couldn’t pick it out through the haze. As we circled and searched, we kept slowing. With our power back, the waiting cadets heard nothing.
Something in my training finally told me to cross-check the gauges. As I saw the airspeed slide below 160 knots, my heart stopped. My adrenaline-filled left hand shoved both throttles fully forward. We weren’t really flying anymore; we were falling in a slight bank.
At that instant, both afterburners lit with a thunderous roar of flame—what a joyous feeling—and the aircraft dropped into full view of the astonished observers.
Suddenly, 107 feet of fire-breathing titanium shattered their quiet morning. We leveled and accelerated in full afterburner on the tower side of the infield, much closer than expected, in what could only be described as an ultimate knife-edge pass. We quickly reached the field boundary and headed back to Mildenhall without further incident.
Neither of us spoke during the next fourteen minutes.
Our commander met us after landing. We were certain he was about to take our wings. Instead, he shook our hands enthusiastically. The cadet commander had called it the greatest SR-71 fly-past he had ever seen, especially the surprise and precision of a maneuver he could describe only as breathtaking. Some cadets’ hats had blown off. The sight of the aircraft’s planform dropping in front of them in full afterburner was unbelievable.
Walt and I understood “breathtaking” very well that morning. We sheepishly suggested they were simply excited by our low approach.
In the equipment room, changing from space suits to flight suits, we sat in silence. We hadn’t exchanged a word since the pass.
Finally, Walter looked at me. “One hundred fifty-six knots. What did you see?”
Trying to find my voice, I stammered, “One hundred fifty-two.”
Another silence.
“Don’t ever do that to me again!”
And I never did.
A year later, we were having lunch at the Mildenhall Officers’ Club when we overheard an officer telling some cadets about an extraordinary SR-71 fly-past. By then, the story included children falling off the tower and screaming as the jet’s heat singed their eyebrows.
Seeing our HABU patches as we stood holding our lunch trays, he asked us to confirm that it had happened.
Walt shook his head. “It was probably just a routine low approach; they’re pretty impressive in that plane.”
Impressive indeed.
I had no idea, when I first told that story to an audience, that it would become one of my most requested. It’s ironic that people are so interested in how slowly the world’s fastest jet can fly. Whatever your speed, keep that cross-check up—and keep your Mach up, too.
There were plenty of things we couldn’t do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and enjoyed reminding our fellow aviators. People often asked whether that made the aircraft fun to fly. “Fun” wasn’t my first word for it. Intense, perhaps. Cerebral. But on one particular day, being the fastest guys out there was pure fun.
Walt and I were on our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to become Mission Ready, and somewhere over Colorado we passed that milestone. After turning in Arizona, with the aircraft performing flawlessly and my gauges exactly where they belonged, we were feeling good. Ten months of study, simulators, and humbling lessons had given us confidence, and real missions were just ahead.
The desert lay 80,000 feet below, and from the Arizona border I could already see California’s coast. At last, I felt ahead of the jet.
I almost felt sorry for Walter. He had little view of those incredible sights and was busy monitoring four radios. It was good practice: on an operational mission, a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital.
Giving up control of the radios had been difficult for me. Throughout my flying career, I had handled my own transmissions, but dividing duties was essential in this aircraft. I had adjusted, although I still insisted on doing the talking on the ground. Walt was good at many things, but sounding smooth on the radio was my specialty, polished by years in fighter squadrons where the slightest verbal miscue was grounds for beheading. He allowed me that luxury.
To appreciate what he was handling, I selected the frequencies and listened along. Most of the chatter came from Los Angeles Center, controlling traffic far below. We were in uncontrolled airspace and normally called only when descending into their sector.
A lone Cessna pilot’s shaky voice asked for a groundspeed check.
“November Charlie 175, I’m showing you at ninety knots on the ground.”
Center controllers always seemed to speak in the same calm, deep, professional tone, whether addressing a novice in a Cessna or Air Force One. It made everyone feel important. I called it the “Houston Center voice.” After years of space-program documentaries, I imagined every controller wanted to sound like those reassuring voices from Houston. Wherever we flew, it sounded like the same man.
Pilots, meanwhile, wanted to sound like Chuck Yeager—or at least John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radio.
Moments later, a Twin Beech asked for his groundspeed in a distinctly superior tone.
“Twin Beech, I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed.”
He must think he’s dazzling his Cessna brethren, I thought.
Then a Navy F-18 from NAS Lemoore joined in. You knew he was a Navy jock immediately: he sounded very cool.
“Center, Dusty 52, ground speed check.”
Before Center answered, I wondered why Dusty needed a readout when his million-dollar cockpit already had a groundspeed indicator. Then I understood. He wanted every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave to know what real speed looked like. He was the fastest guy in the valley, enjoying his new Hornet, and everyone ought to know it.
Center answered with its usual calm precision.
“Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.”
Was this a ripe opportunity, or what?
My hand instinctively reached for the microphone, then stopped. Walt controlled the radios. In seconds we would leave the sector and lose our chance. That Hornet must die, and die now.
But all our simulator training had emphasized working as a crew. Taking over now would undermine the trust and division of duties we had spent months building. I was torn. Thirteen miles above Arizona, a pilot was screaming inside his space helmet.
Then I heard the microphone click in the back seat.
That was the moment I knew Walter and I had become a crew.
With perfect professionalism and no emotion, he said, “Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?”
The answer came without hesitation, as though this were an everyday request.
“Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.”
I liked the forty-two best. Center delivered it so precisely, so proudly, that you knew he was smiling.
Then Walt keyed the microphone again, and I knew we would be friends for a long time.
In his best fighter-pilot voice: “Ah, Center, much thanks. We’re showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.”
For a moment, Walter was a god.
And finally, a little crack appeared in the armor of that Houston Center voice.
“Roger that, Aspen. Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one.”
It lasted only moments. But in that memorable sprint across the Southwest, the Navy had been flamed, every mortal airplane on the frequency had bowed before the King of Speed, and, most importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of becoming a crew.
A fine day’s work.
We heard no further transmissions on that frequency all the way to the coast. For that one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.
There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an Cessna 172, but we were some of the slowest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the 172. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Mundane, maybe. Even boring at times. But there was one day in our Cessna experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be some of the slowest guys out there, at least for a moment.
It occurred when my CFI and I were flying a training flight. We needed 40 hours in the plane to complete my training and attain PPL status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the 40 hour mark. We had made the turn back towards our home airport in a radius of a mile or two and the plane was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the left seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because I would soon be flying as a true pilot, but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Bumbling across the mountains 3,500 feet below us, I could only see the about 8 miles across the ground. I was, finally, after many humbling months of training and study, ahead of the plane.
I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for my CFI in the right seat. There he was, with nothing to do except watch me and monitor two different radios. This wasn't really good practice for him at all. He'd been doing it for years. It had been difficult for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my this part of my flying career, I could handle it on my own. But it was part of the division of duties on this flight and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. My CFI was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding awkward on the radios, a skill that had been roughly sharpened with years of listening to LiveATC.com where the slightest radio miscue was a daily occurrence. He understood that and allowed me that luxury.
Just to get a sense of what my CFI had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Denver Center, not far below us, controlling daily traffic in our sector. While they had us on their scope (for a good while, I might add), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to ascend into their airspace.
We listened as the shaky voice of a lone SR-71 pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied:"Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground."
Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the " Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after the SR-71's inquiry, an F-18 piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. "Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground." Boy, I thought, the F-18 really must think he is dazzling his SR-71 brethren. Then out of the blue, a Twin Beech pilot out of an airport outside of Denver came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Twin Beech driver because he sounded very cool on the radios. "Center, Beechcraft 173-Delta-Charlie ground speed check". Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, that Beech probably has a ground speed indicator in that multi-thousand-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol' Delta-Charlie here is making sure that every military jock from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the slowest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new bug-smasher. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: "173-Delta-Charlie, Center, we have you at 90 knots on the ground."
And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that my CFI was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done - in mere minutes we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Beechcraft must die, and die now. I thought about all of my training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.
Somewhere, half a mile above Colorado, there was a pilot screaming inside his head. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the right seat. That was the very moment that I knew my CFI and I had become a lifelong friends. Very professionally, and with no emotion, my CFI spoke: "Denver Center, Cessna 56-November-Sierra, can you give us a ground speed check?" There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. "Cessna 56-November-Sierra, I show you at 76 knots, across the ground."
I think it was the six knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that my CFI and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most CFI-like voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to 72 on the money."
For a moment my CFI was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when Denver came back with, "Roger that November-Sierra, your E6B is probably more accurate than our state-of-the-art radar. You boys have a good one."
It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable stroll across the west, the Navy had been owned, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Slow, and more importantly, my CFI and I had crossed the threshold of being BFFs. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to our home airport.
For just one day, it truly was fun being the slowest guys out there.
I was gonna leave a link to the book which used to be on Project Gutenberg, but it seems to be gone from the site. Loooong out of print and used copies sell for hundreds but you should all do yourself a favor and track down an ebook copy and give it a read. Sled Driver by Brian Shul.
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u/Longjumping-Tell1774 3h ago
Could do this with the B-52 as well. 70 year old planes in my head v the B-52