A summary of Richard Bach’s "Biplane"

This is a detailed account of a solo flight across the entire North American continent in an antique, slow-moving, open-cockpit biplane without radio or modern navigational instruments. The narrative centers on the pilot’s intense interaction with this archaic aircraft, requiring constant physical involvement and complete mutual trust. The flight itself took place in the spring of 1964, following a voluntary exchange of a high-speed four-seat monoplane for the antique biplane. The final text was published as a separate edition in 1966.

This work is the second in Richard Bach’s early aviation trilogy. The first in this series was a documentary about a flight on a jet fighter, "Stranger on Earth" (1963). The cycle concludes with a book of travel essays, "Nothing Happens by Chance" (1969), dedicated to the nomadic flights of the aerial circus era.

North Carolina Deal

In the spring of 1964, in the town of Lumberton, Richard Bach gives his trusty Fairchild 24 high-speed monoplane to local lawyer Evander Britt. In exchange, the pilot takes a decrepit red-and-yellow 1929 Detroit-Ryan Speedster Parks P-2A biplane. The wooden wings are covered in cotton fabric. The six-cylinder inline engine gives way to a temperamental Wright radial engine, whose five open cylinders generously spray the windshield with thick, black motor oil every time he revs it up during a warm-up on the grass. The plane weighs 2,300 pounds. Before the 2,750-mile journey to California, canisters of thick oil, a sleeping bag, a roll of soft wire, and spare spark plugs are stowed in the forward compartment.

Christian Beach Accident and Overnight Repairs

Bach decides to fly across the continent from coast to coast. The route begins east. The gathering dusk forces the pilot to land on a wet, unfamiliar pasture near the Atlantic coast, where the wheels sink into deep mud, causing the steel cable of the tail landing gear to snap. The damage is repaired with nylon rope. He spends the night in a sleeping bag just under the lower wing, while dew coats the yellowed skin.

In the morning, the plane heads south toward the Christian Beach airfield, which has a hard concrete runway. A crosswind of eight kilometers per hour knocks the lightweight tail section off course as it touches down. The aircraft makes an uncontrollable turn. The right landing gear gives way with a loud crack, the mounting bolts snap, and the wingtip crashes onto the concrete, leaving a trail of splinters and torn fabric. The cut-off route forces the plane to call for help.

Elderly Colonel George Carr arrives to the rescue with a heavy toolbox and a rare aluminum wheel measuring 76 by 13 centimeters, loaned by local enthusiast Gordon Sherman. The blows of a wooden mallet echo throughout the hangar until late into the night. The mechanic repairs the assembly. At dawn, the patched biplane, streaked with red duct tape, returns to Lumberton, where mechanics apply grade A cotton patches, soak them thickly in clear dope, and sand the seams smooth. The repair costs fifty dollars.

Flying over Georgia and Alabama

The repaired aircraft heads west. At an altitude of six hundred meters, the morning air greets the pilot with a bitter, piercing cold, forcing him to constantly twist an imaginary crank in the air to maintain circulation in his numb fingers. His warm overalls offer little relief. The steel line of the railroad, cutting through the pine forests of South Carolina and leading him to the Augusta airfield in Georgia, serves as a landmark. The fuel tank is refilled manually.

Memory takes the pilot back to his first student flight in a light metal Luscombe monoplane. The memory warms the soul. The morning engine start in the quiet of a provincial airfield connects generations of pilots, from aviation pioneers to modern-day captains of heavy jetliners. The ocean of air bridges the ages.

The controller promises a tailwind. Below, the manicured farms of central Alabama stretch out, with their neat barns and green meadows. Bach pilots the biplane at an altitude of fifteen meters, following the rolling hills and skirting lonely pine trees at a razor-thin speed of about one hundred and thirty kilometers per hour. The instruments hum steadily. A sudden glance at the instrument panel reminds the pilot of combat missions in jet fighters with his front-line comrades, who knew how to maintain iron composure during high-speed attacks close to the ground. In the evening, the abandoned military airfield of Demopolis comes into view.

Taking off over an embankment in Louisiana

The wide Mississippi River trails behind at the end of a difficult flying day. Darkness quickly falls over the ground. The narrow paved strip of Rayville, Louisiana, greets the traveler with a treacherous crosswind and a high earthen embankment just ninety centimeters from the pavement’s edge. The landing gear touches the concrete. The tailwheel veers left, and centrifugal force drags the plane straight toward the earthen embankment, threatening to turn the wooden wings into a pile of splinters in a split second.

Bach suddenly slams on full throttle. The overloaded engine roars at maximum revs, and the plane miraculously lifts off at a distance of just twenty meters, skimming between two poplar trees and vaulting over a barbed wire fence. The threat of a crash recedes. After circling the airfield again, the pilot spots a second, unpaved runway, directly upwind, and lands the plane safely in the darkness.

Farmer Lyle Adams, owner of a local air-crash service, pulls up to the plane in a creaking pickup truck, treats his guest to a hot dinner at a town cafe and helps him start the cold engine the next morning.

Sandstorm over Texas and flooded magnetos

In the Texas town of Ranger, an airfield employee flatly refuses to crank the recoil starter for fear of losing his insurance. The pilot starts the engine himself. Under the scorching midday sun and temperatures of 92 degrees Fahrenheit, he has to manually crank the heavy flywheel while wearing a warm fur jacket. Anger gives him strength.

The Texas border greets the biplane with a dry heat. A strong tailwind allows the plane to reach speeds of over 160 kilometers per hour, easily overtaking cars on Interstate 80. Soon, the sky grows dim. A colossal wall of sand rises to a height of over two thousand meters, forcing the pilot to hug the scorching road surface and dodge oncoming trucks on the crests of sandy hills. Monahans Airfield offers refuge from this sandy hell.

West of Monaghans, a huge thundercloud with slanting streaks of torrential rain blocks the way. Inner excitement overcomes caution. The pilot steers the biplane straight into a wall of water, where jets of water instantly pierce the leaks in the cowling and soak both electric magnetos. The propeller spins almost completely. The plane glides toward the sand dunes with the engine running intermittently until the pilot, with great difficulty, manages to reach the unpaved area of Fabens, sixty-four kilometers, using only the starboard ignition.

Planting in wormwood thickets

The morning in Fabens begins with checking the dried-out contacts. The mountains of New Mexico and Arizona float beneath the wings in the monotonous rhythm of five cylinders, carrying the plane over the deserted sands along the railroad tracks. Bach begins to hurry. Haste destroys the pilot’s inner peace, turning the flight into a mechanical struggle for kilometers before landing in Palm Springs.

A rare rainstorm drenches a concrete parking lot in Palm Springs, turning the sleeping bag under the wing into a floating island. Water surrounds the plane. The San Gorgonio Pass is blocked by dense rain clouds with a base of just 60 meters. The pilot turns south. A headwind of hurricane force, reaching over 135 kilometers per hour, stalls the biplane in midair and forces it to fly tail-first relative to the highway.

The fuel tank is rapidly emptying. The runway is crisscrossed by a powerful crosswind, preventing the wheels from safely touching the smooth concrete. An overgrown field comes to the rescue. The biplane dives into thorny bushes, the propeller chopping dry branches into splinters, the lower wing scything until the wheels come to a stop just at the edge of the asphalt. The plane remains intact.

Assault on the San Giaquinto Pass

Having filled up with gas in Borego, Bach enters an open duel with Mount San Jacinto, over three thousand two hundred meters high. A squall strikes like a mace. Powerful downdrafts knock the control stick from his hands, gasoline splashes from the carburetor, and the five-cylinder engine is momentarily silenced by the monstrous vibrations of the airframe. The pilot holds the control stick. In the midst of the aerial battle, the unbreakable connection between man and aircraft is restored, giving him the strength to break through the narrow gap between the ridge and the storm shroud.

Suddenly, the clouds part. Blinding sunlight bathes the green suburbs of Los Angeles, the spacious parking lots of Disneyland, the flat urban golf courses, and the concrete riverbed. The biplane comes in for a landing. The wheels touch the asphalt of Compton Airfield, marking the end of a 4,345-kilometer journey. The hangar accepts the aircraft. The massive corrugated doors creak shut behind the aircraft, leaving behind the busy sounds of the city’s bustle.