It is my turn to fly. I prime the engine with a squirt of gas and engage the propeller spring. One crank winds the spring tight, and then I release the prop. Like someone with a really bad cold, the engine sputters, spits, coughs...and dies. On the third try it spins to life with a buzzing sound that drowns out the world. Along with that buzz comes the oily smell of exhaust. A smell that means one thing: it's time to fly!

My friend Larry holds the plane in place as I run to the center of the field. I grab the control handle, its two strings, each 60-feet long, tied to control levers inside the airplane, a P-51 Mustang.

"Let her go!" I yell.

The little airplane races across the turf for 20 feet, hits a bump, pops a foot into the air, and then crashes into a clump of grass. The engine dies. It's time to try again. The second time's a charm, and I spin round like a top, tilting the control handle up to make the plane climb, and down to dive. Someday I hope to do a loop. But, right now, keeping her in the air until she runs out of gas will be a milestone.

It is 1970. Larry and I are in the center of the big field in Lincoln Park, the one near the wading pool. Aside from keeping the plane from crashing, there is something else on our minds. For some reason, flying model airplanes is against park regulations. We had been warned off while flying here a couple of weeks before. This time we're back on a different day of the week, in the hope that some less diligent park workers will be on duty.

Trying not to get dizzy, I spin around counterclockwise, eyes glued to the buzzing plane as she rises and falls. Then the engine burps and dies. Silence reigns. I can hear the birds chirping. It is time to glide in for a graceful landing. The plane bounces on the grass once, twice... On the next bounce she pops high in the air and plows headlong into the ground. The wings break off.

It has happened before, and they're easily snapped back in place. We then top off the tank, getting as much fuel on our hands as in the tank. But oh how we love the smell of gas on our hands. It is now Larry's turn to fly, and in short order he's spinning round as the piercing sound of the Cox engine fills our world again.

Then a very different sound starts to cut through the buzz; a heavy, menacing sound. Our hearts sink when we see the source. A park worker riding a big mower is approaching. We know what he wants. He wants us out, and motions for us to stop. Larry tries to make a better landing than I'd done. But since there's no kill switch, he has to make the plane do a nose-in and, once again, silence reigns.

It is a short-lived silence. For as we pack up we're lectured (again) that this activity is not allowed in Lincoln Park. We look around. There is not another soul in sight. So we do not understand exactly who we are bothering. But rules are rules (so we're told). Five minutes later we sullenly wander home.

Postscript: Nearly four decades later my wife and I are in Carkeek Park. "What's this?" I ask, as we pass a circular grassy field. It is over 100 feet in diameter, has a cement pad at its center and an odd arc of pavement rims its outer edge. My wife, who grew up in the north end (nobody's perfect) knows what it is. "It's been there a long time. They use it for flying model airplanes. That pavement is the runway."

I am suddenly 40 years younger. I can smell gas on my hands. And I think what Larry and I would have given to have had a flying circle in Lincoln Park all those years ago.

Marc Calhoun may be reached via wseditor@robinsonnews.com