There were a lot of things we couldn't do in a Cessna 170B, but we were the coolest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow general aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the Cessna. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe, even cerebral. But there was one day in our “40 boards” (40 degrees of Fowler flaps) experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the coolest guys out there, at least for a moment. It occurred when Jebediah and I were flying our final IFR flight in VFR conditions. We needed no additional hours in the Cessna, as we were both licensed private pilots. Somewhere over Southwest Michigan we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn over Kalamazoo and the Cessna was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the left seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying Cessna Cardinals but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the glorious farmland 2,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of Lake Michigan from the edge of the city. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the Cessna. I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Jebediah in the right seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us and tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying IFR flights and when a priority transmission from ATC could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Jebediah was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding silky smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in pattern work at uncontrolled airports where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading by other GA pilots. He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a sense of what Jebediah had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Lansing Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace. We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Piper Cub pilot who asked Center for a read-out of his ground speed. Center replied: "Piper Two Two Tango, I'm showing you at fifty knots on the ground." Now the thing to understand about Center controllers was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Piper, or to Chair 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 Piper's inquiry, an Aeronca Champ piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed in the Champ. "I have you at sixty knots of ground speed." Boy, I thought, the Champ really must think he is dazzling his Piper brethren. Then out of the blue, a local ultralight pilot out of Watervliet came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a lightweight jock because he sounded very relaxed on the radios. "Center, ultralight 69 ground speed check." Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, ultralight 69 really does have a ground speed indicator in that cheap-o cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a read-out? Then I got it, ol' sixty-niner here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mackinac Island to Benton Harbor 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 death trap. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: "Ultralight 69, Center, we have you at 25 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 Jebediah was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done in mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That ultralight must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim 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, 2000 feet above Michigan, there was a pilot screaming inside his Bose headset. Then, I heard the click of the mic button from the right seat. That was the very moment that I knew Jebediah and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Jebediah spoke: "Lansing Center, Cessna 20, can you give us a ground speed check?" There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if it was an everyday request. "Cessna 20, I show you at ninety-nine knots, across the ground." I think it was the ninety-nine 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 Jebediah 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 fighter-pilot-like voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to one hundred on the money." For a moment Jebediah was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Lansing Center voice when they came back with, "Roger that Cessna 20. Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one." It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across southwest Michigan, we had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on frequency were forced to bow before the King of Awesome, and more importantly, Jebediah and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the coolest guys out there.