IF I COULD FLY I would fly at a medium-fast speed. When flying motors were being handed out I would ask for a medium-fast motor. Who wants to spend all their precious flying time hectically zooming around?
Unless my flying made me more appetizing to predators somehow, like if God decided to put giant grackles in the sky and humans were their main source of protein, then I’d prefer to fly as fast as possible, and I’d look into upgrading my motor.
I say medium-fast because, bicycling down Avondale Street right now, handlessly, my breastbone jutting forward, grackles darkly lurking in the oaks, I’m coasting at a Goldilocks speed—fast enough to catch the wind and stay afloat, yet slow enough to savor the swoop of every branch—and it feels a lot like flying.
And I think, this is how fast I would fly if I could fly.
And I think, this is how fast I would fly if I could fly.