Why does any woman want to fly?
Betty and Harriet pull as much press
as those pushy suffragettes.
At an LA air meet, I appear as “Florence.”
In a cloche and a dress, I splash around in the sky,
one near miss after another—the worst
female pilot anyone has ever seen—
and the most exciting stunt.
I turn up in Chicago as “Clarice,” veer
toward the grandstands as spectators shriek, bounce
down a city street as people scurry, zoom
above Lake Michigan, drop on a ferry
as passengers dive off the deck.
Glenn Curtiss grins: That cub, Beachey. . . .
Champ Pickens shakes his head: Helluva show.