Getting there took from November 10, 1972 to February 10, 1973, and it didn't finish with any flourish of trumpets or garland of roses. At the low point of the sullen rides with Shelton, I was smitten with pneumonia. Two weeks of skulking around wondering if I was well or sick. and then I presented myself to Marsh's on a Saturday. I wasn't well, wasn't still sick, but any flying would be better than no flying. It seemed natural that the Old Man himself came gruffing out to ride with me; Saturday was Shelton's day off. "I don't like to shout in airplanes," was Marsh's only comment as we set sail to go crashing around the course.
On the home leg, he stirred himself out of his corner to pester me with a lot of irrelevant questions about what I'd do if this or that happened. He only stiffened up once when I almost pegged the needle on the localizer coming home. As I bicycled out of that one, I heard us both emit a long, shaky sigh.
Taxing back to the ramp, he asked: "How do you think you did?"
"No better, no worse than usual, sir."
"Well, you just passed your check ride."
...but you gotta give a girl credit for trying! 
