I grew up on Air Force bases overseas, bouncing from one country to another. While most mothers were marking heights on kitchen door frames, mine was packing cupboards and taping boxes for yet another move. My father was a pilot, his plane an F-4 Phantom with a shark's mouth painted on its nose. As it screamed overhead, I would ride my banana-seated bike on the gravel trail paralleling the runway, racing, imagining what it must be like to score the blue with white contrails and leave proof of