in the big race you got to give me five plunks for my share and
then by gum I'm going to buy two razor-strops." "What for?" I said.
"Oh I bet there ain't anybody else in the world that owns _two_
razor-strops!"

Not much to say about banquet, lots of speeches, good grub.

What tickles me more than anything is my new flying garments--not
clothes but _garments_, by heck! I'm going to be a regular little old
aviator in a melodrama. I've been wearing plain suits and a cap, same
good old cap, always squeegee on my head. But for the big race I've
got riding breeches and puttees and a silk shirt and a tweed Norfolk
jacket and new leather coat and French helmet with both felt and
springs inside the leather--this last really valuable. The real stage
aviator, that's me. Watch the photographers fall for it. I bet Tad
Warren's Norfolk jacket is worth $10,000 a year to him!

I pretended to Martin that I was quite serious about the clothes, the
garments I mean. I dolled myself all up last night and went swelling
into my hangar and anxiously asked Martin if he didn't like the
get-up, and he nearly threw a fit. "Good Lord," he groans, "you look
like an aviator on a Ladies Home Journal cover, guaranteed not to
curse, swear or chaw tobacco. What's become of that girl you was
kissing, last time I seen you on the cover?"

_August 25_: Not much time to write diary on race like this, it's just
saw wood all the time or lose.

Bad wind to-day. Sometimes the wind don't bother me when I am flying,
and sometimes, like to-day, it seems as though the one thing in the
whole confounded world is the confounded wind that roars in your ears
and makes your eyes water and sneaks down your collar to chill your
spine and goes scooting up your sleeves, unless you have gauntlets,
and makes your ears sting. Roar, roar, roar, the wind's worse than the
noisiest old cast-iron tin-can Vrenskoy motor. You want to duck your
head and get down out of it, and Lord it tires you so--aviation isn't
all "brilliant risks" and "daring dives" and that kind of
blankety-blank circus business, not by a long shot it ain't, lots of
it is just sticking there and bucking the wind like a taxi driver
speeding for a train in a storm. Tired to-night and mad.

_September 5_: New York! I win! Plenty smashes but only got jarred. I
beat out Beaufort by eight hours, and Aaron Solomons by nearly a day.
Carmeau's machine hopelessly smashed in Columbus, but he was not hurt,
but poor Tad