There is no airplane quite so beautiful in quite so many ways as the P-51. The Mustang wants to fly. Tail low in the grass, nose pointed skywards, wings spreading to split the air, the Mustang is itching to climb into the atmosphere. It wants be high and fast, inverted, around the clouds, swooping down low to taunt the earth then screaming back into the air with a rolling flourish, soaring away from the meddlesome obligations of life on the ground. The Mustang has the soul of a pilot.
Some airplanes promise transportation; others, luxury. The Mustang promises only to escape from the earth for a little while. Retired from war, the Mustang flies only to fly, and that is the essence of being an aviator.
That is why I love the Mustang.