When I was just a youngster growing up in Chicago, for an afternoon weekend treat, my parents would pack us kids into the car and drive down to the fence line outside the runway at the Chicago O’Hare airport. This was before TSA or for that matter kiddie car seats and even seatbelts in the backseat of cars. Anyway, we’d sit there watching airplane after airplane touchdown with a puff of burnt rubber and a squeal from the wheels. And yep, in total fascination, I’d squeal too.