Riding Rockets: The Outrageous Tales of a Space Shuttle Astronaut

CHAPTER 1\ Bowels and Brains\ I was naked, lying on my side on a table in the NASA Flight Medicine Clinic bathroom, probing at my rear end with the nozzle of an enema. Welcome to the astronaut selection process, I thought. It was October 25, 1977. I was one of about twenty men and women undergoing the three-day physical examination and personal interview process that were part of astronaut candidate screening. Almost a year earlier NASA had announced they would begin accepting applications for the first group of space shuttle astronauts. Eight thousand had been submitted. NASA had whittled that pile to about two hundred, a cut I had miraculously made. Over successive weeks all two hundred of us would eventually find ourselves on this same gurney probing at our nether regions as we prepared for our bowel exam.\ It was rumored NASA would select about thirty from this group to fly the shuttle. The odds were long that I would be among that blessed few. Not that I wasn't qualified. I had all the squares checked. I was a West Pointer who had taken a commission in the air force. I wasn't a pilot. My eyesight had been too bad for that job. But I had nearly 1,500 flying hours in the backseat of RF-4C aircraft, the reconnaissance version of the F-4 Phantom. Like Goose from Top Gun, I was the guy in back. In my ten-year career I was a veteran of 134 combat missions in Vietnam, had completed a master's degree in aeronautical engineering, and was a graduate of the Flight Test Engineer course taught by the USAF Test Pilot School. I was most certainly qualified, but so were a few hundred other applicants. I had been around too many super-achieving military aviators to fool myself. While I might have had a little of the Right Stuff, there were legions of others who had it in abundance, pilots who would make the likes of Alan Shepard and John Glenn look like candy-asses.\ Yes, the odds were long, but I was going to give it my best shot. At the moment that best shot was aimed squarely at where the sun didn't shine. I was in the process of preparing for my first proctosigmoidoscopy.\ Just before I entered the bathroom I overheard one of the civilian candidates lamenting that he had failed his procto-prep. At the word failed my ears perked up. He had skimped in his bowel-cleansing efforts and would have to repeat his test tomorrow.\ FAILED PROCTO-PREP. I could imagine those words in big red letters on the man's physical report. Who would see them? Would they count in the selection process? When a selection committee was picking one person in seven and each was a superman or a wonder woman, you didn't want to have the word failed anywhere, even in reference to something as innocuous as a procto-prep. My paranoia in this regard was fueled by a military aviator's deathly fear of the flight surgeon. When his stethoscope came to your chest or that blood pressure needle was bouncing, it was your career on the line. A little blip and you could leave your wings on the table. Military aviators looked forward to a physical exam about as much as they looked forward to an in-flight engine fire. We didn't want failed on any document concerning anything that came out of a flight surgeon's office. I had known pilots who would secretly visit a civilian off-base doctor for some malady rather than bring it to the attention of a flight surgeon. This had been strictly forbidden, but the only crime was to get caught. I employed the same logic on the flight to Houston for this medical test. In an act of incredible naïveté, the docs at NASA had asked us to hand-carry our medical records from our home bases. This was akin to trusting a politician with a ballot box. As the miles passed, I pulled out pages I felt could generate questions I didn't want to answer. In particular I pulled out references to the severe whiplash I had suffered during an ejection from an F-111 fighter-bomber a year earlier. During that incident my helmet-weighted head had snapped around as if it had been on the tip of a cracking bullwhip. My neck had been badly hyperextended. After a week of wearing a neck brace, the Eglin Air Force Base (AFB) doctors returned me to flight, but I wondered how the neck injury would be viewed by NASA's docs. Certainly it couldn't help me. It was the type of questionable injury that could draw a disqualified stamp on my application. In all likelihood there would be 199 other applicants without a history of neck injuries. I wasn't going to take a chance. I liberated the offending pages from my files, planning to reinsert them on the return flight. I had one very slim chance of getting selected as an astronaut. I wasn't going to let a little thing like a felony get in the way. I would alter official government records and, like countless other aviators before, hope I didn't get caught.\ Yes, I was going to give this astronaut selection my best shot. I inserted the enema and squeezed the bulb. I was determined when the NASA proctologist looked up my ass, he would see pipes so dazzling he would ask the nurse to get his sunglasses.\ Hold for Five Minutes, read the instruction on the dispenser. Screw that, was my thought. That milquetoast civilian who had failed his clean out had probably blown his load at the first contraction. I would hold my enema for fifteen minutes. I would hold it until it migrated into my esophagus. I clamped my sphincter closed, gritted my teeth, and endured bowel contraction after bowel contraction until I thought I would black out. Finally, I blasted the colonic into the toilet. I repeated the process a second time.\ Do not repeat more than twice, the label warned. Yeah, right. With the title of astronaut on the line, the warning could have read, Do not repeat more than twice, death may result, and I would still have ignored it. I grabbed a third enema and then a fourth. The waste of my last purge was as clear as gin.\ I walked from the proctologist like a first grader carrying a gold star on a homework assignment. He had commented several times he had never seen a colon so well prepared. That I didn't shit for the next two weeks was a price I was willing to pay. (And, no, the civilian who had failed his prep wasn't selected.)\ Next up was the interview by a NASA psychiatrist. I wondered about this. I had never spoken to a psych in my life. Was there a pass-fail criterion? I considered myself mentally well balanced. (A strange self-assessment given I had just set a world record for holding an enema in a paranoid quest to secure a job.) But how did a psych measure mental stability? Would he be watching my body language? Would a twitch of my eye, a pulsating neck vein, or a bead of sweat mean something? Something bad? In desperation I searched my memory for what The Right Stuff had revealed about the Mercury 7 astronaut psych evaluations. All I could recall was that they had been given a completely blank piece of paper to "interpret" and that one astronaut had answered, "It's upside down." Was such humor good? I didn't have a clue. I was flying blind.\ My first surprise, which added to my fear, was to find out there were to be two psych evaluations by different doctors, each about an hour long. I walked into my first meeting. The doctor rose from behind a desk and introduced himself, shaking hands with a very weak, moist grip. I hadn't been in the room for fifteen seconds and already I was in a panic. Was the grip some type of test? If I echoed it in its limpness, was I indicating I had some latent sexual identity problems? I decided to be firm...not crushing, but firm. I watched his face but it was an enigma. I couldn't read anything. I could have been shaking hands with Yoda. His voice was low; low enough I wondered if this was some sneaky hearing test. He motioned me to a chair. Thank God there was no couch. That novelty would have further rattled me.\ He held a clipboard and pencil at the ready. I swallowed hard and waited for what I was certain would be a question like, "How many times a week do you masturbate?" But instead he ordered, "Please count backward from 100 by 7s as fast as you can." I heard the click of a stopwatch and the gathering seconds...tick...tick...tick. My chances of becoming an astronaut were racing away with those seconds!\ Only because of my plebe training at West Point, where I had learned to instantly obey any order, was I able to respond with lightning reflexes. If he wanted me to count backward by 7s from 100, then I'd do it. At least I didn't have to answer the masturbation question. I began the litany, 100, 93, 86, 79, 72..., then I got off by a digit or two, tried to restart at my last known correct number, stumbled again, and ended in the 60s in a blurring babble of digits. I finally stopped and said, "I think I'm off track." My comment was answered with the click of the stopwatch. In the silence it sounded like a gunshot. It might as well have been, I thought. I was dead. At least my astronaut chances had been shot dead. I had failed what was obviously a mental agility test.\ The psych said nothing. There was only a prolonged quiet in which all I heard was the scratching of pencil on paper. I had the cleanest colon in the world but my brain was constipated. It had FAILED me. I was certain that was the word being written by the psych. FAILED. Surely the other 199 candidates would breeze through this test. They would probably get to those final numbers...23...16...9...2 ...in a few blinks of the eye and then ask the psych if he wanted them to repeat the test doing square roots of the numbers. I was certain the man was thinking, Who let this guy in the door?\ With nothing to lose, and in a desperate attempt to end the maddening silence, I quipped, "I'm pretty good at counting backward by ones."\ He didn't laugh. "That won't be necessary." His icy tone confirmed it. I had failed.\ After the 7s test, the doc once again positioned his pencil and asked, "If you died and could come back as anything, what would that be?"\ More panic seized me. Where was this question leading? Into what minefield of the psyche would I now stumble? I was beginning to wish for the masturbation question.\ There was no clock running this time, so I gave the question a little thought. Anything? Should I come back as a person? Alan Shepard? That sounded like a safe answer. But then it dawned on me, Shepard, like all test pilots, hated shrinks. Was it Shepard who had dismissively suggested the blank page "was upside down"? I couldn't recall, but I didn't want to take a chance. I'd better stay away from a wish for reincarnation as an astronaut icon who might be infamous among psychs for trivializing their profession.\ I asked for clarification. "When you say anything? Do you mean as another person or object or animal?"\ He merely shrugged with body language that said, "I'm not giving you any leads." Clearly he wanted me to step on one of those psyche mines by myself.\ I toyed with the idea of saying I would like to come back as Wilbur Wright or Robert Goddard or Chuck Yeager or some other aviation/rocketry pioneer. Perhaps this would send a signal that being an astronaut was my destiny. But again, my mind's voice whispered caution. Maybe such a reincarnation wish would identify me as a megalomaniac in search of glory.\ Then, in a burst of inspiration I had it. "I would like to come back as...an eagle." It was a brilliant answer. Clearly it conveyed my desire to fly yet didn't give the doctor a door to crawl farther into my synapses. (I later heard one interviewee say he was tempted to answer the question with "I'd like to come back as Cheryl Tiegs's bicycle seat." It would have been interesting to see how the psych would have responded to that.)\ My eagle answer was acknowledged by more pencil scratching.\ His next question was an obvious attempt to have me judge myself. "Tell me, Mike, if you died right now, what epitaph would your family put on your headstone?"\ Boy, was this going to be easy, I thought. After faking some serious deliberation I replied, "I think it would read, 'A loving husband and devoted father.'" I was sure I had scored some points. Could there have been a better answer to convey the message that my family came first, that I had my priorities right? In reality I would have sold my wife and children into slavery for a ride into space. I thought it best not to mention that fact.\ "What is it that you feel is your unique strength?"\ I wanted to reply, "I can hold an enema for fifteen minutes," but instead said, "I always do my best at whatever I do." For once, I told the truth.\ Psych One's interview continued. I was asked whether I was right- or left-handed (right) and what religion I professed (Catholic). He also inquired about my birth order (number two of six). He seemed to write a long time after hearing these answers. I would later learn a disproportionate number of astronauts (and other super-achieving people) are firstborn, left-handed Protestants. Maybe my exclusion from all of those groups was the reason I couldn't count backward by 7s.\ Finally, I was excused to Psych Two. I walked slump-shouldered to another door, certain my astronaut dream was stillborn on the report that Yoda was finishing...Candidate Mullane unable to count backward by 7s.\ Psych Two was the good cop in the good-cop/bad-cop routine. Dr. Terry McGuire welcomed me with a robust handshake and an expansive smile. I've seen that same smile on the faces of used car dealers. I looked for the diamond ring on McGuire's pinky but it was absent.\ Dr. McGuire was outgoing and talkative. He didn't have a pencil and pad in hand. "Come in. Take a load off. Have a seat." Another chair, thank God. Everything about his voice and mannerisms said, "I apologize for that other bozo you had to contend with. He's got the skills of a chiropractor. I'm different. I'm here to help you." Just as it is on the car dealer's lot, I was certain it was all an act. He wasn't after my wallet. He sought my essence. He wanted to know what made me tick, and, like Captain Kirk facing a Klingon battle cruiser, I was ordering, "Shields up!" My astronaut chances might already be headed down in flames but I was going to continue to give it my best shot until the rejection letter arrived.\ After some small talk about the weather and how my visit was going (fine, I lied), the good doctor finally began his assault on those shields. He asked just one question. "Mike, why do you want to be an astronaut?"\ I had always assumed I would be asked this question somewhere in the selection process, so I was prepared. "I love flying. Flying in space would be the ultimate flight experience." Then, I added some bullshit to make it sound like love of country was a motivator. "I also think I could best serve the United States Air Force and the United States of America as an astronaut."\ Boy, did I slam-dunk that question, was my thought. The only way I could have done better was if I'd brought in Dionne Warwick to sing the national anthem in the background.\ But I was wrong. My slam dunk was rejected. I couldn't blow off Dr. McGuire with that rehearsed dribble. He looked at me with an all-knowing smirk and replied, "Mike, at the most fundamental level, we're all motivated by things that occurred in our youth. Tell me about your childhood, your family."\ God, how I hated essay questions.\ Copyright © 2006 by Mike Mullane

Acknowledgments     xiiiBowels and Brains     1Adventure     7Polio     11Sputnik     18Selection     23The Space Shuttle     31Arrested Development     36Welcome     43Babes and Booze     50Temples of History     56The F***ing New Guys     59Speed     66Training     71Adventures in Public Speaking     80Columbia     89Pecking Order     100Prime Crew     111Donna     127Abort     143MECO     161Orbit     169Coming to America     186Astronaut Wings     189Part-time Astronauts     197The Golden Age     208Challenger     221Castle Intrigue     233Falling     244Change     251Mission Assignment     256God Falls     262Swine Flight     266Classified Work     273"No reason to die all tensed up"     280Riding a Meteor     284Christie and Annette     291Widows     297"I have no plans past MECO"     306Holding at Nine and Hurting     316Last Orbits     330The White House     337Journey's End     341Epilogue     349Glossary     361Index     369

\ From Barnes & NobleRichard "Mike" Mullane considers Albuquerque his hometown, but from 1984 to 1990, this former NASA astronaut had a second home: In his three shuttle missions, he logged an impressive 356 hours in space. Riding Rockets recounts his career as a pilot (he flew 150 combat missions in Vietnam) and as an astronaut who still bristles at namby-pamby NASA officials. This memoir is sometimes ribald, often hilarious, and always entertaining.\ \ \ \ \ From the Publisher"It has been suggested that NASA should send a poet into space to properly describe it, but I'm happy to report that is no longer required. Mike Mullane is a poet-astronaut who in this marvelous book allows those of us who never got there to see, hear, feel, even taste the wonders of the high frontier of space. Riding Rockets is the story of space-age America in all its glory and folly as seen through the eyes of a remarkable writer, who has brilliantly captured the triumphant and tragic years of the space shuttle era. You may think you don't care about space or astronauts, but trust me, make an exception for this memoir. Quite simply, Riding Rockets soars." \ — Homer Hickam, author of Rocket Boys\ "It is a pleasure to read Mike Mullane's entertaining depiction of the NASA astronaut corps. He tells it like it is, and not the way NASA's painted it for so many years."\ — General Chuck Yeager, fighter ace, test pilot, and chairman, General Chuck Yeager Foundation\ "I thoroughly enjoyed Riding Rockets. It gave me exactly what I was hoping for: not just the nuts and bolts of training and working as an astronaut, but the joys, frustrations, fears, struggles, and wonder of traveling in space. I highly recommend Mullane's story."\ — Dale Brown, New York Times bestselling author of Act of War\ "Convincing, scary, ribald, and sometimes screamingly funny, Mike Mullane gets to the heart of the real astronaut culture in Riding Rockets and puts to rest for all time the superficial image of 'Right Stuff' warriors. Mullane paints the astronaut's yearning and wild sense of accomplishment with the same abandon that he portrays the pitfalls of the bureaucratic web in which they work."\ — Walter Boyne, author of The Wild Blue and former director of the National Air and Space Museum\ "The straight, hot, steaming truth about NASA and flying the wild black yonder from a guy who really did it. Five stars!"\ — Stephen Coonts, author of Flight of the Intruder\ "Mike Mullane took me back on a revealing journey to NASA. In these pages I discovered the adventures of the shuttle astronauts. Through palace intrigue, trials and tribulations, triumph and tragedy, Mike exposes it all. What a change from the early days! Maybe I was born too soon!"\ — James A. Lovell, commander of Apollo 13 and author of Apollo 13: Lost Moon\ "If you want a peek behind the NASA kimono, this is it! It may be more than you wanted to know about today's all-American boys laying it all on the line to fly the space shuttle. Mike's story is honest...brutally honest. You haven't read it before, and you are not likely to see it in the future."\ — Walter Cunningham, Apollo 7 astronaut and author of The All-American Boys\ \ \ \ Publishers WeeklyWith a testosterone-fueled swagger and a keen eye for particulars, Mullane takes readers into the high-intensity, high-stress world of the shuttle astronaut in this rough-hewn yet charming yarn of low-rent antics, bureaucratic insanity and transcendent beauty. Mullane opens this tale face down on a doctor's table awaiting a colorectal exam that will determine his fitness for astronaut training. "I was determined when the NASA proctologist looked up my ass, he would see pipes so dazzling he would ask the nurse to get his sunglasses," he writes, setting the tone for the crude and often hilarious story that follows. Chosen as a trainee in 1978, Mullane, a Vietnam vet, quickly finds himself at odds with the buttoned-up post-Apollo NASA world of scientists, technocrats and civilian astronauts he describes as "tree-huggers, dolphin friendly fish eaters, vegetarians, and subscribers to the New York Times." He holds female astronauts in special disregard, though he later grudgingly acknowledges the achievement and heroism of both the civilians and women. The book hits its stride with Mullane's space adventures: a difficult takeoff, the shift into zero gravity, his first view of the Earth from space: "To say the view was overwhelmingly beautiful would be an insult to God." (Feb. 14) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.\ \ \ \ \ Kirkus ReviewsA pilot afflicted with arrested development grows up fast when he becomes a space-shuttle astronaut. Navy pilots have Top Gun; investigative journalists have All the President's Men; and astronauts will always see and be seen through the prism of The Right Stuff. West Point grad and hotshot Air Force pilot Mullane acknowledges as much in his memoir's opening scene, which finds him and 19 others going through a rigorous set of tests in hopes of being selected as astronauts for the space-shuttle program (extended contact with an enema is involved). Mullane is eventually chosen to join the 1978 class of astronauts, who referred to themselves as TFNGs (Thirty-Five New Guys, a play on the military acronym for Fucking New Guy) and were about as mature and PC as drunk players on a high-school football team. Mullane longwindedly recalls the training process and tells stories of his childhood and married and military life. Along the way, we gain an appreciation for his love of bathroom humor, danger, rockets and other big machines that go really fast. (We also learn of the practical jokes he and his pilot buddies played on civilians.) Occasionally fun, these sections grow monotonous fast, but the books gains substantial traction once Mullane finally makes it into space onboard Discovery in 1984. It's worth wading through his adolescent hijinks to get to these descriptions of the nerve-jangling launches, the rapturous beauty of space and the unbelievably foul living conditions aboard the ship (the mechanics of a zero-gravity toilet are worth hearing about). Mullane's explanations of how he became disenchanted with NASA bureaucracy and his achingly tragic recollections of crewmates who perished inthe Columbia tragedy raise this book above the ranks of the standard-issue boys-in-space memoir. One astronaut's messy, exhilarating story, with no edges sanded off.\ \