Sky Ryder - Ryder International CEO Frank Ryder - CEO at Leisure

Chief Executive, The, May, 1994

Piloting World War l replica planes isn't for the faint of heart, but it certainly adds spice to this CEO's life.

My German Fokker DR-1 cabane brace wires are humming as I dive onto the tail of a sharply banking Sopwith Camel while spike-helmeted German troops support me with passing shots from the grassy field below.

Nieuport, Pfalz, DeHavilland, and Albatros fighters swirl about me. The skies are alive with the largest gathering of these colorful aircraft in 75 years. As we land, shut off our engines, and remove our leather flying helmets and goggles, we're rewarded with the applause of thousands of delighted spectators.

This realistic 20-aircraft dogfight highlighted both days of Aerodrome '92, a World War I fly-in convention my wife, Carolyn, and I organized in northern Alabama. Over 50,000 people attended the inaugural annual event--fellow buffs who share our passion for these historic aircraft.

As the founder and CEO of Ryder International Corp., a $25 million product-development company, my hobby may seem just a bit unusual. However, in light of the fact that I am an inventor with hundreds of patents, I guess I feel almost obligated to exhibit some eccentric behavior.

This is ironic. After all, my rise through corporate management was facilitated by dispelling the stereotype of inventors as peculiar. But now that I am no longer scrambling to get ahead in my career, I can relax and revert to form. As my wife frequently says, I should have been born with feathers, because I fly everything from helicopters to gliders to seaplanes to stuntplanes and replicas of the most significant aircraft of the Great War.

My lifelong love of aviation started by building stick and paper model airplanes as a young boy. Earning money by delivering newspapers, hunting rabbits, mowing grass, and selling Kool Aid, I bought airplane kits for a quarter, then ran the two miles back from town to start building.

Sequestered in my attic, I labored for hours, painstakingly gluing and piecing together the materials into a reasonable facsimile of the real thing. While I worked, I imagined myself at the controls, performing loops and rolls--or at least skywriting "PEPSI" on a summer day.

World War I models quickly became my favorites when I discovered they were the most realistic, and challenging to build and rig. This taught me many skills I would rely on in later years, including blueprint reading. Those countless hours also ingrained the benefits of perseverance and patience in an otherwise impatient boy.

Forty years later, I proved the notion that "the only difference between men and boys is the price of their toys" by buying my first World War I replica, fulfilling a dream that had laid dormant. I bought a British SE5a from a Coca-Cola executive for $8,700.

That was just the beginning. Today, Carolyn and I own the largest collection of World War I replica aircraft in the world. With an estimated value of well over $2 million and growing, it includes most of the significant fighters built by both Allies and Germans from 1916 to 1918, when the hostilities ended.

The 40-plus plane collection fills six interconnected hangars in Guntersville, AL, and attracts visitors from around the world. I even took a visiting Soviet cosmonaut for a ride and then had to fight him for the controls when he wanted to continuously loop and roll. Unfortunately, the only Russian I knew was "nyet." Well, not really, but somehow "glasnost" and "perestroika" didn't seem appropriate.

In 1993, we founded Ryder's Replica Fighter Museum. Working there, craftsmen affiliated with the museum build new replicas from scratch. In many cases, drawings of the planes no longer exist, and we are forced to rely on photographs. Whenever I'm not in the office or in the air, you can find me in the museum's workshop constructing or detailing a new plane.

I'm often asked why we deal with replicas rather than original planes. It's simple: I wouldn't want to drive a Model T on the interstate, so why would I let myself fly even 100 feet off the ground in an antique aircraft constructed from obsolete materials and powered by a 1917 engine? I believe in the old aviation adage: "It is far better to be down here wishing you were up there, than to be up there wishing you were down here." More World War I aviators perished because of faulty equipment than any other cause. When I fly, I want space-age materials supporting me and a more modern engine propelling me. I insist upon having each aircraft maintained to perfection, and our shop is hospital-clean, and hospital-regimented, complete with schedules and procedures.

Recently, I read an article that said entrepreneurs are perceived as great risk takers. However, it also said entrepreneurs strongly disagree with that assessment. Many claim they are certain of the outcome of any given issue, and that they wouldn't do it if it were risky. I approach business and flying with that attitude: Keep risks to a minimum and rely on determination, thoroughness, skill, and experience. But everything is relative, and I confess to thinking bungee jumpers, streakers, and those who swim with great white sharks are life's real crazies.