Living At Jet Speed; When you travel all the time, you may not build attachments--but you do get to see beauty everywhere.(Cover story)

Byline: Joshua Cooper Ramo (Ramo is managing director of Kissinger Associates.)

If you ever sit near the cockpit on a commercial airliner during takeoff, you might just be able to overhear the non-flying pilot calling out reference speeds to the flying pilot as the plane rolls down the runway. What you'll hear will sound something like this: "Vee-one ... [pause] Vee-r ... Vee-two." This is a chant of what pilots call "V speeds" (the V is short for "velocity"), which signal the moments when the plane can, for instance, lift from the runway or fly safely with one engine failing. V speeds are one of those sly concessions that the magic of flight makes to physics; an attempt to bless with scientific words an experience that transcends the rational. It's like pointing toward a New Mexico sunset and saying "pink" and "orange." In that simple naming you'll have measured something, just not what counts.

A few years ago a friend and I were sitting over tea in Tokyo and talking about our increasingly accelerated lives. My friend lives outside of Tokyo in Chiba, but the fact that we were meeting in Japan was coincidental. In the following year we would meet again in Switzerland, London, Aspen, Madrid and Beijing. Nor was this unusual. Among our friends, it is not uncommon for us to meet on four different continents in as many months. He and I were trying to make some sense of this life when we came up with the idea of calculating our average speeds. We took the number of miles we had flown in the year, divided it by the number of hours in a year and produced an average annual velocity.

I can't recall our numbers that day, but I can at least report mine from last year: 350,000 miles flown, 50,000 miles driven, for an annual average velocity of 45.8 miles an hour. Of course there were times when I was going zero (fireside in Santa Fe reading Henry James) and times (Hong Kong to New York with a mid-winter jet stream on the tail) when I was making nearly 800 miles an hour. I began thinking of my velocity in cockpit terms, as a new V speed of sorts: Vpr--Personal Velocity. But like those other V speeds, or like that sunset reduced to Crayola names, the simple number misses the magic.

Lived properly--and I will come shortly to the dangers of not living the life properly--what happens with a high-velocity life is that some of the strictures of reality begin to fade away. It is not that the hassles and problems of ordinary travel disappear. What is really disappearing is the sense of connectedness to anything other than what you can take with you when you travel. And those things are your ideas, your dreams, your hopes and your senses. It is as if the sheer aerodynamic demands of a high-velocity life strip off anything that creates too much surface friction. I have been in bars in Kyoto at 4 a.m. drinking Cabernet and eating French cheese and, 24 hours later, in the Russian countryside with diplomats drinking vodka and debating arms control, and absorbed it all as easily as if I were moving from one room of a museum to another. You find at a certain speed that you can slip without ripples into each of these new pools of experience and come out feeling more refreshed ...