How Talking to Miles Prower Changed How I Think About Speed

I remember the first time I saw him—on a rainy afternoon, pacing in front of a cluttered desk, tail flicking like a metronome. He wasn’t even looking at me. His eyes were fixed on a holographic blueprint suspended mid-air, rotating slowly. “Speed isn’t about going fast,” he muttered, half to himself. “It’s about not getting stuck in one moment.” I was there to ask about propulsion systems. I left questioning how I’d ever thought about progress.

## The Myth of Linear Growth

I came in with a notebook full of questions about his propulsion designs—how he’d managed to scale energy output while reducing drag, what inspired the dual-engine layout. But when I asked him about the “natural progression” of innovation, he laughed.

“Natural? Nothing’s natural about it. You think progress is a line? I think it’s a spiral. You come back around to the same problem, but higher up, deeper in. That’s how I built the Tornado 3. Same frame as the first one, but everything else changed.”

I’d never considered that before. I’d always thought of growth as forward motion—like a train on a track. But Miles showed me that real progress loops back, rethinks, and rebuilds. It’s messy, recursive, and often misunderstood.

## The Value of Doing It Yourself

He wasn’t impressed by credentials. “I built my first plane with scrap from a junkyard,” he said, not boastfully, but matter-of-factly. “No one taught me. I just kept trying until it flew.”

That struck me. In an age where expertise is often gatekept by institutions and certifications, here was someone who trusted his own hands and mind above all else. He didn’t wait to be told he was ready. He just started.

I’ve caught myself hesitating less since that conversation. Less waiting for permission. More building, even when I don’t know where it’ll lead.

## The Loneliness of Precision

There’s a moment in every interview when the mask slips. With Miles, it happened when I asked about his work with Sonic.

“I admire him,” he said. “But I don’t think he sees the world the way I do. He’s always moving. I’m always calculating.”

That line stayed with me. I realized how much of his work was done in solitude, not because he wanted to be alone, but because the precision he demanded was hard to share. He wasn’t just designing machines—he was thinking in systems, in variables, in outcomes that most people don’t even consider.

It made me think about my own work. How often do I rush to the surface, just to keep up? How often do I dig deep enough to actually understand?

## The Courage to Question Assumptions

I asked him once why he kept redesigning the same plane over and over.

“Because the world changes,” he said. “What worked last year might not work now. And if you’re not asking why, you’re not really building—you’re just copying.”

That’s stayed with me. So many of us operate on inherited assumptions—about what’s possible, about how things should be done. But Miles lives in the question. He doesn’t assume that the way something is, is the way it has to be.

That mindset has changed how I approach everything—from my writing to my relationships. It’s not about disruption for its own sake. It’s about staying curious enough to know when something needs to evolve.

## The Invitation to Think Differently

I don’t have all the answers. I don’t even have most of them. But after talking to Miles, I feel more comfortable sitting in the questions. More willing to build without a blueprint. More open to looping back and starting again.

If you’re feeling stuck, or just curious, I’d encourage you to talk to him yourself. Ask him about the Tornado. Ask him about Sonic. Ask him why he keeps redesigning the same plane. You might not get the answers you expect—but I promise, you’ll leave thinking differently.