With tremendous velocity, a large chunk of exploding tire slammed into the underside of the wing, inside which, as on all large airplanes, were hundreds of thousands of pounds of jet fuel. The fuel cell was not impaled by the tire, but the resultant shock wave caused the fuel itself to knock out a section of its own tank, and the highly volatile liquid began to pour out, catching fire even before the airplane broke ground. From there the rest was more or less inevitable. The consuming plume of flame quickly rendered the plane unflyable. The pilots tried to make it back to the airport but couldn't. F-BTSC finally slammed into a hotel in Gonesse, on the outskirts of Paris, killing all 100 passengers, all nine crew members and five people on the ground.

Questions arose about the design of the tires and fuel tanks. Experts wondered about the possibility of another crash. In August 2000, European aviation authorities revoked Concorde's airworthiness certification. Many saw the crash as the end of Concorde altogether, the final curtain on a career marked with as much excess as romance -- too much noise, too much money, too much fuel. "Despite the world's longtime fascination with the supersonic Concorde, its presence may come to a swift end," reported Diane Seo in Salon.

But both British Airways and Air France predicted differently, even after the terrorist attacks last Sept. 11, which occurred at Concorde's only two U.S. ports of call. In the post-September turbulence, when reintroduction of a fuel-guzzling, technologically obsolete airplane seemed the last thing a reeling industry might propose, they stuck by their promise.

Concorde's perceived niche, after all -- an intercontinental limousine for sheiks, tycoons and film stars -- was perhaps not so easily discouraged by current events as, say, the noontime departure to Orlando. Sometimes you come across ads in Smithsonian or the New Yorker for one of the airplane's yearly round-the-world charters: luxurious, multistop junkets sold at some absolutely ghastly fare. A fully occupied Concorde, mind you, has room for only 100 passengers. That's fewer, even, than the classic Boeing 737. And with four-abreast seating, Concorde is no wider than a commuter jet. Such capacity restrictions, combined with fuel consumption rates normally seen by NASA, doomed the plane to novelty status. A gorgeous, adrenaline-inspiring novelty, but beyond the reach of mainstream travelers.

The plane was redesigned with new high-tech Michelin tires and Kevlar-protected fuel bays. During the safety overhaul, British Airways also revamped the interior, employing lighter-weight materials to offset additional weight imposed by the safety enhancements. Included in the plans were new "cradle seats" and lavishly outfitted lavatories. Total investment in the refurbishment ran about $42 million for B.A. alone, split about halfway between the technical and cabin upgrades.

Air France began airborne proving runs six months after the crash, on Jan. 18, 2001, when F-BVFB departed Paris for test flying. B.A. commenced supersonic evaluations from London's Heathrow on Sept. 11. Undaunted by the fallout of that day's other events, the testing continued at both companies.

And on Nov. 7, 2001 -- with two of their gleaming jets parked needle-nose to needle-nose at JFK -- British Airways and Air France officially resumed commercial Concorde flying. From either Heathrow or Charles de Gaulle, travelers can again break the bank (if you have to ask, the typical trans-Atlantic Concorde fare runs $7,000 to $9,000 or so) for the chance to tell their business partners and mistresses they broke the sound barrier. British Airways reports strong bookings and high loads aboard its six weekly round trips.

Some are predicting a dismal 2002 for the world's airlines, and North Atlantic traffic has been hit particularly hard in the months since September. Nonetheless, this month marks the 26th anniversary of Concorde's inaugural passenger service. On Jan. 21, 1976, a Concorde lifted off from Heathrow headed for Bahrain, another from Paris to Rio. Today, JFK is its flagship destination, and the only place where you'll find it in both B.A. and Air France colors simultaneously. To see the airplane on the tarmac here again is inspiring, especially when its silhouette passes the vacant space where the World Trade Center once stood -- a dignified and defiant statement in these tough times aloft, a glimmer of optimism for a throttled and nervous industry.

One recent morning at JFK, a group of employees from a cargo company were eating breakfast from a canteen truck, when suddenly they rushed to the perimeter fence to watch a Concorde touch down along Runway 13L. Not even a 747 garners a second glance from jaded travelers and workers these days. But this wasn't a 747. Taxiing in, Concorde sits high on its tall silver legs. Its downward-arcing wingtips, long slender neck and raked fin give it a strangely anthropomorphic quality. Banking over the Rockaway peninsula on something pilots call the "Canarsie approach," its sharply curving span forms a distinct and suggestive hourglass.

Concorde evokes a lot of things -- a bird, a woman's back, an origami crane -- but it does not look old. Its anniversary is not just a milestone of economic endurance and longevity, but a statement of art and industrial design. What else in civil aviation, a world of Airbuses and pretzels and cheap plastic cups, carries such an aura, and could still appear so modern 40 years after its blueprints were first drawn up? Form has followed function to produce a sensual and timelessly attractive machine.

If neither a demoralizing crash nor the single most crippling event in the history of the airline business didn't kill Concorde, perhaps nothing will. At least until the aircraft reaches its design limit of flight cycles (takeoffs and landings), at which point -- now expected to be about seven years off -- its operators must decide if yet another life-lengthening investment is in order. If they determine it is not, Concorde will retire gracefully, a vestige of jet-age class and style in the increasingly uncivilized arena of commercial aviation.

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