Thanks to Vern Doty for sending this my way:
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There were a lot of things we could't do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.

It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plan in the past ten months.

Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet. I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however.

Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center , far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.

We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied:

November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground.

Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the "Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that... and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.

Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his groundspeed.

Ah, Twin Beach. I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed.

Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren.

Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios.

Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check

Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet.

And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion:
Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.

And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done - in mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now.

I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn. Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet.

Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke:

Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?

There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request.

Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.

I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice:

Ah, Center, much thanks,

We're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.

For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the HoustonCentervoice, when L.A.came back with,

Roger that Aspen,

Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours.  You boys have a good one.

It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work.

We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.

Here's some more info on the SR-71, courtesy of Tom Patterson:
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SR-71 BLACKBIRD INFORMATION
Last weekend at the museum of flight (Boeing Field, Seattle) was the 2007 Blackbird Forum. SR-71 pilots, reconnaissance officers, and crew chiefs discussed their experiences with the airplane and answered questions. The capabilities of that airplane built with 1960 technology are mind boggling.

The engine is a masterpiece. At mach 3.2, 75% of the thrust comes from the inlet. (The nose spike moves aft 26 inches.) Air pressure in front of the compressor increases from 0.5 psi to 14.5 psi over a distance of 5 feet, while internal airflow slows from mach 3.2 to mach 0.8 so the compressor blades can handle it without stalling. Bypass tubes divert extra air around the engine directly to the afterburner and cause it to perform like a ram jet.
 
Airspeed is not the limiting factor. At mach 3.2 a primary instrument is compressor inlet temperature. If it exceeds 427 degrees Centigrade, the compressor blades disintegrate. The pilot monitors the CIT and lets the airspeed take care of itself.

At mach 3.2, the titanium skin heats considerably. The fuselage stretches six inches. The fuselage is six fuel tanks. They leak all the time on the ground, but at altitude they heat up and expand, sealing the joints. After some fuel is consumed, the fuel still cools the bottom of the tanks, but is no longer in contact with the top. Therefore the top of the fuselage stretches more than the bottom, causing it to actually bend down somewhat at each end.

When the USSR shot down our U-2 in 1960, Kelly Johnson immediately realized we needed something higher and faster that no enemy could reach, so the Skunk Works went back to the drawing board. The first flight was 22 months later. Try that today. We lost three out of ?50? due to accidents. (One broke up after colliding with the drone it had just launched.) No enemy was ever able to touch it.

Sec Def Robert McNamara ordered all the SR-71 manufacturing tools destroyed so he would have more tax dollars to waste on the F-111. In 1994 William Jefferson Clinton used line item veto to cancel all funding for SR-71s. They are now in museums. The pilots said that we really need that airplane today for reconnaissance over places like Iran, Iraq, Syria, Korea, China, etc. If it were not for Clinton, SR-71 would still be performing that reconnaissance today. The argument that satellites can do the job is not correct. Any school boy with a lap top can tell you when a satellite will be overhead, so the bad guys simply shut things down, and later restart them. On the other hand, the enemy never knows where or when the SR-71 will suddenly appear out of nowhere.

At 80,000 feet the cameras can see 80 miles. From 20 miles off the coast, the airplane can photograph objects 60 miles inland. The requirement for a rock solid gyro stabilized camera platform was paramount. My favorite analogy was this:
Nail a four foot square sheet of plywood to the bottom of the airplane. Drill a quarter inch hole through the middle of it. Insert a quarter inch dowel that is 16 MILES long. Drag the dowel across the surface of the earth at 30 miles per MINUTE.
Program the camera to take one photo per second of a specified set of coordinates for four minutes, in order to examine the spot from all angles. Do this in such a way that all photos are crystal clear, with no blurring.

Pilots, who are not trained as photo interpreters, say they can read the photos easily. One pilot looked at an Infrared photo of a USAF base and immediately recognized the shadow (heat signature) of a spot where a B-52 had been parked one hour earlier.

Celestial navigation is automatic. There are about 50 stars programmed into the computer. These stars can be observed ! by the naviga tion system while parked on the ramp during broad daylight. Although the pilot takes off and lands the airplane manually, the navigation system is accurate enough to put the airplane on the runway in zero-zero conditions after flying nonstop from California to Iraq and return with four inflight refuelings.