My Epic Fail

I went to the airshow the other night and watched talented pilots perform exeptional feats in wicked cool planes. Right then and there I decided that I wanted to get some aerobatics lessons from those pilots, perhaps one day even do a few airshows myself. One, it would just be really cool, and Two, it'd be amazing to be one of the very few women aerobatic pilots on the airshow circuit. I was truly inspired. And that night, while watching a Pitts go straight vertical and hang by its prop, I got the call from my instructor that my commercial flight test was booked for next week. Well, if I can watch someone cut a rope strung across the runway at 25 FT AGL upside down, I can pass a measly commercial test.

Unfortunately, it turns out I can't. Now, you're probably wondering why I've decided I can't pass a test that's supposed to be 7 days from now? Because I can't even pass the test before the test, the one that qualifies you for the test in the first place. Now, instead of my instructor writing up a nice little letter of recommendation for me, he's suggested I instead keep my flying to taking up friends and family, for I'm at least good enough for that, just not good enough to have anyone pay me to do it.

Did you ever watch that movie, Rudy? Rudy is a guy who absolutely loves football, but just isn't good enough to play. He wants it so bad, so finally, during the final game, the coach lets him go in and he scores the final touchdown (I think, but I don't know for sure). His years of work culminated to that one play, but it was enough for him. His years of striving paid off in that moment, because he wasn't even supposed to have that one play...basically he wasn't good enough for that but it was his heart that got him as far as he had. Well, I feel like Rudy, but I don't think I even have the heart. Or I do, but it's just too old, and hell, I thought maybe if I was good enough my age wouldn't matter. But to be shitty and old, well, there ain't enough heart in the world to make up for that.

The thing is, as uplifting as Rudy was, no one wants to be him. We want to be the star quarterback carrying Rudy on our shoulders, because we'll still be in the game the next day while Rudy is back to lugging around the water bottles. That's why movies like that are few and far between, because as much as we know most of us are just average, there's that tiny hope in the back of our minds that we're just a little bit more than that. So when we're faced with the fact that not only are we not average, but we're worse than average, well...what then? I know you're supposed to just get back up on that horse when you've fallen off, but it's really hard to go back up when you know this is as good as it's going to get. Every time I got near that Fargo I was sure there was something better in store for me, I just had to wait it out. But now, there just doesn't seem to be. I mean, how can you honestly justify a bigger and better plane when you can't do anything with it? When you're not even remotely good enough to do anything with it?

 I've got to say, this is my first really big failure. And I guess, being thirty, that's probably a pretty good thing. But when you were already thinking you'd screwed up by not doing something like this sooner and that you've missed your chance for something really great, finding out you're subpar feels like an epic failure. I always thought I was the hero of my own story, but it turns out I'm the goofy sidekick that everyone laughs at. Yes, I'm funny and add the token joke to the slower parts, but by the climax, I'm still making jokes while the hero's life has all come together.

So, now, do I choose to be Rudy and happily drag out the Fargo for a local jaunt around the area knowing it's all I'll ever get? At least he loved football...how do you love something that makes you feel so awful?

Unwanted Passenger

I'm beginning to rethink my plan to stalk the guy who owns the Maule and ask him for a ride. Why? Because if he is even the tiniest bit as weirded out by some stranger asking for a flight in his plane as I was the other day, he'd still be getting the heebie-jeebies from me.

Now, to be fair to myself, I do not smell like stale booze and cigarettes, and it's not questionable whether I've started drinking at 7AM on a Saturday morning. I also am not about 100 lbs overweight, nor do I drive a rusty pickup with holes in it, nor am I unseemingly and sketchy. I like to think of myself as a normal person that would not creep someone out if I walked up to them and started a conversation. This guy, on the otherhand, did creep me out. Actually, it wasn't him as much as the fact that the second I pulled in to unlock the gate this truck that happened to be sitting at the airport at 7AM on a Saturday morning clunked into reverse and began to back-up slowly until it blocked my exit. That was what started probably one of the worst flights I've been on in a long time.

I was going to ask this guy who he was looking for, but apparently it was me. Not me specifically, but any pilot taking up a plane that morning. Or, I guess I should say, any naive pilot stupid enough to allow a complete stranger in their cockpit. Basically, he feigned interest in purchasing the Fargo as his in. He then asked to come look at it, making a point of driving inside the locked gate instead of remaining outside it and then walking through the gate like he should have. Then, once he looked it over thoroughly (and in my opinion should have come to the conclusion that he could hardly fit inside the 150 nevermind think he could fly the thing) he asked me if I was flying it that morning. I am a horrible liar and completely suck at coming up with excuses, and really, what the hell else did it seem like I was going to do? So I replied yes, and when he asked if he could come too, well, rather than do the intelligent thing and tell him I have a strict no-strange-loiterers policy, I told him, "I guess so."

Well, it just got worse from there. He definitely pushed the Fargo to its weight and balance limits, but tried to tell me something about how they're really weighed in at half their true limit as a safety net, or something like that. Honestly, when they manufactured a tiny, two-seater plane with a cockpit the width of a newborn baby, they did not plan on the pilot being a grotesque 300 lb alcoholic smoker. If that was the case, they would have made it with one seat in the middle and a picker that scooped up the pilot lacking the physical prowess to simply climb in. As it was, I was pressed against my door (which has a tendency to fall open at inconvenient times) as far as I could go and still could not get away from his overbearing presence.

As it was, we managed to get off the ground (good thing I only had half-tanks of fuel) to which he proceeded to tell me where to go, when to turn, how to operate my GPS and eventually, took over my controls. Why did I not stop him? I don't know. I'm not usually the type of person who is afraid to stand up for myself, but I was just so completely uncomfortable with the situation I just tried to make it as bearable as possible until I could get back down and away from him. But, I did have to draw the line at taking my controls, and I took them back and told him I was in a hurry so had to go in to land. Unfortunately, even that was not free of his unwanted expertise as he usually comes in to land in a slip and quickly straightens up right when he's going to touch down. Perhaps I should have explained to him that his unwanted presence had thrown the Fargo off-balance enough that flying straight was challenging enough. Then again, I should have told him no when he first asked to come, but it was too late for that.

I thought I was free and clear once we'd landed, but that was when he chose to ask questions about the Fargo under pretense of buying it, even though he had told me he was unemployed, living in a trailer park, and smelled like he couldn't afford enough hot water to shower, nevermind wash his clothes. But, looks can be deceiving, so I answered his questions and then told him I'd let him out the gate. It took nearly 30-minutes to get him out of there, what with him asking me how much I fly, my one-word answers, and his snooping about the other planes in the hangar. But get him out I did but then had to go home and shower and wash my clothes myself as his boozy-cigarette scented remnants were on them from the quick 30-minutes we spent together in the Fargo's tiny cockpit.

What did I learn from this? Never, never take some stranger up in your airplane. Especially one that is willing to jump into any plane he can regardless of who's flying. He didn't even ask if I had a licence, then again, he thought pretty highly of his own flying abilities (even though he could not pass the test) so must have assumed he'd be able to take over if I proved incapable. But now that leaves me incapable of doing the same thing myself! Here I am, completely grossed out by this creep and now having to replace the mouthpiece of my headset and sanitize the interior of the Fargo, and I was going to do the same thing to Mr. Maule. So really, that does not make me much better. Then again, I don't stink. And I have to say, that fact alone could have been what completely grossed me out. Perhaps if I shower, make sure I've got on clean clothes and just a little perfume, asking the owner of the Maule for a ride might not come across as a creepy, stalker kind of thing to do. Then again, adding perfume just opens up a whole other can of worms when asking strange men for favors, so really, maybe I'll just stick to flying myself in the Fargo for a while, and keep a passenger with me at all times.

Damn Technology

I went for lunch today at the airport. My mother invited me, I had some time off and since the winds were beyond awful, I figured I may as well since I couldn't fly. She'd heard the food at the airport was really good, so I agreed to meet her there.

Now when I say the wind was awful, it was horrible. It was bad enough that it ripped my driver's side door out of my hands, smashing into the vehicle parked beside me when I tried to get out. Fortunately, my vehicle and the other vehicle are both white, and the one I hit was a City truck, so was quite used to being mistreated. Either way, I managed to wipe away my marks with little noticeable damage. Then again, I guess I could have just told you it was insanely windy without incriminating myself, but I am not one to hold anything back so there you go.

So I get blown into the restaurant and what do I see through the window? A helicopter sitting outside by the pumps. I have not been in a helicopter and am anxiously awaiting my chance, but I could not imagine flying one on a day such as this. You know in cartoons when the characters are being blown sideways in the wind, holding onto lampposts and trees to keep from blowing away? That's today. And yet, a helicopter will still fly. Then, not only that, but a little Mooney came in shortly after the helicopter took off. Now, am I doing something wrong to avoid taking to the skies when it's moving at gusts beyond 30 kts? Or is this another example of the inferiority of my flying skils and/or airplane. Because I doubt the Fargo could keep its wings on a day such as this.

Either way, even with the wind outside, I was jealous of the guy walking across the apron after landing his Mooney. Not that I would want one, no, wait, I would as my second airplane,  but I was jealous that he was at a skill level that he could take on a day such as this. I was also jealous of the fact that he obviously had to be somewhere (because who would fly in these winds for a little fun, jaunt about the countryside) that he couldn't hold off until the wind died down. So while these pilots were getting on with their day and their, I'm guessing, employed flying gigs, I was eating at the restaurant with my mother, jealous and pouty I wasn't going up there too. Which brings me to the original point of my blog....

Originally, I was going to complain that my stupid computer wouldn't let me renew my microsoft office and therefore I could not get started writing an article about the amazing restaurant at my airport that I was going to perfect and send in for publishing. Instead, I just complained that I couldn't fly in blustery, insanely windy conditions and get paid for it. Well, I guess we all go on tangents once in a while, and I'm usually guiltier than most (and yes, guiltier is a word, it might just be my own, but it's still a word. If you can read it, it's a word). So now I must try again to find a way to download Microsoft Word so soon you can all read my articles somewhere beyond this blog, let's just hope they make much more sense than this one did.

Boys Suck!

Here's another reason why you boys suck and why I'm stuck trying to figure all this out on my own...

The last time I flew into a nearby airport, I saw a wicked cool Maule parked by one of the hangars. It was pretty much exactly what I wanted and I was drooling over it (well, I won't say drooling but I also won't say what I was as that would be inappropriate). It had tundra tires, was a silver and green color, and was basically bad-assed. Honestly, I'd never seen them up close like that, only pictures, and I loved it! So, I made a point of remembering the call sign so I could track down the owner of the plane.

No, I didn't want to stalk the owner of the Maule, murder him in his sleep and then steal his plane. I just thought maybe I could find out who he was and potentially convince him to take me for a flight (really, if you had a plane like that wouldn't you want to show it off to admiring fans?). But when I ran this idea by someone else, just to see if perhaps it might come across a little insane to track down a stranger and ask for a ride in his plane, his response was: you can't, you're a girl.

That response is not why you boys suck, the fact that he was right is why you suck! If I was a guy, it wouldn't be too big of a deal to walk up to the guy that owns the plane, befriend him, and get a ride in the Maule. My understanding is that's how things have always been done and in the past, many pilots actually learned to fly that way by simply hanging around airports and learning as much as they could from whoever was around. The fact that I'm a girl changes things. Now that guy behind the controls of the Maule is thinking in his head that I'm potentially trying to pick him up, adding an underlying tension to the whole thing. Where in reality, I'm only in love with his plane, he's wondering what his chances of getting into my pants are (this has actually happened before and it really is uncomfortable, and now where I could have had someone else to fly with, he's now awkward and uncomfortable around me).

Basically, I'm blaming you guys for my inability to fly in as many planes as possible with as many pilots as I can. If any contact you had with a woman didn't have to do with their sexual potential, I'd be much happier. Then, when I try to join your conversation I'd be viewed just like everyone else and nothing would have to be awkward. Or if I climbed into the plane beside you, there would be no tension while groping for seatbelts or headsets. I could simply walk up to you, tell you I liked your plane, then go for a ride without any attachments or expectations. Would it make things better for you guys if I simply ungendered myself? (Yes, that is a word, and no, I doubt you'll find it in the dictionary). Basically, I'll start dressing in unisex clothes, give myself a buzz cut, and wear masculine hats so the only question running through your mind when I ask for a flight is if I'm a woman who likes women or a man with delicate features. At least if you're thinking we're both after the same thing, the question whether or not you'll be joining the mile-high club would never enter your head and I never have to feel awkward because of it.

No Girls Allowed!

At some point or another growing up as kids, some boy would have hung up some sign somewhere with the warning, "No Girls Allowed!" Now, not every boy might have written such a sign and posted it, but most boys would have been involved with this in some way or another. Or there would have been some kind of secret club that girls were not privy to, or some kind of secret handshake. Not that girls didn't do it too, but usually they wanted boys attention so they usually just did it in some form of retaliation at being left out. The problem is, as much as you'd think we've grown out of such childplay, I think it's worse now as adults. And I think it all comes down to the fact that boys, and men, are scared of girls, or think we're some weird kind of species that is different from them in some way or another.

Perhaps not all men are scared of girls, or you'd like to argue against this, but I've seen it with my own eyes on several occasions. I've attempted to join a conversation of men to find everyone standing in silence the moment they realize I'm in earshot. Or entered a room full of men only to watch them scatter, to which I am left wondering exactly what it is I've done wrong. And really, I wouldn't care that much, if you guys find my presence discomfitting, fine, then I can leave. The problem is, that tends to leave me quite alone when pursuing a hobby rather lacking in feminine company. So while you guys are standing around trading tricks of the trade, or joining each other on flights to this or that fishing hole, I'm left by myself, wondering where the hell to go.

But I've decided that being left on my own maybe isn't so bad. At least this way, when I push myself a little, the accomplishment is all mine. It's just a good thing I like to read, so that where I may have been able to jump in with someone else and learn a few tricks of the trade, instead I'll just have to find the right book and learn from someone else's experiences. Besides, I've usually been the type not to let anything stop me from doing what I wanted to do, so why am I letting the fact that I have no one to help me stop me from trying new things flying. Perhaps because there's always the risk of death if I do something wrong or make a big mistake. On the other hand, if I don't do it myself, I'll never learn how. And really, contrary to what most people say, I'm pretty sure the chances of me dying are pretty slim. Major injuries? Perhaps. But you can always recover from an injury.

So, I've come to the realization that I'm on my own with this whole flying thing and I guess I have to stop making excuses and waiting around for someone else to show me what to do. I'm just going to have to go do it myself, learning as I go, and hope that my mistakes remain limited to improper lingo or forgetting batteries in my GPS and not landing in a field that had just been seeded by gun-wielding drug lords or mistaking a swamp for a runway. And I guess, if it comes down to it, my super-awesome instructor is only just a phone call away just waiting to share his knowledge and prowess with me... 

In the time since I made a complete fool of myself to the control tower (see "What the Hell is Beta?" post) I've come to the conclusion that I'm in desperate need of more flight training. Or review. Or both. Either way, my aviation knowledge is definitely lacking and in need of upgrading. And since there does not seem to be any chance of trading in the Fargo any time soon, I may as well make use of her while she's around. The problem is, additional flight training means spending time in a little cockpit with an instructor I can't stand.

I will be the first to admit it, pilots seem to think a little more highly of themselves than most other hobbiests. And really, why not? Can you honestly say you've not watched a youtube video of someone flying their RC plane and thought to yourself, "go fly a real plane and stop playing with toys?" And then after that or some similar thought, did not a little self-satisfied smile creep across your face because you, at least, could fly a real plane and that person is left to remote flying pretend ones? Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to say I'm any better than anyone else, I'm just saying, there's something about being able to lift yourself off the ground and fly through the air that makes you feel part of some elite group that is able to do the impossible. When you leave the safety of the runway and see your passenger's excited and somewhat nervous face, you feel pretty cool. Even without a passenger, you still feel pretty cool. Not many people can look into the air and say, "It's a good day for a flight. I think I'll go." You worked hard to be able to say that, and now you're part of only a handful of people who can. So, being a pilot is a bit of an earned sense of entitlement. The problem is, some people take it too far. People like my flight instructor.

On a side note, I just to quickly explain myself as I'm sure that last paragraph made me seem like a haughty, arrogant, pilot (or, if you'd like, simply read the last post I just made, the one where I was too dumb to tie a rope, that will prove I don't think even a little too highly of myself, I'm apparently not smart enough). Fist of all, I fly the Fargo. That along is enough to keep me humble. And really, I don't fly it all that well either, so that also brings my arrogance down a few notches. Until I'm flying loops in a plane that would make Hannes Arc jealous, I'm going to stay humble. Secondly, I don't fly so I can impress people, I fly because I absolutely, totally love it. I get grumpy when I can't fly, and often, in those grumpy periods or when I'm having difficulties as always seems to be the case, I wish I'd never taken up flying in the first place. What I'm getting at is, I'm not a pilot to show off, I'm a pilot because that's what enables me to fly. But I have a feeling my instructor is a pilot for the sole purpose of impressing others.

It's mean, I know, but I'm pretty sure my flight instructor was not well-liked as a child. He gives off this, repeatedly-shoved-into-lockers-and-had-lunch-money-stolen-every-day-at-school kind of vibe. And I understand, school is hell for most people. The thing is, I don't think he's really moved on. I think he's still trying to prove that he's cool by reciting his flight hours to anyone that will listen. And yes, he has quite a few. Good for him. I have about 1% of his flight time. But I really don't think that makes him a better person. I think that makes him more exerienced, which would probably be helpful to someone like me, but he doesn't share this exerience well. As opposed to trying to help you improve, he uses your lack of experience to hold you back while opening up more opportunities to show off all his knowledge. It is precisely this attitude that is making it hard for me to get more flight training.

Find another instructor, you say? I would. But there aren't any around. The other school refuses to teach in my own plane and I'm not about to pay 150 bucks an hour to rent another useless lame plane when I have my own perfectly lame one racking up hangar rent. So, my option is to teach myself and review the material from my Private Licence, or swallow any ego I might have and climb in next to this instructor and try to weed out any useful tidbits of knowledge I can find amongst his bragging. Well, when I put it that way, the decision becomes quite obvious...I must find a third option. There's got to be one out there.

The Gods Are Against Me!

Last I checked, I was not illegitimately fathered by Zeus; nor had I engaged in any illicit behavior with Zeus. The problem is, he's a very tricky fellow, and often when he wants something, he gets it. He's come to women in the form of showers of gold, various animals, and in impersonations of other people. So really, who's to know if he hadn't jumped into bed with my mother and fathered me, or, jumped into bed with me in disguise so I don't know the difference? What does this have to do with anything you ask? Well, the other day, when I was fighting through the snow and mud (yes, you heard right, snow, and mud, and puddles actually) to get the Fargo back into it's place in the hangar, I realized that someone is against me, and that someone had to be Hera, Zeus' wife. Why would Hera be against me? Well, that's what the whole beginning of this paragraph. I must have been either a bastard child of Zeus' or some form of adulterous conquest, because those were always the causes of Hera's anger. And she always found out, she is a godess herself afterall. And when she did find out, she always retaliated. Never really against Zeus as much as at the objects of his conquests. Hence, myself  being one.

I know, I make no sense. Let me explain a little better; consider Heracles (the Romans changed his name to Hercules, but he was originally Heracles). He was the child of one of Zeus' illicit affairs and Hera made him go crazy and kill his wife and kids, to which he had to atone with the 12 labours, but that's not a pleasant thought so that's often cut out of the stories. She also tested many of the heros to get back at them for being children of her husband. She also tried to kill the women he slept with, whether they wanted to sleep with him or not. My point is, I'm pretty sure she's testing me. Not in the same sense as Heracles or Perseus, I'm not on some quest to kill three-headed lizards or man-eating lions, but every time I try to fly, something makes my life utter misery. So instead of blaming it on my wimpy, feminine strength or lack of mechanical ability, I'm blaming it on the fact that some jealous greek goddess is out to get me. It's just more interesting that way.

So, what did Hera do to me this time? Well, not that much, just sent enough obstacles to make myself question, once again, why I put myself through all off this for a simple little gander around the area. There was a compacted, icy, snow ridge blocking only the part of the hangar containing my plane. And all around it was either cold, thick mud or icy cold puddles in the grass. I had to run through the mud to find a shovel to get it out only to  be ankle deep in near-frozen water. But at least, at that point, I had my friend to help me. The problem was what happened when I returned. It was cold, we were wet, and I felt bad making my friend wait for me in the muddy sludge that was supposed to be a hangar. All I had left to do was winch it in anyway, so I told her I was fine so she could return to the cozy warmth of her home.

The rope on the winch broke. Snapped right in half when I was trying to pull in the Fargo by its tail. So, I had to make an attempt to push it in, as it was still half-out of the hangar. I was slipping and sliding in the mud, getting wetter and colder by the minute, and the Fargo wouldn't budge. I tried pushing it, pulling it, coaxing it, talking to it. Nothing worked. The Fargo was hell-bent on remaining where it was. I'm pretty sure had I looked, I would have seen Hera leaning against the back of the hangar, somehow immaculately clean in her white robes, laughing at me and saying, "And you want to fly into the bush? Well, you can't even park it in a hangar, nevermind on a mountain top. I guess you never should have slept with my husband."

Honestly, when you have a goddess against you, is there much point continuing the struggle? I mean, she had the force of Olympus on her side. And I was a wet, cold, weak little human with no sign of divine ancestry that I know of. So I went home. Later I realized that perhaps it wasn't Hera or any other greek god/dess testing me, but simple common sense. It shouldn't have required Athena's wisdom to realize I simply could have tied a knot in the rope. I guess next time I curse the gods for making my life miserable, I should really just curse my parents for not giving me the sense required to tie my own shoes!

What the Hell is Beta?

For the past 6 months or so I have remained in my own little air zone of comfort; pretty much within 25 nm of the Fargo's parking spot. It's cozy and not the least bit intimidating. I know the people around me. I'm pretty sure the controllers know me and I've made an ass of myself on the radio enough times with them that I just don't care anymore. However, I've been thinking it's time to leave my little 25 nm circle. And so, I did leave it, just the other day, which made me realize I've got a lot of learning/review to do!

It wasn't that I was going very far. Just to the next airport over. But this airport is a little bigger...as in, it's got a tower with a controller inside (not like mine, which has a tower, but it's empty inside. Which is nice. Knowing they can't see you and your ugly landings is rather comforting) and it's got 4 runways instead of two and taxiways. Two taxiways to be more precise, which is what led to my final flub, but I'll get to that later.

So, I decided I should just fly over to that other airport. Enough with flying around, I needed a destination. I didn't really plan anything, there was someone on the other side of the destination expecting me so I didn't need to file a flight plan, and I've driven that way so many times I knew where I was going. If anything, I thought, I'd have my GPS to help me along. Or so I thought.

The batteries died on my GPS as soon as I called airborne. Good thing I had my map. At least I could situate myself and the airport into my line of flight. The problem is, my judge of distance kind of sucks and that runway creeps up a lot faster than you'd think. No later had I called into the tower than I found myself on Left Base ready to turn final. So I panicked, called in final, and then realized I was way, way further than I thought. Either way, I made it, but the controller I'm pretty sure was starting to wonder about me. Since this was after he asked me a questiond previously and I couldn't remember how to say yes and I'd forgotten which was the preferred runway he'd just told me a moment earlier.

If he thought I had no idea what I was doing when I was coming in to land, I confirmed his wonderings once I called down and then had to ask where to go. But calling where to go wasn't probably too big of a deal, the thing was, I had to call where to go, then how to get there. And how did I ask to get there? I asked if I should take taxiway Beta. Yes. Beta.

I parked. Picked up my passenger. Then went to leave, once again asking if the best way to get where I was going was taxiway Beta. He said yes. So, I started to go, then called in that I was entering taxiway Beta and it hit me. Bravo! Taxiway Bravo! What an idiot! There is no Beta in the phonetic alphabet. At least not in the one I learned. Where did that even come from? And I knew I was wrong when I called it, in my head I had just convinced myself that they called taxiways different than anything else. As in, Alpha was the Greek number one so Beta was the Greek number two. I was making things up in my head just to convince myself I knew what I was doing, which obviously, I didn't.

Regardless, I made it out of there. I did call in Bravo once before leaving, just so that the controller knew I wasn't a complete idiot, but I doubt that convinced him. I think from now on, at least until I do some much needed review, I'm going to stay in my little circle of comfort. At least the people in that circle expect me to be completely scatterbrained, but I don't need to let others know that too.

"When in Doubt, Chicken Out"

There you have it, my new favorite quote. Definitely not one to instill confidence and pride. It's no, "seize life by the horns and beat it down until you come up on top," like most of them are in one way or another. But, from an aviation perspective, it's pretty good. And I'm pretty sure I read it on some aviation website. Oh yes, I did. When I was reading the how-to's on hand propping.

Don't get me wrong, I like inspirational quotes as much as the other. They're posted all over my board. And I'm pretty sure one or two of them helped me get through to my licence when I wanted to quit. But when you're flying, those who tell you to laugh in the face of danger or to throw caution to the wind and take a chance, probably wouldn't then get in a plane with you. Why? Because you'll more than likely kill them, or give them a landing they'll tell stories about for years to come.

I've been waiting a long time to take my friend up in my plane. Not really just to take her flying and show off my awesome skill in my wicked plane (yes, take note of the sarcasm here), but to also have an hour or two of her just to myself. There were no familial obligations at 4000 FT, no tight schedules, no phone calls, just me and my friend in the Fargo. Unfortunately, the Fargo was not happy with me and ran like a sonofabitch, leaving me in a rather difficult predicament. To get her up there in the first place required a great deal of reassuring; you know, the typical, no, we're not going to crash and die, and yes, there are many places to land if we did have trouble, but no, it's really safe. Then, I take off and the plane shakes.

So, here was my dilemma. Pretend there is nothing wrong and try to continue with the flight as best as possible, keeping careful eye on the surrounding fields and roads for a good landing spot at all times. Or tell her, this thing is not running well we have to go in, and eliminate any chance of her ever climbing into the cabin of my little Fargo again.

Usually, when there is something wrong or iffy with the Fargo, I ask a friend, to which he always replies, it will be fine. Lately, the replies have become, go flying you big baby. So, I figured that would be the response he would have given me had I asked him, and tried to go with, it will be fine. I kept an eye on things, listened ever so carefully to the rough chug of the engine, until I finally decided, I can't keep up the ruse, things may not be fine and I don't want her experience with me to be one of an emergency landing into a muddy, sticky field. Hell, who am I kidding? Her husband is a rather large man, her father is extremely overprotective, and both of them have access to guns. . . lots of guns, and I wasn't ready to end my flying career when it had only just begun.

So, I told her we were going in, I went with the quote and chickened out. And, it did turn out to be nothing. Well, not completely nothing, but nothing serious, just a dirty spark plug. But I hate that my flying tends to be a little on the chicken-shit side of things than the rough and tumble bush pilot end. However, I guess this attitude is what will enable me to get to the more rough and tumble end of things because I'll have time left to learn it as opposed to crashing into a ditch because of a stupid decision. And, I have to admit, as boring and irritating as those cautious types are on the ground, I'd much rather be in the air with one of them than a fun, fearless daredevil. Honestly, would you rather fly with Travis Pastrana who's jumped his dirt bike farther than anyone else? Or with the old man down the street who never fails to cross his t's and dot his i's? Not to mention, I couldn't help but notice that my friend sat in the drivers seat of the Fargo for the first time in a long time when taking it up for the test flight. Seems he wasn't in the mood to risk my emergency landing either.

A Whole Lotta Ignorance

According to my brief internet search, Albert Einstein was quoted saying, "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing." However, I also found a similar quote by Terry Pratchett, stating: "They say a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, but it's not one half so bad as a lot of ignorance.” Whether it was Einstein or Pratchett, or both, I'm still basically screwed.

Why is this? How can such a quote make me think there's no hope for me? Especially since I am neither ignorant, nor dumb. I actually like to think of myself as rather intelligent. Unfortunately, flying takes that all away. And I think, when you get into the cockpit of an airplane, be it a Fargo or a 747, you cannot afford to be either ignorant or dumb. When you're in the air, you'd better be able to put Einstein to shame, or head back into the airport.

My problem is, I have the "little knowledge" that they describe as dangerous. I know enough about aviation and flying and airplanes to have passed the necessary exams and earned my Private Pilot's Licence (from herein known as PPL) but not enough to really know how to fly and more importantly, deal with problems as they arise.

Over the years I have earned enough mechanical knowledge to recognize an engine when I see one. Actually, with the work I've done on the Fargo I can recognize spark plugs, cylinders, various wires and hoses. Unfortunately I do not truly understand how they all work, or, more importantly, how they do not work. So now, I know how things should probably be (like, there most likely shouldn't be puddles of oil accumulating under my airplane or the cab shouldn't smell like smoke) but when they are not as they should, I don't know what to do about it. I just know something is wrong and then get paranoid and worry some more. Basically, to quote someone else (and I'm  not looking this up so just assume I'm giving credit to whichever person first said it) I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. Where the airplane could easily just be running rough since it's 40-years old, I'm worried that the propeller is unbalanced and going to fall off.

All airplanes have a run up and walk around. I basically understand that. Screws must be tight. Hinges must be oiled. Safety wire and codder pins must be present. And I also know to check the mixture setting, the mags, the carb heat, suction, etc. The problem is, I don't know what to do if they do not behave exactly as they are supposed to. So is a higher than normal mag drop a big deal? Or am I going to call an AME and make a complete fool of myself and cost myself a few hundred bucks only to have him run the engine hot for a few minutes and clean out the plugs. And, when I ask another pilot if something is a big deal when it isn't running right, and his reply is, it shouldn't be a problem, what do I think then? It shouldn't be a problem? But what if it is? What then? What are the signs that it is a problem? And if it is, and for some reason I manage to clue into the signs, how much time do I have? Time for a proper circuit before landing? Time to find a field and hope for a relatively smooth landing? Or time to regret becoming an atheist because now I have to face nothingness instead of what could have been a relatively good afterlife in heaven?

This is the problem with flying and what makes it scary, at least for me. If I was told, "it shouldn't be a problem," when my truck was running a little rough, I wouldn't worry about it, because if it did become a problem I'd just pull over. Unfortunately, there aren't any shoulders in the sky. No rest stops, pull outs, gas stations with a mechanic. Nothing. Just air. And air doesn't hold you up very well without a propeller.

So, I guess I'm going to have to move away from the "little knowledge" about airplanes into the enough knowledge to stop flying scared, paranoid, or unsafely. Because, as appealing as it is to simply be ignorant and not worry about anything, I rather do enjoy my life and am not in the mood to have it end any time soon because I was clueless even to the basic signs. Furthermore, my ability to fly an airplane has a great deal to do with enjoying my life, so flying frustrated and paranoid because I'm not sure if something is truly wrong or not is just not going to work. Perhaps, instead of looking up quotes on the internet, I should have been looking up reasons why my engine is running wrong in the first place. Then again, I got two different authors for one quote and still am unsure as to the correct one. I guess i'll have to pick up the phone and call the AME afterall. At least that way if he tells me it's not a problem and it is, those I leave behind can sue for damages.  

Tailwheel vs Nosewheel

The other day, in my attempt to sell my beloved Fargo (ha!), I was asked a question by the potential buyer: "Why are you selling?"

Isn't that the obvious question of the day? All he needed to do was look at the thing...it's a Cessna 150. It's tiny and gutless and, I have to admit, he looked absolutely ridiculous when he sat in it. However, I was attempting to make a sale, so I couldn't tell him that. So I told him the other honest answer...I want to buy a tailwheel.

Now, I thought that would have satisfied him. But I don't think we hang out with the same type of pilots. Because the one I hang out with (and yes, one is the key word, although I have been broadening my horizons a little and have worked up the courage to talk to a few others when they're hanging about the hangar, but that is a whole different blog altogether) would have understood that response and would not have needed any further explanation. This guy, however, was not satisfied with my answer and pushed a little further, "But why do you want a tailwheel over a nosewheel?"

Oh. He didn't know. I guess not everyone knows. Especially when, for the most part, we all learn on the 150s (or some variation of them: 152s, 172s, etc). They're all little Cessna Nosewheels. And if I'd never been in a tailwheel, I guess I would not understand either. Then again, maybe not. Because I've been around the airport enough to watch many small aircraft come and go. I've scoured the various airplane classifieds. I've been to other airports, busier airports, and sat fascinated by all the little airplanes scattered all over by their various owners, and I have to say, nothing can turn my head like a tailwheel (and tailwheel they are, for they have small wheels in the back. A taildragger does not have a wheel but a type of skid plate or somesort that is drug along the ground, hence, taildragger). So this is where my question is: why do I want a tailwheel? Take away the fact that my first experience in a small airplane was in a Piper PA-22/20 (a tailwheel) and you're usually partial to your first cool experience. And then, the pilot who helped get me into flying is an avid tailwheel enthusiast so has gotten me rather biased to them, but this guy, this potential buyer, made me question my desires a little. I didn't want to be buying a tailwheel just because I idolize this other pilot and follow his every word. I wanted to be wanting one because I, as a pilot in my own right, wanted one. And was that the case?

I think my answer is yes. For one, they're just cool! I've never been into sleek, fancy sports cars. Actually, the more they're considered fast and expensive, the less I like them. Take the first Transformers movie, for example. I preferred Bumblebee when he was the older (can't remember the year), beat up camaro. He was cool. He was different than every other plastic vehicle crowding the roads these days. He was made of metal. He was old-school. Then, in their most likely very expensive marketing strategy, he became the new-style chevy camaro. And that is where my love affair with Bumblebee died. He became a new, plastic (I know they're not made of plastic, but really, crash a '70s Camaro into a new camaro and which one do you think will survive? Definitely not the new one that will crack and crumble due to it's cheaper, flimsier material), toy-looking car.

You're wondering where I am going with this? Yes, I digress a little, but I return to the tailwheel vs nosewheel question. A tailwheel is the old Bumblebee, rugged, rough around the edges, functional. A nosewheel is the new camaro. Yes, it's nice, probably more comfortable, faster, with more conveniences, but it's just not as cool. Not everyone can pull off an old muscle car without seeming out of place. You've got to have the style and personality to go with it. When is the last time you saw anyone climb out of their supercub in a suit and tie?

But I have gone off on quite a tangent and need to return to the original questino asked by this potential buyer; "Why do I want a tailwheel?"

Obviously, you cannot see where I live from this page on the computer. But there is not a great deal of civilisation around here. And along with that, comes a lack of airports around with good restaurants. It seems the usual theme of flying is going from airport to airport for a good breakfast, or the $100 hamburger. Well. This airport has the best food around. There's only two other ones close by that have any form of restaurants, and one is barely better than a McDonald's, and the other one gets boring quickly. So where am I to go? My only option is the bush, as in, the nearby fields, rivers, mountains and lakes. That's pretty much the only places I can get to on a day trip. A nosewheel, especially the horsepower-deprived 150 that I have, is not exactly ideal for those situations. I doubt it could handle floats, or if it could, it could hardly keep itself in the air as it lacks the power to carry myself and a passenger around most days. If I tried to land in a nearby field I'd most likely be fine, but I wouldn't get back out. Not to mention the fact that 6 months of the year those fields are covered with snow and the rivers and lakes are iced over. I'm sure the Fargo could handle skis, but the idea of landing nose first with that prop so close to a lump of ice is not exactly exciting to me.

So, really, I don't think the plane itself is in question, but the pilot. What kind of pilot are you? If you're happy to fly along at 4000-10,000 FT, going airport to airport for your hamburgers, that's great. The Fargo is for you (although, good luck getting to 10,000 FT, it tends to flatten out at 5000). However, it's not for me. If anything, I'm going to fly and land in my sister's canola field. For that, I need a tailwheel. And along the way, I might try to fly along the river and stop on a gravel bar to catch a fish for my lunch (obviously, this is assuming I have the skill to do that). And if I've got a weekend to kill, I'm going to spend it flying into a secluded lake in the middle of nowhere instead of trying to make my way into a busy airport with it's control towers and landing fees. And, on the off-chance that I do decide to head to a more densely populated area, I can still do that. I may look like country mouse coming to the city with my overly large tundra tires and mud stuck to the underbelly, but that's fine by me. I'll most likely have holes in my jeans too.