Perhaps a bit of personal history is
in order at this point. I'm not a complete novice at this
flying thing. Nosirree Bob, I've flown many times, and
not just in one of those glorified airborne buses known
as an airliner. When I were just a wee lad of 11, my mother
married a fellow who was not only a highly experienced
pilot, but also the owner of Kent Aviation, a small charter
company based in Chilliwack, B.C., Canada. He was also
the airport manager, and had at one time been the chief
flying instructor for the Chilliwack Flying Club. At the
time of my entrance to the story, his "fleet"
consisted entirely of single engined Cessnas - two 172s,
two 182s, a 185 (later lost in a fatal accident), a 205
and a 206. Later he added a twin-engined Piper Aztec.
He was a fine pilot with many thousands of hours of experience
including flying Grumman Avenger water bombers, and once
he even landed a Piper Cub on a specially built platform
on a car at an airshow. And that's as far as my praise
for him will go, because unfortunately, he and I did not
get along at all well. To be brutally honest in fact,
I despised him. But that's another story. Suffice to say,
I did get many opportunities to fly with him and his company
pilots, and was allowed to take the controls on more than
one occasion. Though it would have been nice to have taken
advantage of his knowledge and experience and learned
to fly with him, it just wasn't going to happen.
So, fast forward to 2006. My girlfriend (I'll call her Kate, because that's
her name) gives me a trial flying lesson for a combined Christmas / 41st
birthday present. Or perhaps it was because she was tired of me waffling
on about all things aircraft. Either way, it was a generous gift that I
was thrilled to get. Now it's time to put my money where my mouth has been
all these years.... *gulp*
Saturday, January 28th, 2006.
The trial lesson is with Lancashire Aero Club, based at
Barton Airfield near Manchester. I arrive on the day which,
surprisingly, is pretty decent weather-wise, especially
considering it's January and it's northern England. I
meet my instructor (I'll call him Tony, because that's
his name), and after a brief discussion and filling out
of forms we're off to the plane, a Cessna 150. My first
impression is how incredibly tiny this thing is. The smallest
plane I'd been in before was a 172 and that was reasonably
comfortable. By comparison the 150 is about as spacious
as a sardine tin. "The hardest part is getting in"
Tony says, and he's absolutely right. If either of us
were built like a Sumo wrestler there's no way in hell
we'd fit in this thing. We start up and taxi out. Admittedly,
I'm a bit nervous at this point. The last time I'd flown
in a light aircraft I'd been about 16. Would I still find
it as enjoyable? Would I fear for my life? More importantly,
would I spew my breakfast all over the cockpit at the
first sign of an air pocket??
I'd mentioned that I'd flown a fair amount many years previously,
so Tony asks me if I'd like to do the takeoff. "Ummm....
sure, why not?". Cripes! This is unexpected. Did I
overstate my experience and give him the wrong impression?
I hope not. I'm given the brief. Sounds pretty easy - in
theory. We line up, I advance the throttle and we're away.
The plane picks up speed and begins to veer off to the left
as I had been warned. A bit of right rudder straightens
it out and next thing you know, we're airborne. Hey, that
was alright. In fact, that was a hoot! My nervousness vanishes
- I'm f**kin' lovin' it!!
We climb to 1000 feet slowly (you can't rush a C150 I learn)
and head north. The Reebok Stadium looms in the distance,
mecca for fans of the Bolton Wanderers football team who
ignore the police notices on match days and park on our
street anyway. Tossers. But I digress. We drop to 500 feet
and circle briefly over my house and then climb up to 2000
feet and head over to the "stick", the radio and
television mast on Winter Hill behind my house. The top
of this mast is 2100 feet above sea level. I note that there's
a small hatch and a tiny platform, like a crows nest, at
the top of the mast. I'm quite comfortable flying past it,
but you couldn't entice me to stand on that tiny platform
for all the tea in England, and that's a lot of tea.
Over to to the coast now and Tony puts us into a shallow
dive (a gliding descent I'm to discover in lesson 3). "500
feet is the minimum legal height above populated areas but
you can go as low you like over unpopulated areas"
he tells me. Cool. We fly over Southport beach at 100 feet
altitude. I would have thought this would have been an ideal
moment for a Battle of Britain fantasy, racing low over
the beach in my powerful Spitfire in pursuit of a fleeing
Me 109 whle the crowds cheer me on below. In retrospect,
it's perhaps not surprising that the thought never occurred
to me, since a Cessna 150 resembles a Spitfire about as
much as a Lada resembles a Formula 1 car. As we climb back
to 500 feet to pass over some beachcombers, the scene that
does pop into my head however is that of Jimmy Stewart in
"The Spirit of St. Louis", and I have a brief
urge to open the window and yell out, "Hey! Which way
to Ireland?!?" Since I already know which way to Ireland,
and I have no current plans to go there in a Cessna 150,
it seems a bit pointless, so I decide against opening the
window.
All too soon the flight is over and we're in the circuit over Barton.
We touch down on the grass strip and taxi back to park. "That was fantastic!
I've got to do this", I think. It's a nice dream, but one I've had
for a long time. Ah well, it will always remain a dream I suppose. Little
did I know....
Back to Captain's Blog Main
Lesson
2: Straight & Level Flying