My love affair with old airplanes started on a golden summer evening in southern Indiana, when I got a ride in a 1929 Arrow Sport biplane. It was small and yellow, with cream-colored wings and a side-by-side cockpit trimmed in wood and leather that reminded me of a vintage sports car.
It was not my first ride in a small airplane, but it remains my most memorable. As the biplane lifted off the runway, the rough, crackling sound of its radial engine filling my ears, I had the odd sensation of leaving behind not only the ground, but also the current day. Looking past the airplane's silver flying wires and narrow spoked wheels, the mist- covered hills and farms below could have been those of 1932. In five short minutes, the hectic modern world had dropped away, and I had entered a magical, misty place that seemed almost outside of time. Suddenly, I was aware of all the pilots who must have flown this airplane before me, of how they would have seen the world, the similar sounds and smells they would have known. I almost felt that if I listened hard enough, I might even be able to hear them talking or feel their hands on the controls.
This was not just an airplane, it was a time machine to adventures both past and present, and I decided then and there that I wanted to learn to fly. Of course, the Cherokee Warrior I had to rent for my flying lessons was decidedly less romantic than the biplane that had inspired me, but my hours in it did lead me to a couple of important conclusions. First, although the Warrior was a good, solid little airplane, I realized that what I really wanted was to fly an old airplane. I wanted to touch that place outside of time again, and I wanted an airplane that had history, secrets, and adventures of its own. Unfortunately, airports with old airplanes available for rental are rare. And even if I could have found one with a Champ or Cub on the line, I did some quick math and realized that with rental rates of $40-plus an hour, my flying time in anything was going to be extremely limited if I had to rely on renting an airplane.
So even before I finished my license, I began trying to figure out a way to buy my own airplane. It would have to be cheap, and I had already decided I wanted something with history. Consequently, as nice as Kitfoxes or Avid Flyers might be, I never even considered a kitplane or homebuilt. In retrospect, I could say that I was totally unprepared to build an airplane, or that the cost would have been prohibitive, or that I had a private certificate burning a hole in my pocket, and I didn't want to wait three years to have my own airplane. But back then, I ruled them out simply because kitplanes were, by definition, new airplanes. Some of them might perform and even look something like an old, two-seat taildragger, but I wanted the real McCoy.
Not having the financial resources to purchase any airplane on my own, however, my airplane dreams had to wait until I found a partner who could split the cost and work involved. Fortunately, I met someone a few months later who was an aircraft mechanic and who was also looking for a partner in an old airplane. He had the skills to build a kitplane, but we both liked the idea of an airplane that could connect us with the past, and we also wanted an airplane that we could fly right away. Since our resources were extremely limited, a quick look at prices narrowed our preliminary list down to a Cessna 120/140, a Luscombe, or an Aeronca Champ or Chief. The Cessnas or the Luscombe had the advantage of being mostly or all metal, which would reduce the amount of maintenance required and allow the airplane to be stored outside, if necessary. But the bottom line was finding a good deal on something flyable.
After a couple of months of searching through Trade-A-Plane and asking everyone we knew for possible leads, someone at the airport said he thought he knew a man who might want to sell a Cessna 120. The man had bought it for his son, but the son had died, and the airplane had been sitting on the man's grass strip for some time. When we went to look at it, I was pleasantly surprised. It was not a showpiece, but it was definitely a solid, flyable airplane.
The airplane was a 1946 Cessna 120. The fabric wings had been replaced with aluminum skins, and whoever had done the work had done a very good job. It had a mid-time Continental C-85 engine and an electrical system with a starter, which was a big plus because that meant I would not have to hand-prop the airplane. The instrumentation was basic — altimeter, airspeed, turn and bank, tachometer, ammeter, oil temperature, oil pressure, and a compass accurate to within about 30 degrees — but the essentials, at least, were there. It also had a single Bendix/King KX 145 nav/com radio, which has the disadvantage of not being able to be used for navigation and communication at the same time, but which can double as a dual-frequency communication radio. The dark brown, diamond-tuck Naugahyde interior left a lot to be desired, of course, but I knew that could be replaced.
The Cessna was bare metal, with a blue and gold stripe down the side. This appealed to me, because I had always loved polished airplanes. I had often wondered, in fact, why more people didn't have them. After spending weeks with a buffer and what seemed like 16 different "magical" polishing compounds, however, I began to understand why polished airplanes are so rare.
Even in its unpolished state, however, the airplane was a good deal. It was a flyable Cessna 120 in sound condition, and the owner only wanted $5,500 for it. On January 31, 1987, we signed the papers and flew it home.
Since the airplane did not originally come with a Hobbs meter to record the flight hours on the airframe, all of its early flights were manually recorded in the airplane's logbooks, and several owners had continued the practice even after a recording tach was installed. So as I looked through the logs that evening, the airplane's past life began to unfold in front of me. On December 18, 1946, Milford D. Mardis took it on its first test flight at the factory in Wichita. Five days later, R. W. Sparks took it on its second flight when he ferried it to its new home at the Tuscarawas County Airport in New Philadelphia, Ohio. The trip took 10.25 hours. An entry dated May 29, 1964, by a pilot named Ralph Schaefer, proudly noted, "My first flight in my 120." Another owner named Lawrence Henry based the airplane in Ross, Ohio, but traveled with it as far as Montana.
Dozens and dozens of flight entries hinted of some of the places and adventures this little airplane had known. And by purchasing and flying it, I had formed a link with all of these unknown pilots whom I would probably never meet, but who would understand without my saying a word the pride and joy I felt about this particular airplane. They would know and laugh with me about its quirks — how that famous spring gear makes any landing except a perfect greaser feel like the airplane has bounced 10 feet or its annoying tendency to resist starting when the engine is hot or how the cowling latches do not always keep the cowling from coming open in flight. I liked that thought.
Of course, there is a price to be paid for the luxury of an airplane with more than 40 years of history. It is not a new machine, which I am forced to remember every time the left brake goes soft or the air vents won't stay closed or I have to clean off the oil from various little leaks it has developed over the years. We have experienced the classic year-long annual/restoration, when the airplane failed an annual because it needed new wiring, which led to a top overhaul of the engine, which led to an overhaul of the engine compartment, which led to a new interior and a new windscreen and skylights. No matter how hard I polish, it will never look shiny and new, and there will probably never be a time when everything in it works absolutely perfect.
If we had to pay someone else to fix all of these mechanical glitches, the repair bills would certainly add up, which is why some people prefer an experimental kitplane that allows them to perform a lot of their own maintenance. Of course, one could also argue that the $10,000 to $14,000 difference in initial purchase price between the Cessna and a comparable kitplane would cover quite a few maintenance bills.
In my case, the fact that my partner in the airplane is a mechanic greatly reduces the cost of our maintenance. But even if we had to pay someone else to work on the airplane, I would still think it was worth it. For one thing, it is undoubtedly the cheapest I will ever fly. Aside from the low purchase price, the airplane burns an average of only 5 gallons of fuel an hour, and its simplicity means relatively low maintenance. I didn't have to give up three years of nights and weekends building it before I could fly it. It is a Standard-category airplane, so we have no restrictions on where or how we operate it, and its Continental C-85 engine is reliable and has a standard 2,000-hour TBO. Its 900-pound empty weight and 9.1 pounds-per-square-foot wing loading mean that it is not a great airplane in winds or turbulence, but it still handles them a lot better than a 500-pound kitplane would.
A Cessna 120 may only go 110 mph on a good day, and I have had the experience of sitting over the same farmer's pond for five minutes while trying to climb in a strong headwind, but I have seen a lot of the country going that slow. We have used the airplane for adventures all over the United States, from Florida to almost the Canadian border, and from the East Coast to California. Since it is considered a Classic Aircraft, we have gotten into Oshkosh on the opening Saturday of the Experimental Aircraft Association convention when more modern Bonanzas, Mooneys, and Cessna 310s were all being turned away.
Kitplanes have come a long way in the seven years I have owned the Cessna 120, and I have learned a lot more about some of the advantages they offer. I have also spent many hours, often late into the night, learning firsthand about the headaches an old airplane can cause its owners. But even with seven years of experience and the advantage of 20/20 hindsight, I would still make the same decision about what kind of airplane to buy.
Certainly, the practical considerations of cost and time are as valid for me now as they ever were. But it is more than that. Never once in the Warrior did I land at an airport and have someone come running up to me, joy in their eyes, and say, "I learned to fly in one of these. Could I just look at it for a minute?" The way this airplane draws stories, memories, and emotion out of people never fails to amaze me. I have found myself connected not only to the pilots who flew this particular airplane in the past, but any pilot who ever flew a Cessna 120. And although this airplane is not quite as romantic as a 1929 Arrow Sport biplane, I have sometimes gone flying in that golden hour before dark and touched again that misty place outside of time, where it could be 1946 or 1961 or anytime in between.
This airplane has seen more years and changes in the world than I have, and it has let me see or sense a little of the world before I was born. It has allowed me to fly affordably, seek and find adventure, and have fun, all at the same time. It has also opened doors and communication with people I otherwise would never have known. The Cessna 120 may not be pristine, new, or perfect. But in exchange for all the gifts it offers, a little oil on the belly, some extra work, a few more headaches at annual time, and air vents that won't stay closed seem a very small price to pay, indeed.
Lane E. Wallace, AOPA 896621, is an aviation writer and private pilot who has been flying for more than seven years. In addition to co-owning the Cessna, she is restoring a 1943 Stearman.
Skystar Kitfox
It's brand new and it fits in the garage.
BY AMY LABODA
There's something I want to get straight before we go too far: Unlike some other aviation journalists, I did not build my own airplane. I flew half the test flights (but not the first flight). My name is on the insurance but not on the manufacturer's data plate, and I can do no more maintenance on the airplane than what Federal Aviation Regulation Part 43 allows any non-mechanic to do on a production airplane. That's okay, though, because I know the manufacturer and designated mechanic for my Skystar Aircraft Kitfox intimately. I compiled his notes and typed up his builder's log — all 1,100 hours' worth. I watched my flying machine come together over a blazingly fast nine-month period, while the yard went to hell and the kids and I occasionally felt neglected. I was most often a very involved bystander in this project, encountering emotions I can only imagine are somewhat akin to those that a new father feels when his wife delivers their newborn. When N557AA climbed away from the runway that sticky June 1993 morning, I was ready to pass out cigars.
Now 7AA is nearly one year and 70 flight-hours old, and we are at the point where we can look back and say, "Yeah, it was worth it." Building the kit so quickly didn't bust up our marriage (homebuilding projects of this intensity have trashed a few) because we both had our hearts, if not always our hands, invested in the project.
Both Barry and I fly for a living, so for our own airplane, we wanted a classic-looking, small, economical flying machine to go out and have fun with. We wanted a slightly aerobatic animal, something that would loop, roll, and spin on occasion. A VFR-only machine that we could eventually put on floats and it would still perform. It had to run under $30,000.
We considered buying an older Piper Cub or Bellanca Citabria and fixing it up, but we realized that the operating costs, adding in maintenance and tiedown or hangar fees, would eat an unacceptably large chunk out of our household budget. We could afford to buy a classic airplane, but we couldn't afford to own one and fly it. The Kitfox, housed in half of our two-car garage, maintained by its builder, and sipping unleaded premium autogas mixed 50:1 with two-cycle oil, looked like the kind of airplane we could own, not just purchase. Another advantage of the Kitfox, we felt, was that it would be new and it is a relatively proven kitplane. We hoped it would be less likely than a classic airplane to nickel-and-dime us into making it a hangar queen. We were attracted to this particular kit because of how complete it seemed and how amenable it was to being customized. We also believed that it would take only 500 to 700 hours of our labor to construct it. The Skystar marketing was good.
We ordered our custom Kitfox Model IV with the full intention of sharing the project. Barry had years of construction projects, including the house we live in, under his belt before tackling the airplane. I, on the other hand, had shakily assembled a Prescott Pusher trim tab four years prior and since had become highly skilled at assembling complex children's toys. What I had going for me was enthusiasm, the ability to read and follow directions, and the will to learn. The marketing people at Skystar had convinced me that this was enough to build the Kitfox.
For $18,000, we got a 16 x 6 x 5-foot crate in our driveway, containing everything from the airframe to fabric and a Rotax 582LC engine to a wooden three-blade ground-adjustable propeller. All those little bags of stuff looked so complete — overwhelmingly so. Upon inventory, however, we discovered that we had two right wing tanks. That took eight weeks to rectify. As we began roughing out our shorter, "Speedster"-type wings, we found that our construction manual contained only information on the standard wings. So the factory technical representative got on the telephone and told us how to clip the wings and add the necessary false ribs. The "Speedster" wing manual arrived hot off the press only days after the structural adhesive finished curing on our wing skeletons.
There were also other complications we didn't foresee. Within weeks of receiving the kit, it was clear that as a husband and wife team, we were sorely mismatched. Barry wanted to hustle along and get the airplane flying while I desperately needed a few basic courses in handling power tools before I ought to be allowed near any wooden or steel parts. I fumbled — I was unskilled and clumsy — and in the end, I retreated from the project and let Barry accelerate his construction speed by nearly a third, returning to the garage only when he needed an extra set of hands. Once or twice while eating supper alone, I wondered if it had been such a good idea to purchase the kit, when there were used classic airplanes out there for around the same price. As he passed the 500-hour mark only half done, even Barry wondered if we'd made the right choice.
The occasional factory airworthiness directive note, a problem all aircraft share, arrived in our mailbox, forcing us to purchase retrofit parts, usually before the installation of the defective part. Radios and a Mode C transponder had to be purchased because we operate in and out of Class C and D airspace. We also decided to spring for strobes and running lights so that we wouldn't be limited to daytime flying. We kept all nonessentials, such as the paint job and upholstery, to a minimum.
There were some things I could do to help: I was good at sanding, priming, assisting in the assembly of large parts, and gluing fabric to the wooden wing ribs. My participation was critical at each of these phases if we were to stay on the tight construction time line that Barry had established. Even if all I did was hold the wing up, it was important that it be done precisely if dihedral and the leading edges were to line up properly. I went to Sun 'n Fun in 1993 and listened while an educated Barry labored over whether we had chosen the wrong powerplant. There was a moment when I thought we might abandon the entire project.
We stuck with the lightweight two-stroke Rotax 582LC and completed the airplane, carefully monitoring the engine's Achilles heels for signs of problems. When it came time to start the engine for the first time and break it in, I was there controlling the water flow from the hose over the radiator to prevent the engine from overheating. We eventually had to reshape the bottom of the fiberglass cowling to correct the engine's tendency to run hot in the Florida summer heat.
After replacing one airspeed indicator (sticky needle), one rubber carburetor socket (broken), one windscreen (cracked), and retrofitting the dual brakes so that they could be used simultaneously by the pilot and copilot, we are satisfied with the airplane. It performs to our specifications, taking off and landing with two souls, 50 pounds of baggage, and 19 gallons of autogas in less than 500 feet. The airplane climbs loaded as such at a respectable 1,000 feet per minute, cruises at 90 miles per hour, and enjoys docile slow flight, stall, and spin characteristics. It will loop and roll, too. The final tab was $26,800 — without floats. Yes, that is more than we expected to spend. Surprised?
It takes us about a half-hour from opening the garage door to being at the airport 3 miles down the road, wings unfolded, engine running, ready for taxi. There are no hangar fees, no mechanics to pay. Premium autogas runs $1.30 a gallon, and we burn 5 to 6 gallons per hour. We go flying, sometimes just to shoot a couple of touch and goes once or twice a week. The kids like the airplane because they can see out (it has a skylight and full Lexan doors), and the little Rotax up front is quiet. I look forward to teaching them to fly it.
Best of all, there is money in the savings account again, even though last year we had to buy a car and tuck away cash for two college educations. That done, we're looking for another airplane, this time something with four seats, so the whole family can ride at once. It has to be fast, too, and do it all on a minimum of horsepower, to stay within our budget. An old Mooney maybe? Nope, you guessed: We're looking at a kitplane again.
Building and flying the Kitfox has left us with a good taste in our mouths. (So maybe Skystar's marketing department's pitch isn't so far- fetched.) We may not share construction skills and savvy, Barry and I, but we do share the sense for economy and drive for precision that makes us good candidates for a homebuilt airplane. Or maybe we are just a little compulsive about getting exactly what we want out of a flying machine. You go figure.
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