Pilotage

Taking off is like getting up in the morning: How I begin my flight, or my day, sets the tone for all that follows. Bound out of bed feeling great and it's likely to be a super day. Wake up cranky and worried and things will only go downhill. So it is with flying. A well-executed takeoff is a pretty good indication that I'm feeling sharp, that I'm mentally ahead of the airplane, and will fly precisely. A good takeoff presages a good flight.

Break down the elements of the takeoff and you see that it is made up of many small tasks. I'm using a very liberal definition of takeoff, one that covers all the things that occur at the beginning of a flight: the preflight inspection, engine start, taxi, runup, takeoff roll, and initial climb.

Organization is a key to feeling on top of things. An organized preflight, one in which I inspect the inside and out of the airplane in a logical and efficient flow, is the first clue that things are likely to go well today. Distractions — the arrival of the fuel truck or talking to a first-time passenger about the upcoming flight — don't have to be disruptive if I conduct my inspection logically and consistently. I want to do a thorough inspection, but the odds are I'm not going to find major problems like a cylinder lying on the bottom of the engine compartment or a detached aileron hinge. Instead, it's the little things that are easiest to overlook: plugs stuffed in cooling inlets and ports, low tire pressure, leaking brake fluid, keys left in the baggage door and that most maddening of squawks, chocks in front of wheels. (Of course, the discovery is always made after everyone is strapped in and the door closed.) I know I've never committed that sin, but if I did I would want to be extra careful the rest of the flight because the edge obviously is pretty dull today.

Sign number two that I'm sharp is a smooth engine start: just the right amount of priming, if needed, and an exact application of throttle so that the engine fires after a couple of blades. The caveat is that the engine has to clear quickly and run smoothly, settling on about 1,000 rpm without adjusting the throttle. How many times have I heard an engine labor to start, and when it finally does (just before starter meltdown) immediately spool up to a screaming 2,000 rpm before the fumbling, bumbling pilot yanks the throttle closed? How embarrassing. How stupid. Thank goodness I've never done that.

The clearest indication on the taxi that it is a good day, a fine day for me to fly, is when the airplane tracks the taxiway centerline like it was a train following a track. Taxiing is more difficult than it should be. Airplanes are not happy on the ground. Small airplanes steer like large, clumsy boats: reaction lags far behind action. Push a pedal and wait for something to happen, or better yet anticipate the start of a turn and push the opposite pedal to stop the turn at the right moment. Many turbine airplanes, on the other hand, have super-sensitive steering on the ground. Seems backwards to me.

The taxi is also an efficient time to accomplish some of the pre- takeoff checks such as exercising the controls, checking instruments and gauges, and setting up the radios. The problem is that this takes attention away from the chore of steering. If I find I can track the centerline while attending to some in-cockpit matters, just like those much-trained airline pilots, well, then, things are definitely looking swell.

The pre-takeoff check, like the preflight inspection, works best if thought of as an exercise in flow control. The specific flow depends on the airplane but I generally start on the right side of the panel and work my way across. That helps me to organize my work and keeps me from leaving something out. I don't refer to the checklist until I'm finished. It's not a do-list, it's a list to check myself against to make sure I've done everything.

I do the engine runup at a low power setting, usually about 1,200 rpm, or 1,500 rpm if the airplane has a propeller governor that needs to be exercised. I started doing this after someone smarter and more experienced than I had me turn around and look at the tail in the midst of a typical high-power mag check. The horizontal stabilizer was shaking and vibrating like a bead of water on a hot frying pan. Why subject the airplane to that kind of abuse when a lower, less stressful power setting does the job? There's also less chance the airplane will creep forward during the runup.

Now that all the requisite pre-launch checks have been performed, it's time to assume the position — the takeoff position, that is. But first, I must utter my personal mnemonic: Ffttdit, which of course is pronounced "Fit to do it." It stands for Fuel, Flaps, Trim, Transponder (things to be checked and/or activated as I roll onto the runway), Direction (make sure the heading indicator is set to runway alignment), Instruments (glance at power gauges and engine instruments as I advance the throttle), and Track (a reminder in the midst of the crescendo of noise, acceleration, and tension to track that centerline, dummy).

One technique I strive to practice on each and every takeoff is to power up smoothly but relatively slowly. Jamming the throttle home as if selecting Warp drive makes me wince. The poor engine instantly goes from a resting heart rate to maximum output. No chance to start pumping more oil through its arteries, no time to absorb the sudden spike in internal temperatures, no warning of the tremendous forces and loads generated by hot machinery that is executing a 180-degree change in direction every couple of milliseconds. That seems like a harsh way to treat the thing you've staked the next few moments or hours of your life on.

I don't care for leaping off the runway, levitating elevator-like in what feels like a level attitude. It's easy to do in a light airplane, but that's what helicopters are good at. Airplanes have takeoff rolls, so let them roll. I like to rotate, feel the nose rise, roll along on the mains if only for a moment, and then fly. It makes for a silky smooth, natural transition from driving to flying. If I'm flying a light plane I'm not yet used to, I have to practice to find the speed at which a big- airplane-like takeoff rotation will work, but it's a fun challenge and one that teaches me a lot about the feel of the airplane.

Once airborne I tap the brakes to stop the main wheels from rotating, tuck the gear away if that's what it does, and set climb power. Now I have a couple of choices depending on how things have gone up to this point. If I've done well so far, if it looks like it's a good day, I can settle in for a stimulating, enjoyable flight. If not, if it's apparent from my flying that I rolled out of bed late and onto the cat who then scratched my neck which bled onto the flight plan I had painstakingly assembled the night before, then I know I'm in for a tough time. Never did like cats anyway.