Pilotage

In my kids' eyes I am old. They tell me I'm old. I tell them they are wrong. I explain that I stopped getting older, oh, maybe 10 years ago. I can't pinpoint the exact time when the aging process came to an abrupt halt in me, but it surely did. Really. I know it did because I don't feel a minute older than I did 10 years ago.

All right, so I have a lot fewer hairs to wash and comb in the morning. OK, maybe it takes a few seconds for the words on a piece of paper held within arm's reach to snap into focus. (So what if I bought a pair of drugstore reading glasses; they are the weakest magnification available, and besides, I bought them for the cool retro-geek styling.) And no, it didn't bother me (not that much, anyhow) when I realized that the cute cashiers at the grocery store that day were checking out my 16-year-old son and not me (although, doggone it, I used to be taller than he was).

Anyway, I'm glad that my aging clock has stopped, because I'm starting to hear a lot of creaking and groaning and complaining from friends who are of the same chronological persuasion. And who needs that?

Unlike the attitude in many European and other foreign cultures that respect — even revere — their elders, aging is anathema to our youth-obsessed society. Clothing marketers, the personal fitness industry, movies and entertainment, advertisements — they all slavishly pander to the notion of dewy and virulent youth as the ideal human condition.

Flying is not among those activities whose image is backlighted by the aura of youth. In fact, the opposite is true. Youth indicates inexperience in aviation. Physical vitality is not as much of an issue in flying as it is in plenty of sports and recreational activities that favor youthful participation. One of the most physically demanding of aviation activities is airshow and competition aerobatics. Take a look at the country's top aerobatic pilots; most are no different from you and me in terms of their outward physical condition and age. The only type of flying that strongly favors youthful energy, stamina, and strength is military air combat. Even then, age is an indicator of experience and thus aeronautical wisdom.

Personally, I welcome the changes that the years bring to my flying. Uh, let's make that most of the changes; I don't like not being able to focus instantly on things at close range in the cockpit, especially at night.

But that is not much of a price to pay for the benefits that accrue to a maturing aviator. The years, formal study, and hours spent in the left seat are the conduits for learning. Periodic ground school and reading builds the knowledge base. Lots of flying in different airplanes, at all times of day and night, over terrain both familiar and new and through all kinds of weather, constitutes experience. Like folding proofed yeast in with flour to make an irresistible loaf of bread, blending knowledge and experience can yield a pilot with a nicely shaped and textured set of flying skills.

The difference that maturity makes in everyday flying may not be obvious until you stand back and think about it. I was bringing my logbook up to date recently when I got sidetracked by scanning old entries. I was struck by the contrast between two trips I had logged. One was a long midsummer journey from Florida to Maryland, flown more than a decade ago in a Grumman Traveler. The other one occurred this past winter when I flew my 172 from western New York to Kansas City.

What I remember most vividly from the first trip was a portion flown at night. The weather briefing at my South Carolina fuel stop mentioned thunderstorm activity to the east and west of my route, but a clear path lay between. I took off, and in no time the cockpit of the Traveler was awash in the staccato glare of lightning. An informative controller noted that the road ahead was rapidly becoming blocked with developing thunderstorms and people were diverting to Charlotte. He tactfully recommended that I do likewise. I fell in behind a Beech 18, whose pilot had not required any cajoling from ATC to call it quits for the night.

The weather for my recent flight in the 172 was not nearly so intimidating. Just very cold — and much windier than forecast. I took off in late afternoon and only made Akron, Ohio, before it was time to refuel. The tanks were nowhere near empty; but, at a groundspeed of 65 to 70 knots, I was concerned that if I continued on past Akron I might have trouble finding an airport with an FBO still open after dark, especially given the sub-zero temperatures. Thinking through the different scenarios led me to decide on a conservative fuel stop in Akron. The decision was partly a product of experience: knowing the fuel consumption characteristics of the airplane, reading the weather, and anticipating the reluctance of an FBO employee to hang around a small airport in the unlikely event that some poor soul is out flying and in need of fuel on such an inhospitable night.

Armed with brimming fuel tanks and a warm cup of coffee, I pressed on. The winds abated a little and I made Indianapolis. I was halfway home, but that was it for me for the night. In my youth I might have topped off and taken off. No longer. It hurt to spend a hundred bucks for a place to lay my head for a few hours, but I had no second thoughts. I knew it was the right thing to do. The mature thing. The next morning I finished the trip in clear, calm weather.

The thought of reaching maturity as a pilot is a pleasant, positive one because it suggests the attainment of a certain level of experience and wisdom. The good news is that the concept of maturity, at least in terms of age, also is becoming more acceptable in society at large. That's because it's happening to the baby boomers, and baby boomers still set the pace in this country. I used to be one myself until I stopped.