Pilotage

I've been flying the airlines a fair amount lately, and I have to say that I don't particularly care for that mode of travel. I don't care for the mad dash to the airport only to endure a finger-drumming, hurry- up-and-wait routine prior to boarding. I don't care for the egg-carton dimensions of modern airline seating or the parsimonious policies of modern airline food managers. Am I the only one who has lost his appetite for endless baglets of dry-roasted peanuts and tiny pretzels baked in the shape of the Anheuser-Busch logo? Mostly I don't like flying the airlines because it means I'm not flying myself.

The trip I've been making via scheduled service is about 1,000 nautical miles one way. Doing that in my Cessna 172 is a daunting prospect. Even if I were up to the challenge and could count on zero weather delays, it would be too time-consuming — a full day of flying each way. That is a waste of time, except for the one or two times a year I would do it for personal travel.

I have made the trip several times in a Beech F33 Bonanza, however, and that's the way I like to go. Thanks to tip tanks and 7.5- hour endurance, the Bonanza competes effectively with the airliner from a door-to-door, elapsed-time standpoint. The Boeings I have been riding must land at their Atlanta nest, no matter what the ultimate destination. While I cool my heels in Atlanta, awaiting a change of planes, the Bonanza that I should be flying would steadily be making up the elapsed time deficit. It is a true tortoise-and-hare race.

The real spoiler is not the extra time it would take to make the trip in a small airplane. No, the fundamental issue is the expense. Fuel alone for the Bonanza would cost more than the round- trip ticket on the discount airline that I am flying. Though I occasionally am able to justify the higher cost of flying the Bonanza on these longer trips, I can't do it every time. And being a little- airplane enthusiast, I hate not being able to fly myself all the time.

Aside from simply enjoying the art and science of piloting an airplane, I like flying myself because I appreciate the freedom of setting my own travel schedule. Almost as important is the human environment that I encounter. The airlines are mass transportation, which means a horde of people, long lines, and bothersome rules and procedures designed to maintain control over those masses. Contrast that to the intimacy of flying yourself: You go one-on-one with everyone you encounter, from the lineman fueling your airplane and the controller at the other end of the mike, to the friendly face at the FBO counter renting you a car. No one tells me I can't carry that third bag aboard my airplane or asks for a picture I.D. before issuing me a boarding pass.

When I complete a long trip in a small airplane, my last act is to walk up to the nose, give it an affectionate pat, and offer a salute for a safe and satisfying journey. It may be a silly gesture reflecting a juvenile emotion, but the truth is that I have formed a bond with that mechanical device. I put my faith in it, and it responded with uncomplaining reliability.

In the interest of fairness, I concede that traveling on an airliner has certain advantages over do-it-yourself flying. Topping the list is a lavatory, although this matters far less to me than it does to my wife. Second is the ability to do something with the idle time, such as hammer on my laptop computer or read. Third, it is nice when a hot meal is served on the airlines, but peanuts or pretzels are often substituted. A vending machine in a pilot's lounge has a better menu.

Sitting back in the 737's cheap seats on my recent discount- airline trips, I've noticed a couple of things about the way the pilots fly the airplane. For one, they are aggressive on the controls. A lot of brisk maneuvering takes place on departure and approach, more so than I would expect from an autopilot in cushy-ride mode.

Second, some of the pilots appear to be actually having fun at their jobs. The other night, after passengers had boarded the flight, the captain appeared at the head of the aisle and introduced himself and the first officer, who was busy with the preflight in the cockpit. The other guy would be flying us to Atlanta, he said; the captain then publicly challenged the first officer to make a greaser landing. A heaping plate of nachos was the wager, and we passengers would determine whether the touchdown was smooth enough for the captain to pick up the tab.

That's another thing I've noticed: These 737 pilots I've been riding with make excellent landings. Passengers' brows may furrow with mild concern on initial approach because of the spirited maneuvering, but almost all is forgiven after a silky-smooth landing. True to form, the first officer expertly set it down at Atlanta. The applause meter swung strongly in favor of the captain's buying the nachos.

By the time I had collected my bags from the overhead bin and shuffled my way to the exit along with the other overburdened and increasingly impatient passengers, the cockpit had already been vacated. When I stepped from the airplane, I peeked at the nose through a gap in the jetway; but I didn't see anyone reaching up to pat that big, blunt conical snout. Too far off the tarmac, I suppose.