Pilotage

It's midafternoon on a typical sunny Central Florida day and, as is the nature of things, the lower atmosphere is filling up with billowy cloud columns. Like small children maturing into young adults, the clouds are at times unruly, unpredictable, and confused, but always beautiful to watch. I'm keeping my distance, overflying them in a Cessna Cardinal in smooth, clear air at 9,000 feet.

Then ATC weighs in with unwelcome instructions.

"Seven-Tango-Victor, descend to seven thousand!"

This is the second time during the flight that ATC has tried to put me into the building clouds and give me a bumpy ride. In both cases the problem was overtaking traffic at my altitude. When I explained to the first controller that I'd prefer to stay in the clear if possible, he allowed me to temporarily climb 1,000 feet until the conflicting traffic was past.

"Uh, seven thousand would put me in the building cus," I explained to the second controller. "Is there another option?"

"Not unless you want to climb to thirteen thousand," he shot back. "I've got traffic at eleven."

"OK, how about if I cancel IFR and descend to a VFR altitude?" I asked.

"Your choice," was the disinterested answer.

I chose to complete the trip VFR, with ATC providing radar advisories, and descended.

A few moments later I listened as the controller called the pilot of the overtaking airplane and pointed me out as traffic. Sure enough, I soon spotted a speck of an airplane at my five o'clock position rapidly advancing on my flank. I watched in growing amazement as the airplane gobbled up the airspace separating us longitudinally, and then passed abeam and above my right wing tip. I punched the push-to-talk switch.

"Jax Center, Seven-Tango-Victor. That airplane passing off to my right — what is it?"

"Mooney," the controller replied.

"Incomplete answer," I thought to myself. This was no ordinary Mooney. Not when it smokes a Cessna Cardinal RG as if it's taxiing. Depending on their age and the extent of aerodynamic modification, normally aspirated Mooneys might have a 10- to 25-knot speed advantage on a retractable-gear Cardinal. Even so, with the two airplanes a mile or more distant, the speed differential would appear to be slight. Yet, the Mooney had approached, caught up to, and then whizzed by me so quickly that I had to query the controller one more time.

"What model Mooney?" I asked.

"Two-hundred series," the controller replied.

Well, that could mean a 201, 205, 231, or 252. Or maybe the controller meant to say 20-series, which takes in every model Mooney except the M18 Mite and M10 and A2A Cadets — and this was no Cadet or Mite. I still had no idea what this speedster was.

The Mooney pilot apparently was reading my thoughts. "It's a Two-Thirty-One," he announced over the frequency. Then he attached a postscript: "And I got a jet pilot in the right seat."

So, that was his secret. "I gotta get me one of those," I replied, not really knowing if I meant a 231 or a jet-man copilot.

"Yeah, he's really fast," the controller agreed after handing the Mooney off to the next sector controller. "He's doing 180 over the ground to your 130."

Thanks. I needed to hear that comment like I needed a descent into moderate turbulence. Besides, my GPS said that I was going 135.

I consoled myself by thinking that the pilot of that 231, which at 210 hp has just 10 more horses than the Cardinal RG (however, all of that Mooney power is turbocharged), was in a big hurry to get home. He must have had the throttle firewalled to pump as much fuel and dense-packed air into the cylinders as they could take. The comment about the jet pilot-passenger was revealing. They flew it like a jet — run it hard and put it up wet. They probably weren't the owners. They wouldn't have to pay for the premature overhaul.

Me? I swallowed my pride and stuck with my conservative cruise power setting and plodding ground speed. No way could I make up that 50-knot speed gap unless I pointed the nose at the ground.

My revenge came a few weeks later, while I was flying my half of the Twin Comanche (the left half, the one with the pilot's seat and the lower-time engine). Once again we were cruising smoothly and in the clear above the building cus when the controller broke the silence to query another airplane.

"Mooney One-Two-Bravo, can you accept a 15-degree turn to the right? I've got a Twin Comanche overtaking you."