Lately I fancy myself flying a fast transportation airplane, able to leap large states in a single leg. But that need for speed is causing something of a psychic backlash. If I'm going to be flying fast, will I lose an appreciation for that wonderful, almost surreal sensation of slow?
I don't mean going slow as in intentionally flying an airplane at minimum controllable airspeed. That's typically done in a training situation to demonstrate or practice aircraft — and pilot — control and stability at the bottom end of the performance envelope. I mean genuine pokey, going-nowhere-in-particular slow, as only a light, low-performance airplane can do it.
Going fast certainly has its rewards. Speed has been a fundamental objective of airplane designers and pilots from the beginning. Most airplanes are intended for transportation use, a means to an end. Flying them is great fun and a stimulating challenge, but getting there is the real point, not how you get there. When the airplane fulfills a transportation role, speed is an obvious attribute.
On the other hand, deliberate lack of speed has its own considerable rewards. In an intentionally slow airplane, how you get there — if indeed you're going anywhere at all — is precisely the point.
Going slow is a sensory experience, whereas going fast is intellectually stimulating. The difference has as much to do with altitude as anything else. Fast airplanes fly high, where the air is thinner and true airspeeds higher. However, other than the occasional near-miss with a billowing cloud top, there's nothing close by up there to give you the perspective of speed. At 8,000 feet or above and 150, 170, or even 250 knots true airspeed, the ground slides by underneath at a relatively modest pace. The sense of speed comes from checking the groundspeed readout on the DME, loran, or GPS display or by doing time/speed/distance calculations.
"Wow! Look at that!" you exclaim as you glance at small, electronically generated numbers shining brightly on one of the computer-controlled boxes residing in the panel or pedestal. A higher- or lower-than-expected number has you rechecking power settings and fuel flow to verify true airspeed, then doing winds-aloft calculations to find the tailwind or headwind component. Next, you revise the ETA at the destination airport or upcoming waypoint and adjust the fuel consumption estimate. "Gee, if this tailwind hangs in there, we'll shave seven minutes off our original flight plan time," you remark. "This is great! I love going fast." Up high, speed is a mathematical concept, an academic thrill.
Slow airplanes loiter down low, in the thick air where indicated airspeed pretty much equals true airspeed. Down there there's plenty of perspective to judge speed. Like the cars on 70-mph interstates that can give you a run for your money. Or birds on a collision course that have time to consider whether to deviate right or left.
Down low, you know darn well you're going slow — but who cares? An airplane that plods on purpose is about something altogether different than shaving minutes off block-to-block elapsed time. I base my observation on experience in three different kinds of slow — very slow — aircraft.
The first is that icon of basic flying, the Piper Cub. It does slow with an unassuming dignity that ensures its place in the hearts of pilots for as long as atmospheric flight endures. For a great many reasons — its classically proportioned taildragger look; its unadorned stick and rudder, tandem-seat cockpit; its no-hiding-sloppy-technique handling qualities — the Cub seems to make flying slow the most noble way to fly.
The second is an ultralight. Not just any ultralight, but one in which you sit out in front of everything, with little or no cockpit enclosure to shield you from the elements. The first time I flew one, my muscles tensed and what felt like low-voltage bursts of electricity coursed through my body. It was the same sensation that I get when standing on the edge of a precipice and looking down.
I got used to the perspective, the butterflies settled down, and I had a ball. If a Cub is the epitome of basic airplane flying, a true open ultralight is basic flying. Forget the airplane part, which is easy to do if your toes are leading the way, separated from the wind only by the soles of your shoes.
Ultralight flying is best done in the cool and calm of early morning or evening, out over the countryside, at a bird's-eye altitude and an airspeed that wouldn't even register on a conventional airplane indicator. Doesn't this very low and super-slow brand of flying sound like the closest we can get to the essence of true flight? Except for ...
Hang gliding. I've logged one jump — with an instructor on a tandem rig, off a mountain in Southern California. Unlike airplanes and ultralights, hang gliders have no power other than the wind. You steer by shifting your weight forward, backward, and from side to side. Instrumentation is available, but there was none on ours. My instructor judged our airspeed by the brush of air against his cheek, our altitude by eyeballing the ground. We ran off the sloping side of the mountain, and tucked horizontal into the harness. If my knees felt weak when I first flew an ultralight, they turned to jelly on that hang glider
We circled slowly downward, searching for lifting currents. We may not have been able to flap our delta-shaped wing, but I don't know how a human can get any closer to mimicking a bird than by flying a hang glider. In the 20 minutes it took to descend to the landing zone, I was able to see and even hear the landscape as I'd never been able to before or since.
Speed? It's a great thing, but it's not the only thing.
