Pilotage

It's a curse of modern times that we constantly, strenuously, stressfully strive for perfection. We determinedly pursue fat-free, taste-free diets and Spandex-sweaty fitness activities. We eagerly buy ever-more-capable home computer systems to stay a megabyte ahead of the memory-devouring software juggernaut. We fully expect our children to be invited into the school's gifted student program, respect us as the wise people we are, and pay their dues before demanding an executive salary. We even strive for perfection in our psyche — Don't worry, be happy! I'm OK, you're OK. Heck, we're all pretty fantastic even if, truth be told, some of us are despicable!

In the midst of all this frenzied and ultimately frustrating pursuit of perfection, I seek comfort and perspective in an imperfect airplane:

• No matter how carefully the mechanic tweaked the rigging or how far I bent the rudder trim tab, my Cessna 172 required that I constantly apply slight pressure to the right rudder pedal before it agreed to allow the ball in the turn coordinator to reside between the hash marks.
• The throttle for the right engine in the Piper Twin Comanche that I now fly refuses to stay put when I pull it back to idle. It creeps forward in the pedestal, the rpm rises, and the nose wants to yaw slightly left. Touchdowns are accomplished with both hands pulling gently back — one on the yoke, the other on the right throttle.
• Thanks to tip tanks that pump some fuel to the engine and some to the left main tank, the fuel system in the Bonanza that I occasionally fly is as difficult to manage as a first-grade classroom. An accurate clock and careful notes are essential to keeping the fuel load balanced and flowing.

At worst, these mechanical quirks are annoyances. There's nothing to be done about the Bonanza's fuel system short of ripping it out and starting over — a ridiculous notion, given the tremendous boost in endurance that the aux tanks provide. The Cessna's rigging and the Twinco's cantankerous throttle, however, can be added to the squawk list that's given to the shop at the next visit.

Until then, I'm content just to scratch these itches while I go about the business of flying the airplane. In fact, I get some satisfaction from having to deal with an annoyance or two during a flight. Minor problems command my attention. When I have to work an anomaly into the normal cockpit routine, it forces me to remain 100 percent alert and engaged in the act of piloting. Conversely, when everything is functioning flawlessly, the tendency is to relax, to allow some percentage of the brain to slip into neutral. That's when I get sloppy.

Interstate 75 between Tampa, Florida, and Naples to the south is as close to a perfect road as I'm likely to see in my lifetime — two or more lanes in each direction, with a wide, smooth surface, generous shoulders, few curves, no hills, and towering light poles illuminating each precisely configured exit. A broad median separates the northbound traffic from the southbound vehicles, and there's very little distracting civilization among the bordering palmettos and cabbage palms. With the windows up, the air conditioning blowing, and six-speaker sound obliterating what little road noise can be heard, you have to constantly remind yourself to slow down to the posted 70 mph speed limit — or let cruise control keep you legal.

I hate driving on I-75. It's too perfect a road. When I drive it, I get drowsy, even in the middle of the day, because there's little stimuli to keep me alert.

So it is in a perfect airplane on a perfect flight. Without question we should strive for perfection every time we fly, but the interesting part is the striving, not the achievement. Humans thrive on detecting problems and either solving them or, if that's not possible, figuring out how to cope.

Of course, no pilot would actively encourage mechanical foibles and failures in the airplane just to make things interesting. That's irresponsible in the extreme. Instead, we adopt an attitude that problems likely will occur. When they do, we're prepared to deal with the situation without letting the problems affect the safety of the flight.

Even when the airplane performs flawlessly, we accept and even appreciate the imperfection of flying. It may make no sense economically to fly ourselves, and it's certainly not always the most efficient way to travel. Why sit in a noisy piston-powered airplane for the better part of a day to get somewhere? Why go through a complicated preflight planning process; negotiate winds and weather; fidget with the power; cinch down the seatbelt in turbulence; wear a tightly clamping headset; and talk into a small microphone to people you can't see but who can see you, or at least a smudge on a radar screen that represents you?

How many people who drive perfect modern automobiles on perfect modern highways would put up with similar conditions? Can you imagine having to deal with a highway "controller" who must issue a "clearance" before you can use a stretch of road?

Why do pilots live with such imperfection — not only live with it, but love it passionately?

Most of our interesting and fulfilling pursuits revolve around inherent flaws. Unless you need to shoot the rapids to get home from work, kayaking is an inefficient way to get around in the water. Golf is expensive and pointless and adds calories if you rent a cart and drink beer while you play. Mutual funds occasionally lose ground in the market. And have you ever known a couple with a perfect marriage?

Each of us might answer the question of why differently, but I think all of us would agree that if flying were perfect, it wouldn't be much of a challenge. It wouldn't be very satisfying, and it wouldn't be nearly as much fun.