I'm currently enjoying the chief advantage of owning half of an airplane: a 50-percent discount on parts and labor.
This is the rationale that both my partner, Doug, and I reach for to deaden the dull ache of ongoing spending. It's like a dripping faucet: The amount of water (dollars) that drips (is spent) each time isn't much, but it never stops dripping. Then you get your water bill (credit card statement).
That's where the partnership thing is so seductive. If you know you have to pay just half the amount of the balance due, you find it easy to whip out that plastic at the slightest provocation. "Attention Kmart shoppers! Check out today's Blue Light Special — a baker's-dozen stainless steel, countersunk machine screws. They're perfect for replacing those rusting, unsightly cowl fasteners." Sold!
Over the past year, we've installed an electronic engine analyzer, lightweight starters, and spin-on oil filters. However, the pace of our consumerism quickened once we entered the Red Zone — annual inspection time.
Opening up an airplane for the purpose of inspecting it is a handy excuse for planning all sorts of improvements. And why not? The airplane will be off-duty for an extended period — we do the grunt work under the supervision of an A&P/IA, and we don't get paid by the hour — so it seems efficient to work some upgrades into the downtime. Plus, the airplane already is in pieces, strewn around the hangar, so it's that much easier to replace this or improve that.
We've compiled an ambitious list of upgrades from which to choose, too. That's to be expected when you're dealing with a Piper Twin Comanche that has been maintained in stock condition for 35 years.
We're replacing the chipped and cracked nose cowls with sleek and smooth new ones; adding leading- and trailing-edge wing root fairings that we hope will improve the airplane's landing manners; installing a pound of fairings aft of the exposed main landing gear to gain an ounce of performance; and, in what will be the biggest-ticket item, rejuvenating the interior with new headliner and carpet, reupholstered seats and side panels, and new windows.
Next spring, we're looking to blow the budget on the last remaining major cosmetic project — exterior paint.
Rejuvenating older airplanes is popular. The phenomenon is helping to fuel the economic fire that's keeping the general aviation industry toasty warm. I look at it as the hot-rod industry of the air. Not because we're putting oversize camshafts in our Lycomings or Continentals, replacing rudder pedals with chrome plates shaped like a bare footprint, or fitting massive slicks on the main wheels. No, the comparison has more to do with the fact that airplane owners and hot rodders are forever figuring out things to do to their machines to make them go faster, run smoother, and look cooler.
Both are customizing projects. Like hot rods, fixed-up airplanes are highly individualistic. It's not like picking out a new car or airplane where you have a choice of paint color, leather or fabric interior, and some radio options. When you start to rejuvenate a decades-old airplane, you start with a template — the airframe — and build on that.
If Doug and I so desired and could afford it, we could add bigger engines, tip and nacelle fuel tanks, electronic flight instruments and flight-management system, and a leather interior to the mods and upgrades we've already accomplished or planned. (We decided early on against chopping and channeling the fuselage and getting roll-and-tuck upholstery, although painting the engines candy-apple red and chroming the valve covers both sound pretty neat.)
Another characteristic common to fixing up airplanes or cars is that each is supported by a cottage industry. New cars, and new airplanes, are backed by huge manufacturing, service, and parts networks. Support for older airplanes, and cars, comes largely from enthusiasts who gravitate to type clubs. You join the club to get its member publication. That's where you find technical advice and insight, operating tips, and advertisements from great shops selling hard-to-get parts and specialty items.
For us, it's the International Comanche Society and the monthly Comanche Flyer. The society's expert is Maurice Taylor. Though retired, Taylor is available to Comanche Society members by phone or fax to answer the most detailed parts or maintenance questions. In the past couple of weeks, for example, we've called to find out the part number on a small wing bolt that secures the fuel port cover and to inquire about tire specifications. Taylor had the answers instantly. There isn't a new-aircraft manufacturer in the world that can offer better service.
Buying stuff for an older airplane is equal parts technical research and emotional impulse. You make out your wish list, research sources for parts, and compare specifications and price. You and your partner discuss options and decide on a fiscally responsible purchasing strategy.
Then you go to a trade show — an event conceived of for the express purpose of pumping more wattage to the shopping neurons that snap, crackle, and pop deep within our brains. At the first whiff of new product, you wave the big white flag and pull out the card.
No problem. Everything's half-price.
