In Training

The boy wriggled and squirmed, barely able to control his emotions, wanting the great adventure to begin. The pilot sat quietly, concentrating on using the skills he had gained in 550 hours of flying. The senior citizen worried: After an almost 15-year absence, would he be able to recall the necessary skills? Would the trained responses still be there, and would eyes that now looked through trifocal lenses record and transmit all of the necessary information? All three of us sat strapped into the left seat of a Cessna 150 at the runup spot for Runway 7.

I was unable to remember a time when I had not wanted to fly. In my earliest dreams I imagined myself flying, arms outstretched like Superman, over the farm where I grew up. By the age of 12, I'd realized that less-than-perfect vision would keep me out of the cockpit of a military fighter. But my dreams of flight weren't dead. If I couldn't fly fighters, I would design them.

Schoolwork, work on the farm, and the part-time jobs needed to pay for a college education made flying lessons impossible. Still, I managed to mooch a few airplane rides and win a model airplane contest whose prize was a weeklong air tour. These few hours aloft simply confirmed what I'd always known-I simply had to fly.

An aerospace engineering degree landed me my dream job as a member of the small group of aircraft designers who conducted the preliminary conceptual design studies for all new U.S. Air Force weapons systems. During the course of my engineering career, the work of this group would result in the B-1, F-15, F-16, A-10, C-141, C-5, and the F-22.

With career, marriage, home, and children all under control, I finally found the time and money to make that lifelong dream of flight a reality. To my delight, I found that I was a good pilot-one who understood what the airplane was doing and what it was trying to tell me. As I built flying hours and earned an instrument rating, each flight, however short, remained a ride on a magic carpet.

The dream ended abruptly. Within the period of a few months I was diagnosed with hypertension and my eldest child started college. I made a conscious decision to step away from flying and wait to resume the dream until my situation improved.

One year faded into the next. I went out to the airport once, but I found it impossible to watch my friends climb into airplanes and fly. I never went back. Fourteen years passed. My kids obtained careers, homes, and children of their own. The house was paid off, and the career as an aircraft designer drew to a close. Still, I avoided looking at airplanes flying low overhead. Then one evening, while watching a flying movie on TV, I told my wife that flying was the one thing that I really missed. She smiled and said, "Go do it! We'll manage."

So there I was, preflight runup and checklists complete, partly eager to go and partly afraid of what I might find. I looked at the instructor-an even more senior citizen than me-squeezed in beside me. The instructor folded his hands and said, "It's your airplane. Fly it!" Too much right rudder had the Cessna 150 veering toward the grass before I recognized the problem and corrected it. I felt the controls come to life, and the 150 rose into the air. With the instructor offering suggestions and providing forgotten reference speeds, the basic airwork went fine. Certainly many things needed to be polished, but there was only a thin veneer of rust on my skills. Before I knew it, it was time to go back to the airport. Would my older eyes and reflexes be able to land in a gusty quartering crosswind?

A less-than-perfect traffic pattern found me on final with the numbers moving back toward the cowl. I was high and a little fast. Now responses ingrained during almost 200 hours of taildragger time came to the fore. I dropped the upwind wing, held opposite rudder; and the 150 slipped down, tracking the runway centerline. The instructor looked at me with raised eyebrows but said nothing. I misjudged the flare and the 150 arrived hard on the runway, but at least it didn't bounce. Flaps up, carb heat off, and full power took the 150 up and around again. This time everything fell into place.

Back at the tiedown, with the shutdown checklist complete and the sound of gyros winding down, I let out a deep breath-one that I'd been holding for 14 years, it seemed. It would take time; lots of things needed some polish; but I knew that I was still a pilot and I would fly again.

I began the task of getting both a current medical certificate and the flight review necessary to regain the privilege of flying. I bought a copy of the latest Aeronautical Information Manual (AIM) and studied the changes in airspace definitions, regulations, and weather reporting formats that had occurred since I'd last been active. A visit to the local aviation medical examiner's office confirmed what I'd read-hypertension was no longer the problem it once had been and the medication that I was taking had been approved by the Federal Aviation Administration. Pure excitement had my blood pressure slightly elevated during the medical exam, but a series of checks over a 30-day period persuaded the examiner to send the results to the FAA's aeromedical office in Oklahoma City.

I decided to use this period to enroll in a private pilot ground school to refresh my understanding of the regulations. This turned out to be a good choice and one I'd highly recommend to anyone who's been out of the cockpit for more than a couple of years. Not only were all the new airspace rules taught in an organized, well-thought-out manner, but also I soon realized how much I'd forgotten about weather patterns and effects, and even the operation of my trusty E6B flight computer. Yes, it would have been possible to dig this all out of the AIM and my old books, but the discipline of having to study for each class (the old pilot couldn't look bad in front of all those eager young flyers, could he?) made sure that I got the maximum results from the time available. And since I didn't have to take and pass the exam, there was no pressure; all I had to do was soak up the new information and refresh myself on those half-forgotten skills.

And then there was the fun part-burnishing away 14 years of rust as I practiced maneuvers. I found that I really needed to think about things that once were automatic. (Carb heat first, then power reduction, dummy!)

The biggest challenge was situational awareness. Where am I? Which way do I want to turn to get to my desired heading? Where is the doggone airport? Gone, too, were familiar landmarks around local airports; 14 years of rapid suburban growth had changed the landscape around those fields. The ability to quickly distinguish features on the ground or spot other aircraft in the sky was missing too. This, too, would return with time.

After four hours of dual training, my instructor told me to pick an airport 50 to 75 miles away, plan a flight there using a VOR, and return by using dead reckoning. Now those ground school classes paid off. Once again I could read a weather report and figure wind correction angles and fuel burned. The flight went as planned. On the return, I even saw the home field before my instructor did-after all, he is nearly a generation older than I am.

After I tied the little 150 down, my instructor told me, "There's nothing more you need me for-bring me your medical and ground school certificate as soon as you get them." He shook my hand and smiled-one pilot's quiet "welcome home" to another.

Six weeks of ground school (not required, but highly recommended) and five hours of dual instruction brought me to the place where both my instructor and I were satisfied that I was both competent and safe. There's still more proficiency work to come-still more of those automatic responses to be sharpened and instrument currency to be regained. But now I'm looking forward to the realization of one more lifelong dream-owning my own airplane. You can go home again!