Flying the New Standard

What magic do we seek, what timelessness do we crave so selfishly that we put our very lives between two old wings braced with wire and wood, surround ourselves with noise that would make us deaf, endure thrashing by wind and propeller that threatens to pull our hair out by its roots?

That magic is called biplane.

Recently, I had the honor of spending several days in what may arguably be the sole remaining flying example of a New Standard D-25 biplane, built in 1929 for the Gates Flying Circus. There is some argument regarding that "sole" distinction, for the New Standard's type certificate changed hands three times in the late 1920s and early 1930s as companies struggled to survive one of this country's most challenging economic periods. Thus, the D-25 was manufactured by three different companies. This ageless timepiece is owned by Steve Oliver and Suzanne Asbury-Oliver, of Pepsi Skydancer and Pepsi Skywriter fame, and they continue to use the airplane for its original purpose: hopping passenger rides, just as it has done for the past 70 years.

The honor of flying this airplane is real, for this isn't some pretend 1990s version of a barnstormer; this really was — and is — a barnstormer, built for the purpose of filling its owner's pockets with money from passengers who would take a chance of a lifetime in a very chancy time. When new, this airplane had a tail skid, not the more modern, steerable rubber-tired appendage now bolted under the tail. This New Standard was an integral part of the early airshows, in which "daredevils" performed the dangerous "loop-the-loops" and other maneuvers that now seem so tame. She has endured wingwalkers hanging onto her struts and flying wires countless times, and through it all, she flew rides to support these daring pilots and their exploits. Without that income from passenger rides, the daredevils would not have survived. This rare biplane is a living piece of history with stories to tell — if you will listen.

All told, only a handful — about 55 — New Standard D-25s like this one were built. With its huge 45-foot upper wing and cavernous front cockpit, it can carry four to five paying passengers at a time. Its original Wright Whirlwind J-5, an engine identical to the one that safely carried a lone young man nonstop across the Atlantic in 1927, seemed to run forever without fuss or protest. The D-25 was a barnstormer's dream.

During our hours together, we crawled our way across the Continental Divide just after dawn one morning. With groundspeed sagging into the low 30s, the Wright Whirlwind and I leaned into the cold wind howling across craggy ridgetops. Our attempt to climb over 10,276-foot Cameron Pass was thwarted by a subsiding airmass on the lee side of the mountains. Full power and 45 to 50 mph indicated resulted in a steady counterclockwise unwinding of the slender needle against the white-faced altimeter (the aircraft has no vertical speed indicator). There was little doubt that this 225-horsepower Wright J6-7, a slightly more modern version of the original engine, was way out of its league. I hugged the canyon's right wall in case I needed to retreat back down the valley. In occasional moderate turbulence, I often felt the sharp presence of the seat belt across my lap, and I quickly developed a new respect for the early mail pilots who daily bullied their way through these passes. This is no place to fly an ancient biplane.

But this is real flying. In the open cockpit, you are closer to the earth, nearer to your own mortality and to the sky that you love; it all seems so much clearer when you are not looking through layers of glass or plastic. You feel smaller, more vulnerable, humble in an old biplane. The sweet smell of exhaust from the round motor mixes with the smell of fresh-cut hay, flowers, perhaps a paper mill, or that pungent earth-and-pine scent of the forest. Prescription for anyone bored with flying: Go fly an open-cockpit biplane.

The New Standard's ailerons feel like they're set in wet cement, but the rudder, thank goodness, is always there to move the airplane. This was about as good as it got in 1920s biplanes. You find yourself flying the airplane mainly by rudder, and at the end of the day, your thighs are tired; your legs and shoulders are stiff. After several hours in the airplane, I nicknamed it "Thighmaster."

In Steamboat Springs, Colorado, I introduced planeloads of passengers to the joys of flying a biplane at proper viewing height and speed: about 500 feet and 50 to 60 mph. For many, they knew not why they lined up to fly.

The rough bark of a round engine; the long, broad wings built for lifting; a view unrestricted by walls and ceiling — they call to us, reminding us of a simpler time that perhaps we never knew. When we hear that call and feel that melancholy tug back to our younger selves, we are undeniably smitten. We have no power but to give in. The biplane has worked its magic on us. We must take that ride.

A lad of 10 now points to the hillside below; his grandfather and another passenger look in the direction of his slender arm held against the slipstream, and wide smiles ripen on their windbeaten faces. We slowly (it's all slowly in a Standard) bank right to study two large, sand-colored elk standing at the edge of a thick green forest, watching us watching them. At a stately 55 mph, we have long moments to savor the gift of the simple sight below, a sight becoming rarer with less time and more people. Impressions made in such moments will last a lifetime.

With another load of passengers, all pilots, we push down for speed, flying wires slicing the wind now, and pull into a gentle wingover, broad wings cutting through the sky at the top, airspeed in the single digits. One passenger lets out a primal yell; his smile doesn't fade for the rest of the flight. I'm sure his cheeks hurt for hours afterward. Days later, he tells me that the biplane ride was the realization of a lifelong dream. Flying the New Standard is a lot of those moments. There are few ways in which we can touch fellow humans so easily, so deeply — and the memory of that contact remains so permanently — as the simple act of taking them for a ride in an ancient biplane.

Sometimes while in flight, passengers suddenly turn toward the rear, as if remembering (or discovering?) that there is a pilot back here in the cockpit, a witness to their personal time travel. They grin like high schoolers on a first date, giving the universal "thumbs up," signaling that all is OK in their world.

On downwind, I look over my right shoulder to the place where I intend to land, pull out the oversized carburetor heat knob, then slowly close the throttle. The big control stick becomes heavy and lethargic as the Whirlwind idles softly; a chorus of flying wires fills the relative silence. Passengers' heads dart left and right now, searching for the first glimpse of a runway. I, too, am looking for the welcome sight of a place to land that hides behind cylinder heads and cowling. As soon as I spot it, a passenger's head moves into the space between cylinders number one and seven, once again blocking my view.

Fifty to 55 mph is a fine airspeed on final, and I push the throttle up for a moment, reassuring myself that the power is still there should I need it. We flare and float easily to a gentle touchdown, the long-travel landing gear struts making up for any miscalculation or minor judgment errors. The New Standard has no inclination to dart or weave once the three wheels are on the runway. That may explain why in 70 years and with countless pilots, she has never had a major accident.

Back to earth once again, the clock spins crazily forward to the present as we taxi between rows of modern, dependable metal airplanes on tie-downs toward the next load of passengers. We swing into our parking place, and I pull the mixture lever to idle cutoff once again. The Wright clatters to a stop. Silence rushes into the void left by the engine. My passengers, motionless for a brief moment, seem unwilling to hurry back the 70 years to the present. The magic is forever embedded in their hearts and memories.

They rise, finally; turn; and walk down the wing, becoming ground dwellers once again, their indelible smiles the only sign of the years and places they've mind-traveled — all just a few hundred feet above their normal lives. This flight, this old New Standard biplane, reminds us that this newly remembered magic is inside each of us.

Michael Maya Charles is the owner of a J-3 Cub, a Cessna 185 Skywagon, and the author of the award-winning book Artful Flying.
www.artfulpublishing.com