Pilotage

Mark R. Twombly is in a long-distance relationship with a Piper Twin Comanche.

We pilots shamelessly rationalize our passion for flying by extolling the efficient virtues of private aircraft transportation. We come and go on our schedule, not one dictated by the airlines. We have at our disposal thousands more airports than the scheduled carriers. We travel with greater security and peace of mind.

When you compare door-to-door elapsed times, it's not uncommon for us to be faster. Sometimes, it's even cheaper. Honest.

Best of all, our general aviation world — a relatively small, close-knit community of friendly, trustworthy people — is the polar opposite of public transportation.

At the same time, we must acknowledge that some of our trips turn out to be horribly inefficient, consuming far more time and money than almost any other form of travel.

Those situations usually result from limitations in the capabilities of the pilot and/or the airplane. Who among us has not had to bivouac in a small, theaterless town somewhere en route because a stalled front has blocked all escape routes?

Even if our training, ratings, and experience are up to a weather challenge, the airplane may not be because of equipment or performance limitations. Fortunately, it's the rare renegade who does not subscribe to the maxim that the safe pilot knows and heeds his or her limitations, and those of the airplane.

But let's not blame instances of inefficient travel by light aircraft solely on bad weather. Any number of factors can upend an impressively efficient plan. A meeting that runs late. An unexpected mechanical problem. A dead battery. Brutal headwinds. A small bladder.

Such frustrations are an unfortunate possibility for the general aviation traveler, a possibility embodied in the self-deprecating cliché, "Time to spare? Go by air."

I've experienced enough frustratingly inefficient trips to appreciate those times when general aviation truly is the best way to go. Such was the case this fall.

Along with my two oldest sons, Kristian and Ian, I was planning a late-September weekend to see the United States Grand Prix at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. This would be the third Formula One race at Indy for Kristian and me, and the first for Ian.

Kristian scored four fabulous first-turn tickets on eBay, and at the last minute my brother, Mike, agreed to join us. The weekend was set, as were the complicated logistics.

My airplane was in the possession of my partner, Doug, in Kansas City, Missouri, so for my trip up from Florida I left the driving to Delta. Mike, coming in from Boston, also booked a Delta seat. We rendezvoused in Cincinnati (all Indy flights were booked), rented a car, and drove to Indianapolis.

Meanwhile Kristian and Ian, who is an instrument-rated pilot and flight instructor, flew a Piper Archer from Frederick, Maryland, to Eagle Creek Airpark just west of the track. Even with Ian's en route fuel stop, our door-to-door trip times were a wash.

Following the race, I planned to drive to central Illinois to visit a printer, then drive back to Cincinnati — another eight hours on the road — for the return flight home.

During the weekend I learned that I might be able to catch a ride to Kansas City after the race aboard a friend's Baron. I could pick up our Twin Comanche on Monday, fly it to the printer, then home. That would save Doug from bringing it to Florida (which he was scheduled to do the following week anyway), and me a day of driving and airline flying.

Immediately after the race we drove to Eagle Creek. Ian began poring over weather reports and forecasts. Favorable westerly winds meant they could return nonstop, but they would fly out of daylight into darkness, and beneath an overcast much of the way. Widely scattered showers also were reported in the Indianapolis area.

Adding to the decision-making pressure was their stated desire to be at work first thing the next morning. I, of course, was thinking cautiously — these were my sons, after all — but said nothing. I knew Ian to be a sensible pilot, well aware of his capabilities and limitations.

Fifteen minutes later my friend taxied up in the Baron. I bid my sons and brother farewell and safe travels, and headed out to the ramp. Mike left in the rental car for Cincinnati and, hopefully, a flight home that night.

The Baron had us in K.C. in no time, and the next morning I launched in the Twin Comanche for Effingham, Illinois. The printing plant was less than a mile from the runway. After a tour, lunch, and our meeting, I was on my way to Florida. Late that night I touched down in Fort Myers.

After sifting through all the weather information, Ian and Kristian gave a thumbs-up to their flight. Several hours later they, too, were home and in bed.

And brother Mike? He drove like mad to Cincinnati, returned the car, and missed the flight. After spending the night in an airport hotel, he got on a Delta flight the next morning, then took a bus to his home on Cape Cod, arriving midafternoon.

Time to spare? Go by air — lines.