Just like good pilots who are always learning, good tennis players are always learning, too. My quest for tennis enlightenment recently led me to an interesting book by W. Timothy Gallwey titled The Inner Game of Tennis. First published in 1974, The Inner Game of Tennis has spawned Inner Game books on golf and skiing. I'm eagerly awaiting The Inner Game of Flying, because many of the same principles apply.
Aerobatics and soaring are much closer to physical sports like tennis, golf, and skiing than is the everyday takeoff-cruise-and-land type of flying that most of us do. Regardless, every kind of flying involves the same fundamental elements found in traditional sports: processing sensory information and executing learned and natural skills in precise fashion to achieve a specific outcome.
Ironically, the tolerances in tennis and golf are tighter. For example, if the angle of the racquet face is off by only a quarter-inch when hitting a forehand deep, the ball can sail six feet beyond the baseline. The potential consequences of making mistakes on the court or the links, however, are not nearly so great as in flying. Inherent risk is an important reason why good pilots are always learning, whether through formal instruction or self-evaluation. How we learn - or more precisely, how we can learn most efficiently and then perform at our best - is what concerns Gallwey.
The crux of his message is delivered in the second paragraph of the introduction. "It is the thesis of this book that neither mastery nor satisfaction can be found in the playing of any game without giving some attention to the relatively neglected skills of the inner game," he writes. "This is the game that takes place in the mind of the player, and it is played against such obstacles as lapses in concentration, nervousness, self-doubt, and self-condemnation. In short, it is played to overcome all habits of mind which inhibit excellence in performance."
Gallwey advocates completely recasting a player's mental approach to the game. Much of what he says could apply to pilots who are trying to improve their performance and enjoyment of aviation. Flying is largely mental, and our pursuit of the perfect flight remains a quest instead of an achievement because of the mental obstacles that Gallwey identifies - lapses in concentration, nervousness, self-doubt, and even self-condemnation.
Overcoming those obstacles and realizing excellence is best pursued not through traditional skill-based instruction and practice, Gallwey argues, but by following a few basic principles having to do with inner skills. These principles address the relationship between conscious mental activity - what Gallwey calls the "teller" - and the purely physical actions of the body - the "doer."
Have you ever berated yourself for making even a relatively minor mistake while flying? Gallwey sees that as the teller passing judgment on the doer, much like an autocratic boss chastising an employee. Little good can come from such a relationship. Certainly, criticism from the teller is not likely to cause an improvement in the doer's performance. A better, more productive relationship between a person's two selves is for the teller to dispassionately observe and objectively comment on the doer's performance.
"When we unlearn judgment," Gallwey writes, "we discover, usually with some surprise, that we don't need the motivation of a reformer to change our bad habits. We may simply need to be more aware. There is a more natural process of learning and performing waiting to be discovered." Thus, the first principle to follow on the path to excellence is nonjudgmental self-observation. This promotes trust between the mind and body and, ultimately, self-confidence.
Your landings have been suffering because you have been flaring too high. You know what you are doing wrong, but the harder you try to correct it, the worse it gets. The problem, according to Gallwey, is just that - trying too hard. If you could view a video of yourself trying to flare at the precise height and speed, you'd probably see supertight muscles and a face grimacing with effort. You are too tense to respond to all of the sensory inputs that you should be processing and responding to naturally, without much conscious thought.
That leads to a second principle of peak performance: Instead of trying to make it happen, trust your body to let it happen. How do you just let it happen? By respecting the "doer" side of you, and by asking for results instead of technique - the ends rather than the means. And by developing a psychosomatic memory of the steps leading up to a good landing. In other words, practice. Don't try to unlearn bad habits. It's too difficult. Instead, start new ones by picturing the desired outcome, trusting in the doer to perform, and objectively observing the results. That produces a positive cycle of continuing observation and learning.
Gallwey admits that one of the most elusive challenges in his approach is to calm, or quiet, the teller side of the mind, which frees the doer side to perform. "To still the mind one must learn to put it somewhere," he writes. "It cannot just be let go; it must be focused." Focusing to the point of achieving a state of relaxed concentration is the most essential component in performing at your highest potential, according to Gallwey.
Focus on the tennis court can mean watching the seams of the ball as it travels back and forth across the net; listening to the sounds of the ball being struck and bouncing; and feeling the position of your racket at various points in a stroke. Focus for a pilot also involves three of the five senses. For example, on an approach you concentrate on the sight picture of the runway in the windshield; the changing sound of the slipstream; and the feel of the controls as lift dribbles away.
If you've ever executed a flawless flare and touchdown, you know the feeling of relaxed concentration. You are in the zone - where time slows down and you are open to every sensory input. You seem to anticipate and react to even a nuance of a change in conditions. It's a great feeling, but it's seldom experienced. Going for the zone may be what Gallwey's Inner Game approach is all about.
When we characterize someone as being a good stick-and-rudder jock, a pilot who seems to have a natural "feel" for the airplane, I think we are describing a pilot who subscribes to the inner game philosophy whether he is aware of it or not. It can't be considered conclusive proof, but after reading Gallwey's book I made some of the best landings I've ever experienced in my airplane. I also beat a tennis partner to whom I almost always lose.
The inner game is not necessarily the way to learn and improve, but for some it may be a good and effective way. As professional educators have demonstrated, there are many different ways for people to learn, in part because there are many different kinds of people. I suppose that means that, along with all of the other things there are to learn, good pilots are always learning about learning, too.
Mark Twombly is a writer and editor who has been flying for 35 years. He is co-owner of a Piper Twin Comanche and recently obtained his commercial multiengine rating.
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