Pilotage

Aviation writer Mark R. Twombly is part owner in a Piper Aztec.

Two traits I much admire in aircraft are (1) speed, because going fast makes me feel good, and (2) soft landings, because smooth arrivals make me look good. Speed, however, is relative. When I went from a Cessna Skyhawk to a Piper Twin Comanche, I picked up about 50 knots. I thought I was going fast — until I moved into a Piper Aztec and got another 15. Landings, on the other hand, are definitive — soft and smooth, or not. Some airplanes are naturally disposed toward soft landings, some not. The Cessna 172 is; the Piper Aztec is; the Piper Twin Comanche is not.

I've known Dave for a long time, but see him only occasionally. We ran into each other a few years ago at an aviation event. After exchanging pleasantries, we began to do what people at aviation shows do — talk airplanes.

"You fly in?" he asked.

"Yup," I answered. "With my partner. In our Twin Comanche."

Dave's eyes lit up. "One of my favorite airplanes," he said with a big grin. "I used to fly one a lot. It's such a fast, efficient little thing. Loved it," he said, "even though I had trouble with the landings."

I nearly fell down on the spot. Without being asked, Dave admitted that he found the airplane difficult to consistently land well. A wave of admiration for Dave's unabashed honesty swept over me. "I knew there was something about you I liked," I said.

I enjoy talking to pilots like Dave who have experience in the same makes and models of airplanes that I've owned and flown. The Twin Comanche is an especially good subject because of its near-cult status. At some point in the conversation, I like to slip in a loaded question.

"How do you do on the landings?" I ask matter of factly. The answer marks the person as either appealingly humble or one who prefers to shovel bull.

The Twin Comanche, and its single-engine sibling, has a well-deserved reputation for possessing cantankerous landing characteristics. A short landing gear, a laminar-flow wing, and limited stabilator travel exaggerate the influence of ground effect on landing — less induced drag, more lift, and a heavier feel to the nose. The result is a tendency to float unless airspeed is spot-on, difficulty in smoothly planting the main wheels, and even greater difficulty holding the nosewheel off momentarily after the mains touch down.

Plenty has been done over the years to try to "fix" the Comanche family's landing characteristics. A smaller nosewheel was approved to give pilots an inch or two more of ground clearance on touchdown. Piper switched to a thicker stabilator airfoil on later models for more pitch authority on landing. Aftermarket wing-root cuffs supposedly improve airflow over the stabilator at slow airspeeds for better pitch performance.

Some Twin Comanche owners even resort to flying around with 100 pounds of dead weight in the baggage compartment behind the rear seats. The weight moves the center of gravity rearward, which reduces pitch-control forces. That makes it easier to keep the nose off the runway after touchdown. The various tricks help, but only to a degree.

I cannot recall ever landing the Twin Comanche with the polish that I routinely achieved in my Cessna 172, or now in the Aztec. The best I hoped for was to land smoothly on the mains before the nosewheel immediately plunked down. Inconsistent landing performance was the price I paid to enjoy the airplane's speed, style, and other advantages.

It's amusing now to encounter Twin Comanche pilots who boast of superiority over the laws of aerodynamics. How else to explain their claims that they never have any trouble with landings?

Some among us are blessed with abundant native talent. They are natural pilots, people with a great aptitude for flying, and an inherent feel for stick-and-rudder control. The rest of us must work harder at being good. One way we get there is by being honest about our abilities, which in my mind means being open to learning something new.

The opposite of honesty and humility, of admitting to our limitations, is being boastful. I don't know if boasting is a symptom of just the opposite — lacking self-confidence — or a sign of true arrogance, but it serves no useful purpose in a pilot.

When I hear someone say he has no trouble routinely making two-point, tire-chirping touchdowns in a Twin Comanche, my BS meter trips on the high side. Either he cannot distinguish a great landing from an average or poor arrival or he is being dishonest with himself and others.

That event where I met Dave was one to remember, because I met a second honest man there. On my way out I took a last tour of the flight line and ran across Duane, an acquaintance who builds and sells a high-performance single-engine pusher kitplane. We shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and then started talking airplanes.

He asked me what I was flying these days, and when I said, "Twin Comanche" his eyes smiled. "Oh, man, I logged several thousand hours in one years ago," he said. "I just loved it. If I were to get another twin, I'd get one of those in a heartbeat. Never could land it, though."