I had a flight review the other day. I did not pass, because you don’t pass—or fail—a flight review. You either complete it satisfactorily or you don’t. If it’s the former, you’re good to go for another two years, at least in terms of being current with FAR 61.56, the federal aviation regulation that says you need an instructor-administered oral and flight check of your knowledge and skills every two years to continue to act as pilot in command of an aircraft. If it’s the latter—if, in the judgment of your instructor, you don’t perform satisfactorily—you’ll need to do some remedial training before taking another flight review.
Every airplane design is a product of many factors and considerations, ranging from mission objectives to manufacturing ease and cost. Some exhibit a design approach that can best be described as corporate-committee bland, while others bear the personal beliefs of an individual designer. The fun part for pilots is identifying the unique features of a particular design—the little things—and evaluating how those features influence handling and performance.
It’s hard to identify a current-production airplane that reflects the personality of an individual designer. The reality of contemporary aircraft manufacturing economics, regulatory requirements, and the marketplace combine to encourage an engineered sameness. You have to look back in the past—when it was possible for one person with an idea and the passion to pursue it—to find airplanes with unique features.
One such airplane that stands out as a signature design is the Ercoupe. Designer Fred Weick was passionate about building safety into aircraft. The Ercoupe embodies many of his safety concepts, with the result being a distinctly different-looking and -flying airplane.
Perhaps the most unusual feature of the Ercoupe is the lack of pedals to control the small rudders on the dual vertical fins. Instead of employing rudder pedals, the Ercoupe’s unusual steering wheel controls the rudders along with ailerons and elevator. Interconnecting the ailerons with rudders assures that the pilot won’t inadvertently cross-control the airplane, potentially leading to a spin. The Ercoupe achieved remarkable success early in its life largely because it was so simple and spin-proof safe.
Along with its distinctive puppy-dog appearance, the Ercoupe offers the pilot a unique flying experience—cruising along with the side windows slid down, arm on the sill and feet flat on the floor, literally steering it with the wheel. Over time, however, the unique interconnected rudder was considered less of an asset, and most Ercoupes flying today have been retrofitted with traditional rudder pedals.
Not many airplanes exhibit such unique features, but even among the Fords and Chevys on the ramp there are still plenty of interesting features to explore. For example, if you lined up every Cessna 172 model that has appeared since 1956, you’d see what appear to be only minor changes in outward appearance. Those incremental changes, however, resulted in some significant changes in handling and performance.
Beginning with the 172M model in 1974, Cessna reshaped the leading edge of the wing, giving it a slight droop by adding a cuff. Cessna also changed the outboard portion of the wing, giving it a bit of twist for a slightly lower angle of attack compared to the inboard panel. The changes to the wing softened the stall characteristics of the 172, making it spin resistant.
The earlier generation of 172s also had another distinguishing feature—flaps that extended to 40 degrees. Those big barn doors were certainly effective in slowing the airplane and enabling a steeper approach angle, but they also had a downside: In the event of a go-around, it was virtually impossible to climb with the flaps fully extended. Cessna decided to limit flap extension on subsequent models to 30 degrees.
If you happen to fly an older 172, sight along the wing for evidence of a droop in the leading edge and washout on the outer panel. If it’s not there, take careful note of how the airplane behaves in a stall, and be sure to maintain yaw control throughout the stall. Check flap extension as well. If they extend to 40 degrees, consider whether you need or want to use all of that aerodynamic braking power on approach.
Like the 172, Piper’s venerable retractable single, the PA-28R Arrow, underwent several minor design changes throughout its long life. (It debuted in 1967, and is still in Piper Aircraft’s new-model lineup as a flight school trainer.) The first Arrow had the distinctive constant-chord wing planform—the so-called Hershey-bar wing—and a four-cylinder, 180-horsepower fuel-injected Lycoming IO-360 powerplant.
Two years later Piper upped the engine to 200 horsepower, and in 1972 the Arrow II appeared with a five-inch-longer fuselage that gave rear-seat passengers about 50 percent more legroom. The cabin entry door also was made wider. The big changes occurred in 1977 with the Arrow III, and again in the 1979 Arrow IV.
I got what I needed out of the exercise, which is a logbook endorsement from my instructor stating that I do indeed meet the requirements of the regulation.
As everything ever written about the flight review (old-schoolers remember it as the biennial flight review) says, it is not a formal test. Instead, FAR 61.56 describes the flight review as a “training” exercise. Regulatory language notwithstanding, it’s natural to feel a bit nervous going into a flight review. After all, the objective is for the instructor to evaluate your knowledge, skills, and proficiency to ensure that you can, in the words of the regulation, “demonstrate the safe exercise of the privileges of the pilot certificate.” That’s bound to create a little pressure.
This was the first flight review I’ve had in an airplane in six years. The last three were conducted in motion simulators as part of type-rating and annual recurrency training in business jets. I have to say it was more relaxed and more fun doing the review in an actual flying machine under real-world conditions.
The review began with the “ground training” required by 61.56—a discussion of FAR Part 91 operating rules. While I prepped the airplane for a flight scheduled for early the next morning, the instructor asked me questions, and I asked him a couple of questions about things of which I was not certain. (Remember, it’s supposed to be a training exercise, not a test.)
The regulation calls for a minimum one hour of flight training to complete the review. Our flight across the southern Florida peninsula would take just that, but there was a bonus—another six-tenths of an hour on a second leg to drop the instructor off at a larger airport so he could catch an airline flight back to the Midwest.
The first leg was a routine flight. I filed and flew on an IFR flight plan, logged a scant few seconds of cloud time as we descended through a thin layer, saw the airport from 10 miles out, and was cleared for a visual approach. The approach glidepath was right on the VASI, the touchdown was smooth, and the instructor noted that I even managed to land astride the runway centerline. (He is familiar with my long-standing habit of landing left of the centerline, and he seemed pleased to see that my efforts to expunge that bad technique from my skill set are bearing fruit.)
The second leg was a short but busy flight. We had to skirt to the west of Miami International Airport to get to Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International, and Miami Approach controllers occasionally would interrupt their nonstop patter with airline crews to point out other low-level traffic to us.
Fort Lauderdale has parallel east-west runways, and all airline traffic operates off the much-longer 9L/27R. The FBO we were headed to is just off the long runway in the northeast corner of the airport. Approach control told us to expect 9R, the shorter general aviation runway. I requested 9L, and the controller said he would pass that on to the tower.
Sure enough, when he handed us off to the tower controller and I checked in, the controller asked if I had a Continental Boeing 737 in sight at my nine o’clock position. I did—I had been tracking him for several minutes. The controller instructed me to fall in line behind the Boeing, but not before doing an S-turn to create adequate spacing. He then cleared me to land behind the big jet, adding “Caution, wake turbulence.”
I reduced power, extended the flaps to an intermediate setting, and lowered the landing gear. As we slowed the Boeing crept ahead, and I turned northbound to fly through the final approach course for Runway 9L until the spacing looked good.
My instructor, who was a career FAA air traffic controller, recognized that the spacing would not be adequate and advised me to continue northbound for a bit longer before turning back onto final.
Along with adequate spacing, I wanted to maintain a glidepath to the runway that was higher than the Boeing’s. Wake vortices from big jets generally sink and, when nearing the ground, spread outward. They also drift right or left depending on the prevailing wind on final approach. I knew that, when following a large airplane on final, I should plan to fly a higher-than-normal final approach, stay upwind of the preceding airplane’s ground track, and touch down beyond the point at which the big airplane lands. That technique should work to keep me clear of any wake vortices that potentially could lead to a violent upset at an extremely low altitude.
When the spacing looked good between the two airplanes I fell in line, number two for landing, and eyeballed the VASI on the left side of the runway. The goal was to be in the zone in which the top light couldn’t make up its mind between white and red. If all three in-line lights remained white, I couldn’t tell how high above the standard glidepath I was. If the far one was consistently red, it meant I’d be on the normal red-over-white glidepath and possibly close to the jet’s wake. But as long as the left one appeared nervous, as if it couldn’t make up its mind between staying red or white, I’d be right where I wanted to be with respect to the vortices—above them.
My instructor provided periodic callouts on our progress in the descent, and a couple of times I had to add a bit of power to stay just above the normal glidepath. I noted where the jet had touched down, and aimed for a point beyond it. “That’s what I’m talking about,” the instructor said as we flared for the landing and touched down lightly. “The only thing you may feel now is some turbulence from his thrust reversers,” he added, but we rolled out with no hint of disturbed air. We landed long, but with 10,000 feet of runway and the FBO at the very end, landing long was the preferred procedure.
The flight review was over. It had gone well. For most of us, blending in with heavy jet traffic at a major metropolitan airport is outside the normal profile of everyday general aviation flying. I’ve done it plenty of times over the years, but I can count on two fingers—and maybe only one—the number of times I’ve had to slow up and S-turn to gain adequate spacing for jet traffic ahead. That, combined with executing wake turbulence avoidance tactics, meant the review not only fulfilled the letter of FAR 61.56, it also fulfilled the spirit. It was an effective training exercise.
Mark Twombly is a writer and editor who has been flying since 1968. He is a commercial pilot with instrument and multiengine ratings and flies a Piper Aztec.
