The Cessna line of high-wing piston singles is familiar, reliable, like an old friend. But for four years, we lost touch. I spent most of my flight time in a Van’s RV–12, a sporty, low-wing two-seater. It was perfect for solo excursions with no particular place to go, but this summer something changed. I wanted to take people along. I wanted to pack bags and teddy bears and car seats. I wanted to go somewhere. I wanted to fly the 182.
If this were my first time flying the 182, the requirements would be straightforward: a checkout with an instructor including ground time, a quiz, and a list of flight maneuvers to perform (see Alicia Herron’s tips for checkouts in “Spice It Up,” p. 46). But I’d done all those things years ago. There was no endorsement, no checkride, no insurance requirement, no flight school policy to tell me how to regain proficiency. The decision came down to me.
Some flight experiences are obvious candidates for seeking out an instructor: flying an unfamiliar airplane, a first foray into mountain flying, or coming back to flying after a long absence. Others might warrant time in the airplane with a fellow pilot, or simply solo practice to smooth out the rough spots. Deciding how much time to spend on each requires an honest assessment of factors such as overall experience and proficiency, experience in the aircraft and environment in question, and recent experience—including, for me, recent experience with a possible negative transfer. The 182 is a bigger, faster airplane than the RV, and the differences in performance and handling leave ample opportunities to make mistakes. Add to that the long time since my last 182 flight, limited experience with that model, and an avionics upgrade, and I estimated a couple flights with an instructor would be necessary for me to feel comfortable again in the 182.
To focus the training, I asked myself: What am I most likely to mess up?
The 182 has a higher wing loading than the RV–12, which means it’s more stable, but also has a higher stall speed. Flying final approach at RV–12 speeds would put the 182 at a higher angle of attack, closer to stall. The 182 also needs a lot of back-pressure on landing, whereas the RV–12 is light on the controls and tends to float; a risk in the 182 is striking the nose first and damaging the firewall.
The constant-speed propeller is another difference. I’d have to get back into the habit of adjusting the blue propeller control in addition to the throttle and mixture, but if I got confused or workload-saturated, I’d have a fallback: With the knob full forward at high rpm/low pitch, the propeller would act like the fixed-pitch propellers I’m used to.
I also wanted to go over the avionics. For VFR flying, I needed to be proficient enough that bugging headings or altitudes, setting the altimeter, and using basic autopilot functions wouldn’t distract me from flying. And I needed to understand things like nav modes and autopilot settings so I didn’t inadvertently tell the airplane to do something I didn’t mean to.
My first two flights were mapped out: some basic maneuvers to get a feel for the airplane, avionics familiarization and propeller management, plus a healthy dose of landings. By the end, muscle memory had kicked in and I could turn the right knob on the first or second try, but I was not quite finished. My flying was safe, but not polished.
A few years ago I might have gone on just one more flight with an instructor. Now, I understand the value of working from good enough to confident on my own. I flew solo circuits around the pattern, then a cross-country with a fellow pilot—who kept me company and watched for traffic while I fumbled with autopilot modes—and one more round of solo landings. By the time I taxied back, I was back in the Cessna groove. I was ready to go somewhere.