While I was making final preparations for taking my Private Pilot checkride, a veteran aviator told me, "You'll never be as good as the day you take your test." It's been one year since I passed my Private Pilot checkride in December, 2000, and I'm proud to say that my friend's prediction isn't always true.

    In my first year as a licensed pilot I've accrued a fair amount of flying time, learned two new airplanes, and had some fairly unique experiences. In fact, the experience I've gained has made me feel that I knew very little the day I passed my checkride. In this article, I will pass on some tips for new pilots and outline some of the highlights of my first year as a Private Pilot.

    After getting my license in December, I flew the Piper Warriors I  trained in almost exclusively for the next six months. Except for brief, instructor supervised excursions in a Cessna 150 and a few rides in other types, the Warrior was my home in the air.

    Despite not having a pilot's license due to medical complications, my friend John bought a 1961 Piper Colt this summer. He asked if I would like to help him out by flying with him, thereby increasing my hours and experience. Although eager to get in the hours, I nearly balked after my first look at the plane.

    It wasn't a Warrior, that was for sure.

    Considered a "short-wing" Piper, the Colt is mostly fabric, with metal on the engine cowling. It seats two, has high wings like a Cessna 150, and a four-cylinder 108 horsepower engine. Basically, it combines the engine performance of a sailplane with the glide ratio of a brick. It has no flaps and no toe brakes. The brakes are controlled with a "Johnson bar" that looks sort of like the flap handle of a Warrior. And the cockpit instruments are minimal, complete with an old style VOR with the radial indicator on the BOTTOM. This later caused a serious navigational error, but that's another story.

    In short, I was not impressed with the Colt. I was also concerned because I had never soloed a high-wing airplane before. So I flew it a couple of times with my old instructor Stu Hirsch, and got even more frustrated. The Colt was very touchy on the rudder - difficult to keep coordinated in the turn. It was definitely under powered, which concerned me a bit on the short Monticello runway. And it dropped like a rock when you pulled out the throttle. I found it difficult to land, and squirelly on the ground. My problems were compounded by the fact that I was trying to fly it from the right seat, since my friend John would be seated on the left when we flew together.

    Finally, after three training flights I decided to just take it up solo and figure it out. So flying from the left seat, I took off and headed for the big runway at Sullivan County Airport nearby. With only one person, the Colt climbs fairly well. I did some turns to get accustomed to the high-wing view, and slow flight to prepare myself for landings, and then entered the pattern at Sullivan. After bumping it around a few times I managed to get settled down and do some acceptable landings. On the way back home I climbed up to do some steep turns and stalls. I was pleasantly surprised at the Colt's slow flight characteristics, and the fact that I couldn't get it to enter a full stall. It would simply mush and recover itself if I let go of  the yoke. With the power off and the yoke in my lap, I could not induce the Colt to stall and break fully.

    After that flight I felt confident enough to go flying with a passenger, so John and I began taking trips. We learned to be careful of the weight. Full fuel tanks on a hot day, with two people, could be a problem. The brakes gave us problems periodically, even quitting completely on me one day. But we learned how to fly the plane smoothly.

    I got very good at using forward slips due to the lack of flaps on the airplane. After talking with a few other no-flap pilots I found a technique that works well on landing: Keep some power in on approach, but use a forward slip to control altitude. This way, when you straighten out as the plane comes over the runway threshold, it doesn't drop abruptly, as it will if you decrease power to idle.

    Getting confident in a new, and somewhat exotic airplane has been a big confidence builder. I've learned to handle a plane with very minimal equipment, and one that can be a handful in wind. Next I will need to go in the other direction, and learn to handle more complex, high performance aircraft.

    One of my students at school told me she once took a plane ride at a Young Eagles event. She said the ride was fun, but that she became alarmed when the pilot "pulled out the instructions on how to land". I assured her this was the checklist, and a normal procedure. But it's good to be reminded we don't always know what the passengers are thinking as we go about our flying.

    As the weather turned nice in April, I was itching to fly and show off my skills to friends. I was only too glad to oblige when a coworker asked me to take him and his son for a ride. Not having had many passengers, I went up briefly on my own before they arrived at the airport to practice some landings. They pulled in just as I taxied the plane back to its parking spot.

    My friend's son was 14, eager, and also a bit nervous about the ride. He read the checklist for me as we preflighted the plane, and seemed to enjoy the ride as we flew around the local area. I let him take the controls for a while, and his smile got bigger. Throughout the flight, I narrated what I was doing so he, and his dad in the back seat, could follow along.

    As I brought us back toward the airport and into the traffic pattern, I continued talking through the checklist and describing what would happen next:

    "So I keep the speed around 80 mph, make nice easy turns, check again that the flaps are down and the mixture is rich."

    They both smiled. I turn final.

    "OK, we're established on the final approach. The speed is good, the descent rate is good."

    More smiles.

    "Now all we have to do is glide it right in... I hope."

    Smiles abruptly stop. "You HOPE?!" young son exclaims with round eyes.

    I quickly assure them both that everything is fine, no there's nothing to worry about, I was just kidding. The landing went fine, and I resolved never again to tease the passengers, even mildly.

    Took a friend flying one day in a Piper Colt. It's a short wing plane that combines the engine performance of a glider with the glide ratio of a rock. Underpowered, no flaps, and no toe brakes. It has what is called a Johnson bar - easily mistaken for a flap handle, it is actually the brake. In this particular Colt, the brakes are a bit untrustworthy. Usually nothing to worry about. In fact, this quirk of the plane has made me a better pilot because I'm always careful to land on the numbers, and ready to initiate a go-around if necessary.

    So we fly to Orange County Airport in Montgomery, NY. After having lunch at Sue's Airport Cafe, we strap in and taxi out to the long runway. As we are taxiing, I test the brakes and find that they are nearly gone. No problem, we have plenty of room and are taxiing slowly. We can even land back home on the small Monticello runway with no trouble. The wind is favoring the uphill runway, and one advantage of flying an underpowered plane is that it's easy to land it short.

    So as I line up on the runway to take off I say in a cheerful voice, "Hey, the brakes are gone!" I smile over at my passenger at this humorous discovery and find she has gone pale.

    "What are we going to do?! Why are we still taking off?!"

    Once in the air I tried to explain the situation, and that everything was fine. She was scared though, and having been flying before, knew that the Monticello runway was comparatively tiny. So to make her feel better, I diverted us to nearby Sullivan County International and its huge jet runway. We landed, dropped her off, and I flew the plane back into Monticello. Then I drove back to Sullivan to pick her up again.

    Next time an "interesting" anomaly turns up, I'm keeping it to myself.
 

        Want to try a busy airport? White Plains should be good enough for you. Lots and lots of business jets, some commercial operations, and a load of General Aviation makes it a place where you can find yourself spinning your prop on the ground for a long time. It's a Class D towered airport, and not a place where you want to make too many mistakes.

    I found this last part out the hard way during rush hour on a Friday afternoon.

    A friend needed a ride into White Plains where he kept his airplane. We got in without any trouble, mostly because he talked me through it. He coached me on the departure procedures as I dropped him off on the GA side of the airport. It was 4:45, and  I taxied out just in time. About two minutes after I joined the queue behind the hold short line, there were six other planes behind me. And this was just one side of the runway - more planes were lined up on the other side waiting for their turn to depart. And yet the landing traffic kept on coming - jet after jet.

    Soon the tower closed the airport to any more arrivals so they could get the waiting planes off the ground. They advised incoming planes to go to the Tappan Zee Bridge and begin circling. Then began a procedure I'd not yet seen - three planes were cleared onto the runway simultaneously. The first would immediately begin a takeoff roll, the second was instructed to taxi out 200 feet and hold, and the third to taxi into position and hold. Then followed rapid fire clearance instructions for heading and altitude.

    When my turn came up, I was #2 to depart, so off I went 200 feet down the runway. As I stopped, the tower gave me fast instructions: a heading, altitude, and a warning to be "ready on the throttle". I reported ready, and felt like a race car driver watching for the go signal, my right hand hovering over the throttle of my Piper Warrior.

    The plane in front of me took off and climbed away. My hand tightened on the throttle.

    Then the tower called me again with a change to my clearance. Heading the same, departure frequency the same, change in altitude. They talked fast, but I got it. Then I made my mistake. I didn't read back the whole clearance. Things were so busy, with so many radio transmissions, that I thought it would help them if I simply said, "1483X-ray, understand."

    Problem was, I didn't understand. I'd missed the altitude change.

    I got the go signal and firewalled the throttle. Climbed up fast and straight. 500, 1000, 1500, 2000...

    "WARRIOR 1483X, what are you doing?! You were cleared to climb 1500!"

    Ohmigod.

    I leveled out and frantically searched the sky around me, desperately hoping not to have a close-up view of a large jet. The tower gave me a new heading to fly, but were thankfully too busy to bawl me out further. I mumbled an apology and confirmed the new heading.

    Never again. From now on I read back EVERYTHING, no matter how busy it is. No exceptions.
 

    Bruno, one of the pilots at my airport has exotic tastes. He owns a Russian military trainer called a Yak 52. It’s unusual in that it can be considered a “modern warbird”. Although currently in production and use, Yaks have simultaneously found their way into private ownership.

    I’ve gazed longingly at the Yak for quite some time, and was thrilled at the opportunity to go for a ride recently. When Bruno asked if I’d like to go up with him, I asked who I had to kill. He said, “Great, go grab your headsets and I’ll get you a parachute.”

    Just a moment. PARACHUTE?

    Yep, parachute. Bruno does aerobatics in the Yak, and the regulations say you must be wearing a chute. When he saw my surprise at the chute Bruno nodded toward the plane and said, “You don’t trust these damn things, do you?”

    I strapped into the chute and then climbed into the rear cockpit of the Yak. Bruno climbed up and showed me how to strap into the restraint system, with a gizmo that allows you to release everything quickly in case of emergency. He explained how to bale out if necessary, concluding his remarks with, “…and don’t be afraid to use that chute. If you see me get out, you get out too!” I agreed, but neglected to tell him that I’d most likely wet myself if I seriously thought about having to jump.

    Strapped tightly into the seat, I couldn’t move very much. Not that there is anywhere to go. The cockpit is small, and very military inside. I have lots of instruments in the back cockpit, as that is where the instructor sits in operational Yaks. He can fail the instruments of the front pilot for training purposes, although I would have trouble doing so as they all have Cyrillic lettering.

    All the pre-checks completed, Bruno fires up the 7-cylinder radial engine. This is my first time in a radial engine airplane, and I’m impressed by its deep rumble. The Yak has good power on takeoff, and we were soon airborne. The bubble canopy provides a great view, and I enjoyed looking around as Bruno made some steep turns on climbout. But the view was about to get even more interesting.

    Although I knew it was coming and wanted to experience it, I was a bit afraid of being upside down. Once established at altitude and following a clearing turn, I saw Bruno advance the throttle and knew it was time to go inverted. My hands found the bottom of my seat and held tight, there being no other handholds in the cockpit. As the speed built up Bruno pulled back slightly on the stick and began a roll to the left. The Yak has almost no dihedral in the wing, so it’s pretty fast in the roll. We rolled inverted and I shouted with fright and excitement as I saw the ground spin above my head. Bruno continued the roll until we were again upright, and I had made it through my first aileron roll. We did a few more rolls, and I began to enjoy them after the second try. The bubble canopy makes this maneuver very exciting, as you see the ground and sky swap ends around you.

    Bruno was able to land the Yak with very little runway, and soon we were back. Can't wait to go again!

    Everyone struggles with landings. We love to work on them, but that nice soft chirp of tires on runway can be elusive. In training, I went through phases where I could land great for a while, and then go into slumps where I was bouncing the plane constantly.

    But I have found the secret to success.

    For me, the secret is to look down the runway. All the way to the end as I flare for touchdown. I have a tendency of fixating on the ground right near me, which usually results in a bumpy arrival. When I force myself to look down the runway, I almost always grease it right in. Try it.

    "Pucker Factor" is a term pilots use to describe how tense a situation is. Often, a situation is rated on a scale of 1-10. In my experience, any amount of PF is not a fun experience. I've been in two situations meriting PF status since I received my pilot's license.

    The first time I felt an unpleasant clenching sensation in the airplane was during a night flight from Cortland, NY back to Sullivan County Airport. I very nearly turned back after takeoff from Cortland because of visibility. It was a slightly hazy evening, and I hadn't flown at night in a while. I decided to continue, and contacted Binghamton Approach to track me on radar.

    About halfway through the flight Approach called to advise me about some traffic, and they had trouble making out my reply. I repeated, and they said they were having trouble reading me. I switched to my #2 radio and tried again, but got the same result. Although I had little evidence of a real problem, I started to feel a bit anxious. Night VFR can be very dangerous if you run into problems.

    As I took stock of the situation, I began to get more and more nervous. What if I was losing the radios? If so, I would have no way to turn on the lights at Sullivan County. Worse, what if I was losing the alternator and THAT was causing the radios to go? If so, I would have some battery power for a while and then I would have no radios, no cockpit lighting, and no navigational instruments. I might not be able to find Sullivan County!

    OK, don't panic. Let's think this through. I can land the plane with no cockpit lights and no airport lights if I have to. It's part of Private Pilot training, so I've done it before. And the wind is calm, so if I continue flying this heading, I will arrive at Sullivan County soon enough. And I have my map with me in case something goes wrong, and I have my flashlight... the one that is now getting dim because the battery is low!

    This isn't fair! I just replaced those batteries, didn't I?

    At this point I remember looking at the seat next to me and seeing nobody there with a helpful suggestion. I thought to myself, "What am I doing here?"

    I decided then that if I was really losing the electricity in the plane that I would turn right and head for Binghamton. I was in contact with them, and they would hopefully figure out what happened when I stopped transmitting. Although losing the electricity in the plane would take out the transponder, the aircraft would still show up as a radar target, wouldn't it? Well, I hoped so, and that they would figure it out when they saw me enter the airspace.

    All of this had taken about twenty seconds. I had a plan now with several options - none of which I liked very much, but I would probably get out of the situation. Deep breath.

    "Binghamton Approach, Warrior 1483X-Ray, radio check please."

    "Warrior 83X-Ray, Binghamton Approach, we read you more clearly now."

    That was a relief. I must have just been in a low radio reception area. It happens up there. The rest of the flight went fine. I didn't lose the radio, alternator, or anything. And my flashlight was still working when I got back.

    I felt good that I hadn't panicked in the face of a potential problem, and had worked out some options. But in the future I would be even more careful to check out my equipment, particularly the flashlight, before launching out on night VFR.

    The aviation magazines usually have a section where they list the recent accidents. In reading them one finds that accidents are not usually the result of a single mistake, or one instance of bad luck. Rather, they are caused by chains of occurrences. A few small mistakes or omissions combined with some bad luck, and you have the formula for an accident. It was this thought that occurred to me while on a flight in the Colt.

    John and I had flown to Reading, PA for lunch. We decided to head to another airport in northeastern Pennsylvania, and refuel there before heading home. As we departed Reading I set up the GPS for our destination, and also dialed in a VOR to verify our position. I also asked the Reading tower to hand us off to Approach so they could follow us on radar.

    A short while into the flight the GPS began to go ape. It showed our ground speed as 438 mph. We're lucky if that plane does 100, so I watched it for a few minutes before deciding to turn it off and fly with the VOR. While checking out the GPS I had allowed our heading to drift a bit, so it was necessary to re-intercept the VOR radial I was tracking.

    Hmm, the VOR was giving a funny indication too. The radial should be over THAT way, not over here... I checked where we were on the map, or rather tried to. We were in the middle of a big empty area with few landmarks. I knew in general where we were, but was becoming increasingly uncertain of our exact position.

    And another thing, why was it so quiet in here? Haven't heard from Approach in a while. I know there's probably not much traffic up here, but I should still hear them talking to other people. I called for a radio check and got no reply. Changed frequencies and tried another facility. Nothing.

    I made my best guess at the proper heading with the landmarks I had in sight, and figured that as we headed north we would soon be in an area of better radio reception. Sure enough, after about twenty minutes I was able to raise the Elmira tower and they were kind enough to give me vectors to our destination airport.

    Once established on the heading, I relaxed a bit. Good thing we were going to be there soon, as that little excursion was going to bring us a bit closer to our fuel limitation than I liked. Well within the legal limits, but I like big fuel reserves. Anyway, we would be there in five minutes.

    We soon had the airport in sight, and I made a radio call to find out which runway was in use. A voice came back telling me, "The airport is CLOSED, and the runway is not useable."

    I start to feel the pucker.

    John and I exchange a wide eyed look and I mutter a few profanities. As we come closer to the airport, we can see the runways are marked with big X's, indicating they are unsafe. Suddenly this is no longer just a nuisance. Now we are getting into a fuel status situation, and we need to put this airplane on the ground fairly soon. I hurriedly find the next closest airport on the map and turn the plane.

    The thought that is really bothering me right about now is that this situation is beginning to sound too much like one of those magazine articles. I can see it now: "After flying into an area of low radio reception, the aircraft's GPS ceased functioning. The flight continued until running out of fuel..."

    I started to make some fuel calculations in my head. The right side tank would be getting low right about now. We had more in the left side, but if anything else went wrong we could be in real trouble. I told John to be ready to switch fuel tanks if the engine began to sputter, as the valve is on his side of the cabin. Uneasily, I began scanning the terrain ahead of us in case my calculations were wrong and we needed to put it down in a hurry.

    About five minutes later the engine abruptly began to quit. John was quick with the tank selector valve and the engine came back to life just as quickly, but now we were down to the fuel in the left tank only. I would have given a lot to be over an airport at that moment.

    We eventually made it to Tri-Cities Airport near Binghamton, with about 30 minutes of fuel remaining. So the article describing the flight thankfully ended up on my web site, and not in the accident section of Private Pilot Magazine. This situation is yet another reminder to be extra careful when something, even a small something, goes wrong. One mistake or piece of bad luck often leads to another.

    During flight training, my instructor took me on a night flight into Manhattan and around the Statue of Liberty. It was spectacular, and we even flew over Yankee Stadium during a game! Shortly after passing my Private Pilot Checkride I flew this route on my own with a one passenger along for the ride:

    Taking off from Monticello I got on flight following with New York Approach, and advised them that I would be making the transition down the Hudson. Heading east I took the Warrior past Stewart International in Newburgh, and then made the right turn to follow the Hudson River southbound.

    Keeping the plane close to the Western shore of the Hudson, I dropped some altitude after passing over the Tappan Zee Bridge to remain under the Class B airspace. We could see the New York skyline, and I double checked the map to make sure I was at the correct altitude.

    After passing over the George Washington Bridge New York Approach advised me to switch to the Hudson River Advisory Frequency as we descended to 500 feet. The buildings were getting close, and it was exciting to see that we were actually below the taller ones. I continually scanned for traffic and made periodic position reports on the radio.

    The skyscrapers loomed over us as we came into Manhattan proper. We passed by the USS Intrepid at its permanent dock on the West Side. I was only slightly tempted to attempt a landing alongside the SR-71 Blackbird on the deck. Then we passed the Empire State Building and continued toward lower Manhattan. I gawked at the buildings as much as I could in between aggressive scans for traffic.

    As we approached the Statue of Liberty with the World Trade Center towering over us on our left, I had a sudden moment of clarity. I said aloud, "What am I doing here? I'm just a Phys. Ed. teacher and I'm flying a plane in the middle of Manhattan!" It just seemed incredible to me at the time, and still does now.

    We looped around "the Lady", and then proceeded northbound up the Hudson, this time hugging the Eastern shore next to all the big buildings. We could look in windows of the skyscrapers, and got an even closer look at the flight deck of the Intrepid. Almost directly above the aircraft carrier, the deck looked ridiculously short. Then I had a momentary scare as several birds came close to my plane and I thought one was about to strike the windshield. That was enough to bring me back from sightseeing, and I concentrated on holding altitude and getting us out from under the Class B.

    I would make the NYC trip several times before the terrible events of September 11. I did it several times during the summer of 2001, once in a big Piper Navajo on my birthday. The events of September 11 have brought some changes to general aviation, and it turns out I was among the last people permitted to make this trip. As of this writing (November 2001) the Class B airspace around NYC is off limits to GA traffic.

    In August 2001 I traveled to London for a friend's wedding. I was booked on a British Airways 747, and hoped to take advantage of the "open cockpit" for a  visit. Unlike American air carriers, other countries sometimes permit passengers to visit the flight deck. American airlines are forbidden to do so. (I've heard that the FAA sometimes tests them on this by sending an inspector on a flight. He goes up and knocks on the cabin door, and if they open it he hands them a fine!)

    Upon boarding the plane at Kennedy Airport I showed my pilot's license to the flight attendant and asked if there was any chance of visiting the cockpit. He took down my seat number and said someone would come for me during the flight. I wasn't sure if this was just a blowoff, so I didn't have my hopes up as I took my seat. But sure enough, about an hour into the flight another attendant came to my seat and asked if I would like to see the flight deck. I jumped up and followed him up to the front of the plane.

    We passed through several sections and up a two flights of stairs before reaching the cockpit. I was expecting a large area with two pilots and a flight engineer, but was surprised to find a relatively small cockpit with just the two pilots. They greeted me warmly and invited me to sit in the jumpseat just behind them.

    It was a new experience for me to look out the front window of a big airliner. It was a clear night and the view was spectacular. The instrument panel, though impressive, was simpler than I was expecting. I had visited the flight deck of a DC-10 when I was little, and have a memory of many gauges and dials. The 747-400 was quite different, and very modern. It had the computerized "glass cockpit" we have heard about in the media lately, and at a glance even I could get a good idea of what the airplane was doing. We were cruising at 39,000 feet, and doing about .86 Mach. When I inquired of our position the copilot showed me a moving map that showed  us approaching an intersection.

    The pilots gave me a brief tour of the instrument panel, and showed me the latest ATIS printout from Kennedy. They also answered a lot of questions very patiently. When we reached the intersection we had been approaching the captain reached down to the console in between them and punched a few commands into the EFIS auto-pilot. I was intrigued to see the throttles move forward by themselves to gain altitude and the plane turn to a new heading, without either of them touching any other controls.

    When I asked if I could take a picture the captain said, "Sure. Just give us a moment to make sure all the switches are set correctly..." He then made a show of checking the panels, and I'm not sure if he was joking or not. From what they had been telling me, I'm fairly certain they could overlook quite a lot and the plane would simply take care of itself.
 

    Although they never actually asked me to leave, I didn't want to overstay my welcome. So after visiting for about 20 minutes I excused myself and returned to my seat. It turns out this experience was another one that will probably never be repeated. Three weeks later September 11 arrived. I'm lucky to have been one of the last people to have a friendly visit to the cockpit of a commercial jet.