These stupid fuel gauges never did work. Not that it mattered - the machine could be operated without functional fuel gauges. Still, I wanted them to work. Without really knowing what I was getting myself into, I tackled the project.
What a comedy of errors, except not funny. First I checked the wiring. One gauge was not grounded correctly, the other wired backwards. Addressing this did not solve the problem. Next I replaced the sending units. Now, the gauges each read opposite - a full tank registered as empty, while an empty tank registered full. How useless.
After solving each of the aforementioned problems, I broke one of the mounting plates while installing the sending unit into the tank. For good measure, the other one broke, too. Brilliantly, the parts were not available separately. I had to reorder the entire kit again, twice. The cashier smiled, "Now you'll have spare parts." Awesome - just what I need.
Only now, the manufacturer had switched to a new style of kit. So, I simply could not switch out the tiny, thumbnail-sized plastic parts. I had to totally disassemble what I had just built, and intermix the two kits. Essentially, the "spare parts" would be useless.
I exhaled deeply. The temperature of my blood had been steadily rising; I could feel it in my neck. Spread out before me on the concrete shop floor and intermingling with a variety of hand tools was a colorful array of delicate parts. How ironic - they had been manufactured and assembled halfway across the globe, packed into boxes, crated, and shipped across oceans and continents, to miraculously wind up here in the American Midwest where they were unpacked, disassembled, and ultimately found to not work in the first place. And that is what we call progress.
I glanced around the room to make sure no one was watching, and let loose a string of expletives. Almost instantly, the most random thing I could possibly imagine occurred: The shop door swung open, my flight instructor friend Mike poked his head inside and said, "Hey - I've got an airplane full of fuel and warmed up sitting outside. You want to go flying?"
And that is how I found myself seated at the controls of a Cessna at the end of a grassed runway in Green County, Wisconsin, on a glorious autumn afternoon. It had been more than a year since I'd piloted a small airplane. Mike would probably never know what a godsend he was; I was on the verge of throwing a set of fuel senders clear back to China.
I familiarized myself with the controls of the Cessna, the engine purring, and the propeller chopping calmly at an idle. It didn't take long - this was almost identical to the aircraft on which I learned to fly. Mike reminded me, "You've got a slight crosswind from the south. No need for flaps - go ahead whenever you're ready."
I eased the throttle to the panel. The engine responded, and we began to roll. Amazing, how the curved shape of a piece of metal biting the air is all it takes to pull us forward. Slowly but surely, the little Cessna picked up speed. I gave slight aileron to the right, to address the crosswind, and applied a touch of backpressure on the yoke. The grass raced beneath us in a blur.
As we picked up speed, I looked out the window. This is the part I enjoy most - the moment in time where enough wind is moving over the wings to enable them to fly. There is a magical split-second where the weight of the aircraft is transferred from the landing gear, to the airfoil. You can feel it in the controls, hear it in the pounding of the engine. It is delicate, as most things of beauty are. I felt it in my fingertips, and pulled back on the yoke. Out the window, I watched as the ground sank away beneath the still-spinning wheel. We were flying.
This flight was to be a short one. With only an hour of daylight remaining, Mike and I swung over my farm. I had forgotten how peaceful everything appears from up here. Everything looked to be tucked in cozily for the winter ahead. Crops were harvested, machinery put away. From 1500 feet above the ground, I could not see a single farmer out in the fields. Even the cattle appeared stationary, like a child's play set.
I followed the highway back to the airport, mesmerized as always at how traffic appears to just creep along. The air was so peaceful - not a breath of wind bumped the airplane. Over the airport, I slid into an approach. I recalled something my flight instructor said, "Good approaches make for good landings - watch your circuit." I glanced over at Mike. He was looking out the window, too. That's the thing about flying; everyone who does it, loves it. No one ever complains about having to go up in an airplane.
I set up a perfect approach. The throttle back, I added flaps and bled altitude. The runway meandered closer. Over the threshold, the Cessna settled in. Just at touchdown I pulled back on the yoke, so the main wheels hit first, as smoothly as if we had landed in a vat of grease. The nose sank down, and that was it - the plane was no longer flying.
We taxied to the workshop, and you know what? I didn't even care that I hadn't gotten those fuel gauges working.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
What a comedy of errors, except not funny. First I checked the wiring. One gauge was not grounded correctly, the other wired backwards. Addressing this did not solve the problem. Next I replaced the sending units. Now, the gauges each read opposite - a full tank registered as empty, while an empty tank registered full. How useless.
After solving each of the aforementioned problems, I broke one of the mounting plates while installing the sending unit into the tank. For good measure, the other one broke, too. Brilliantly, the parts were not available separately. I had to reorder the entire kit again, twice. The cashier smiled, "Now you'll have spare parts." Awesome - just what I need.
Only now, the manufacturer had switched to a new style of kit. So, I simply could not switch out the tiny, thumbnail-sized plastic parts. I had to totally disassemble what I had just built, and intermix the two kits. Essentially, the "spare parts" would be useless.
I exhaled deeply. The temperature of my blood had been steadily rising; I could feel it in my neck. Spread out before me on the concrete shop floor and intermingling with a variety of hand tools was a colorful array of delicate parts. How ironic - they had been manufactured and assembled halfway across the globe, packed into boxes, crated, and shipped across oceans and continents, to miraculously wind up here in the American Midwest where they were unpacked, disassembled, and ultimately found to not work in the first place. And that is what we call progress.
I glanced around the room to make sure no one was watching, and let loose a string of expletives. Almost instantly, the most random thing I could possibly imagine occurred: The shop door swung open, my flight instructor friend Mike poked his head inside and said, "Hey - I've got an airplane full of fuel and warmed up sitting outside. You want to go flying?"
And that is how I found myself seated at the controls of a Cessna at the end of a grassed runway in Green County, Wisconsin, on a glorious autumn afternoon. It had been more than a year since I'd piloted a small airplane. Mike would probably never know what a godsend he was; I was on the verge of throwing a set of fuel senders clear back to China.
I familiarized myself with the controls of the Cessna, the engine purring, and the propeller chopping calmly at an idle. It didn't take long - this was almost identical to the aircraft on which I learned to fly. Mike reminded me, "You've got a slight crosswind from the south. No need for flaps - go ahead whenever you're ready."
I eased the throttle to the panel. The engine responded, and we began to roll. Amazing, how the curved shape of a piece of metal biting the air is all it takes to pull us forward. Slowly but surely, the little Cessna picked up speed. I gave slight aileron to the right, to address the crosswind, and applied a touch of backpressure on the yoke. The grass raced beneath us in a blur.
As we picked up speed, I looked out the window. This is the part I enjoy most - the moment in time where enough wind is moving over the wings to enable them to fly. There is a magical split-second where the weight of the aircraft is transferred from the landing gear, to the airfoil. You can feel it in the controls, hear it in the pounding of the engine. It is delicate, as most things of beauty are. I felt it in my fingertips, and pulled back on the yoke. Out the window, I watched as the ground sank away beneath the still-spinning wheel. We were flying.
This flight was to be a short one. With only an hour of daylight remaining, Mike and I swung over my farm. I had forgotten how peaceful everything appears from up here. Everything looked to be tucked in cozily for the winter ahead. Crops were harvested, machinery put away. From 1500 feet above the ground, I could not see a single farmer out in the fields. Even the cattle appeared stationary, like a child's play set.
I followed the highway back to the airport, mesmerized as always at how traffic appears to just creep along. The air was so peaceful - not a breath of wind bumped the airplane. Over the airport, I slid into an approach. I recalled something my flight instructor said, "Good approaches make for good landings - watch your circuit." I glanced over at Mike. He was looking out the window, too. That's the thing about flying; everyone who does it, loves it. No one ever complains about having to go up in an airplane.
I set up a perfect approach. The throttle back, I added flaps and bled altitude. The runway meandered closer. Over the threshold, the Cessna settled in. Just at touchdown I pulled back on the yoke, so the main wheels hit first, as smoothly as if we had landed in a vat of grease. The nose sank down, and that was it - the plane was no longer flying.
We taxied to the workshop, and you know what? I didn't even care that I hadn't gotten those fuel gauges working.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
