There I was, learning how to walk all over again.
The summer of 2012 was riddled with more than its fair share of stinking hot, oppressively humid days; this one was no exception. A front was supposedly moving into the area, even though it never actually did, and the weather reacted with a striking case of schizophrenia. Was this day going to be cool and breezy? How about hot and muggy? Perhaps today would bring a warm, soaking rain, just to stir things up. The only way to describe early June 2012 was unsettled.
Despite the breeze, or perhaps because of it, I was sweating bullets. I slid the side window open and allowed the blast to massage my senses. Refreshing. Clouds were moving into the area. With them came a gusty crosswind, which caused the little Champ to buck and weave. I felt like I was wrestling a bear, which in retrospect is pretty pathetic. The Aeronca Champ is perhaps the easiest airplane in the world to fly; yet there I was, feeling very much like a beginner.
The Aeronca Champ is a two-seat aircraft perfect for training. I sat in front as pilot Glenn Hake sat rear seat as copilot. I had an incredible, unimpeded view - imagine riding a motorcycle that can fly. We each wore a headset, which enabled communication between ourselves and any other aircraft that may be in the area. Fat chance; no one was out flying in this soup, except the crazies.
First lesson: Thou shalt not wrestle the aircraft. Without realizing it, I was forming a bad habit. In this weather, the Champ rocked sickingly. Every time the wing dipped, I responded by jerking the control stick in the opposite direction for correction. In his signature calm, cool, collected pilot-speak, Glenn came over the radio, "You're working way too hard up there; you're making me sweat. I want you to take your hands off the stick. Let go - just let the airplane fly itself."
With hesitation I did, and you know what? The airplane does fly itself. Even in turbulence, an aircraft like the Champ is designed to fly straight and level. Amazing - a gust threw up one wing, banking the little airplane nearly on her side. With no input on my or Glenn's part, it simply leveled off and continued flying. I could hold the stick and maneuver the airplane with micro-movements, and despite atmospheric tumult, she always returned to normal flight.
Second lesson: Landings are fun. I brought the Champ around, setting up for a landing. The procedure was identical to every other aircraft I've flown: throttle back, nice even turns, slow down on approach, aim for the threshold of the runway. On final approach it never failed. There I was, concentrating, focusing with absolute solemnity, and Glenn's voice would crackle over the radio, "Hey. You're supposed to smile. Remember, this is fun."
There are two basic types of landings one can make with a tailwheel aircraft. The first is called a three-point landing. In this configuration the airplane touches down in a slow, nose-up attitude, so that the two main wheels and tailwheel simultaneously touch the ground. I believe this to be a perfectly natural approach to landing. As the ground rushed up, I break the descent by pulling back on the stick. Since the airplane is already slow, it responds by dipping the tail in a nice, steady flare. All three wheels touch the ground, and the airplane rolls out nice and controlled.
The second type of touchdown is called a wheel landing. In this design, the airplane is literally flown onto the ground so that only the main wheels make contact. The approach is faster than with a tailwheel landing, which ensures that the aircraft remains level. I'll admit, the first couple of wheel landings I made turned out hairy.
I gripped the stick, and intently watched the runway. It seemed to be coming at me at an unnervingly high rate of speed. Closer, closer. My instinct told me to pull back, to slow down. Glenn advised, "keep the stick forward." The earth rushed closer yet. I felt as though I were playing chicken with a stationary object. Keep the stick forward. At the last possible second, level off. The airplane slows only marginally, so I coax it down with minimal forward stick. There - the wheels grab. I instinctively pull back, but because of our speed the tailwheel slams onto the runway, bouncing the airplane back into the air. We're not fast enough to actually fly - herein lies the danger. Several feet above the runway, traveling more than 50 miles per hour, the aircraft could stall out and drop like a rock. I dump full throttle and the little Champ begrudgingly climbs, clawing skyward. I'll go around and try again.
The second wheel landing was rough, but slightly better. This was an art, rather than a science. A good wheel landing is a result of acquiring that special touch that tells you when to touch down, when and how much to move the stick, and when to pull back. The secret was to hold the stick forward, to keep the tail off the ground until the airspeed dropped. This method went against the grain of everything I knew thus far.
The third, and subsequent landings got better. A few more, and I began to get the feel for it. As a matter of fact, I found myself smiling - this was fun. After three sessions Glenn signed my logbook. I now had my tailwheel endorsement.
If flying the Champ was fun, I could not wait to get my hands on the Fairchild.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
The summer of 2012 was riddled with more than its fair share of stinking hot, oppressively humid days; this one was no exception. A front was supposedly moving into the area, even though it never actually did, and the weather reacted with a striking case of schizophrenia. Was this day going to be cool and breezy? How about hot and muggy? Perhaps today would bring a warm, soaking rain, just to stir things up. The only way to describe early June 2012 was unsettled.
Despite the breeze, or perhaps because of it, I was sweating bullets. I slid the side window open and allowed the blast to massage my senses. Refreshing. Clouds were moving into the area. With them came a gusty crosswind, which caused the little Champ to buck and weave. I felt like I was wrestling a bear, which in retrospect is pretty pathetic. The Aeronca Champ is perhaps the easiest airplane in the world to fly; yet there I was, feeling very much like a beginner.
The Aeronca Champ is a two-seat aircraft perfect for training. I sat in front as pilot Glenn Hake sat rear seat as copilot. I had an incredible, unimpeded view - imagine riding a motorcycle that can fly. We each wore a headset, which enabled communication between ourselves and any other aircraft that may be in the area. Fat chance; no one was out flying in this soup, except the crazies.
First lesson: Thou shalt not wrestle the aircraft. Without realizing it, I was forming a bad habit. In this weather, the Champ rocked sickingly. Every time the wing dipped, I responded by jerking the control stick in the opposite direction for correction. In his signature calm, cool, collected pilot-speak, Glenn came over the radio, "You're working way too hard up there; you're making me sweat. I want you to take your hands off the stick. Let go - just let the airplane fly itself."
With hesitation I did, and you know what? The airplane does fly itself. Even in turbulence, an aircraft like the Champ is designed to fly straight and level. Amazing - a gust threw up one wing, banking the little airplane nearly on her side. With no input on my or Glenn's part, it simply leveled off and continued flying. I could hold the stick and maneuver the airplane with micro-movements, and despite atmospheric tumult, she always returned to normal flight.
Second lesson: Landings are fun. I brought the Champ around, setting up for a landing. The procedure was identical to every other aircraft I've flown: throttle back, nice even turns, slow down on approach, aim for the threshold of the runway. On final approach it never failed. There I was, concentrating, focusing with absolute solemnity, and Glenn's voice would crackle over the radio, "Hey. You're supposed to smile. Remember, this is fun."
There are two basic types of landings one can make with a tailwheel aircraft. The first is called a three-point landing. In this configuration the airplane touches down in a slow, nose-up attitude, so that the two main wheels and tailwheel simultaneously touch the ground. I believe this to be a perfectly natural approach to landing. As the ground rushed up, I break the descent by pulling back on the stick. Since the airplane is already slow, it responds by dipping the tail in a nice, steady flare. All three wheels touch the ground, and the airplane rolls out nice and controlled.
The second type of touchdown is called a wheel landing. In this design, the airplane is literally flown onto the ground so that only the main wheels make contact. The approach is faster than with a tailwheel landing, which ensures that the aircraft remains level. I'll admit, the first couple of wheel landings I made turned out hairy.
I gripped the stick, and intently watched the runway. It seemed to be coming at me at an unnervingly high rate of speed. Closer, closer. My instinct told me to pull back, to slow down. Glenn advised, "keep the stick forward." The earth rushed closer yet. I felt as though I were playing chicken with a stationary object. Keep the stick forward. At the last possible second, level off. The airplane slows only marginally, so I coax it down with minimal forward stick. There - the wheels grab. I instinctively pull back, but because of our speed the tailwheel slams onto the runway, bouncing the airplane back into the air. We're not fast enough to actually fly - herein lies the danger. Several feet above the runway, traveling more than 50 miles per hour, the aircraft could stall out and drop like a rock. I dump full throttle and the little Champ begrudgingly climbs, clawing skyward. I'll go around and try again.
The second wheel landing was rough, but slightly better. This was an art, rather than a science. A good wheel landing is a result of acquiring that special touch that tells you when to touch down, when and how much to move the stick, and when to pull back. The secret was to hold the stick forward, to keep the tail off the ground until the airspeed dropped. This method went against the grain of everything I knew thus far.
The third, and subsequent landings got better. A few more, and I began to get the feel for it. As a matter of fact, I found myself smiling - this was fun. After three sessions Glenn signed my logbook. I now had my tailwheel endorsement.
If flying the Champ was fun, I could not wait to get my hands on the Fairchild.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
