An old dog learns new trick

It was late in the morning on Labor Day. Weather was perfect at 72 degrees and sunny. My wife and I were sitting on the rear of my car, legs dangling as we waited. The parking lot was empty and very quiet. My insides were less so.

I was preparing for what would turn out to be a thrill of a lifetime, doing something I always dreamed about.

Up until now I had convinced myself that to undertake such a thing was "impractical," "superfluous." There are better ways to spend your money, I would tell myself. Anyway, it's over in a flash and then what do you have?

***
The white sedan pulled into the lot and a tall man with sunglasses emerged.

"Morning," he said cheerfully, pulling out a notebook and two headsets from his car.

"He looks really young," whispered my wife, a little worried.

"Not much wind today," I said trying to appear somewhat knowledgeable. I reached into my pocket and handed him an envelope given to me by my staff.

He took it and smiled as we walked to the hangar. "Funny thing. They do want to get paid for doing this." ***

It was my 60th birthday and my staff had chipped in for one hour of flying lessons. Apparently I have a disorder that manifests itself with my loudly professing my childhood dreams in small gatherings. Remarkably, they caught on.

When one of my daughters found out she said, "So either they like you or they're hoping the plane will crash."

It was a small plane -- a Piper Archer II. You could tell by the cracked, weathered fiberglass that it was old. I wasn't going to ask how old. He didn't ask my age and I likewise was trying to be just as courteous.

As I boarded from the right side, the pilot said "Scoot over." Since that's traditionally the pilot's side, a warm awareness fell over me -- like something you feel when a bullet whizzes by your head. "You'll be more comfortable over here for what you'll be doing."

I'm thinking now my daughter was on to something.

He explained the functions of the instruments, the adjustments he was making and patiently answered the obvious questions he must have heard a hundred times before ... at least, I HOPE he heard them a hundred times before.

He then primed the cylinders, fired up the engine and we taxied for takeoff, quickly climbing to 1,500 feet. As we leveled off, he set the GPS and then said "OK, it's yours. Just keep the horizon level between the top of the dash and the window." Frankly, that was the easy part. What people may not know is that when you are in the air, flying is relatively easy. You point and go. I've been a passenger in small planes before and I found flying just as relaxing as driving in a car.

But now I was in the pilot's seat. It's vastly different. There's a high degree of mutual awareness among pilots up here. We all want to know where you are at and how close you are or will be. Chatter on the radio helps as does telegraphing your position, especially approaching other airports.

Unlike driving a car where you can see your threat relatively easily, the sky can be a bit of a trickster.

"You might want to move over to your right a little to avoid those guy wires on the tower," the pilot said. The tower looked pretty far off but I dutifully followed the instructions. When we did pass the tower it looked pretty damned close and I said so.

"It can be deceiving," he noted. "And when you're going 130 mph, it comes up pretty fast."

That's the first I heard of the speed we were traveling. It sure didn't seem that fast. For an old single-engine plane, it was feeling pretty darn good! I relaxed a little.

***
The pilot's name was Luke. He served in the Air Force and when he got out he was hooked, flying commercial, contract and private. He was part of a club now and, as a favor, he occasionally gives some informal flying lessons to friends and friends of friends.

You could tell he was an experienced pilot. He had the same "4C" demeanor I've noticed in others of his ilk ... calm, classy, confident and congenial.

One time in Alaska, we flew with a retired stunt pilot who wore a ball cap that had a pony tail attached. I worried that we had a clown at the helm. I was wrong. He was just relaxing and having fun but when he was in the air, he was Sky King of the Glaciers.

Luke was Sky King of the Minnesota River Valley.

As we flew close to North Mankato, I wanted to take some photos so he took over. He banked smoothly and quickly flew low enough so I could get some photos of my town house by Benson Park.

Then he feathered the engine so I could get the best shots. They turned out to be some beautifully crisp pictures. My wife later said she wished she was on the driveway waving to us.

When I took back control, I noticed that I was conscious of his flying style. When I had the stick I tried to battle the wind currents. With Luke in control, I didn't notice them. It was smooth, easy, solid.

Later I became aware that flying isn't about correctly reading instruments or adjusting gauges or "steering." First, it's about feel. Pilots don't conquer the sky; they flow with it. Unlike a car that goes left or right in a forward motion, a plane has four variations. The rudder moves the plane left or right. The elevator moves the plane up or down. The aileron rolls the plane left or right. The thrust controls the speed. An experienced pilot performs these functions as if it were second nature.

Secondly, it's not about steering. On the way back to the airport, Luke said we would do a couple of "touch and goes" (land and then take off again). Then he said... "And the second one will be yours." Say what!

This is when you learn that flying is not about pulling and pushing the wheel. That only controls the elevator which means going up or down.

It's about the throttle or speed control and using your foot pedals to maneuver the ailerons for left and right shifts and rolls of the plane.

After the descent and then takeoff with Luke squarely in control, we flew back up to 1,500 feet and flew parallel to the airstrip for awhile. Then I banked 90 degrees and began the descent to the runway. While Luke controlled the throttle speed, I had (some) control of the rudder and aimed for the runway. "Keep the top of the runway in your sight and descend slowly," Luke said. He was feathering and I was pointing (although I was conscious his hand was slightly nudging the stick).

We touched down and veered slightly to the right. That's when I discovered that when on the ground, a steering wheel is worthless. It's all about the feet working the ailerons, or those sections of the wing you see move upon landing, which guides the direction of the plane ... the propeller (or throttle) gives the thrust; the "feet" tells the plane where to go.

By speeding up the prop and braking on the left, the plane does an about-face on the runway and we taxi back to the hangar where my wife was waiting.

When I emerged, Luke graciously fibbed and told her "The landing was all his." That's when I noticed my armpits were sopping.

After profusely thanking Luke, I walked back to the car and my wife turned to me and asked "You OK? You seem like you're in a daze."

I'm sure it was the grin. An old dog can have a Cheshire grin, right?