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| Flight 1: The Trial Lesson | |||
| Now perhaps a bit of personal history is in order at this point. I'm not a complete novice at this flying thing. Nosirree Bob, I've flown many times, and not just in one of those glorified airborne buses known as an airliner. When I were just a wee lad of 11, my mother married a fellow who was not only a pilot but also the proud owner of Kent Aviation, a small charter company based in Chilliwack, B.C., Canada. He was also airport manager and had at one time been the chief flying instructor for the Chilliwack Flying Club. At the time of my entrance to the story his "fleet" consisted entirely of single engined Cessnas - two 172s, two 182s, a 185 (later lost in a fatal accident), a 205 and a 206. Later he added a twin engined Piper Aztec. He was a fine pilot with many thousands of hours of experience including flying Grumman Avenger water bombers and once he even landed a Piper Cub on a specially built platform on a car at an airshow. And that's as far as my praise for him will go because unfortunately he and I did not get along at all well. To be brutally honest in fact, I despised him. But that's another story. Suffice to say I did get many opportunities to fly with him and his company pilots and was allowed to take the controls on more than one occasion. Though it would have been nice to have taken advantage of his knowledge and experience and learned to fly with him, it just wasn't going to happen. | |||
| So, fast forward to 2006. My girlfriend (I'll call her Kate, because that's her name) gives me a trial flying lesson for a combined Christmas / 41st birthday present. Or perhaps it was because she was tired of me waffling on about all things aircraft. Either way, it was a generous gift that I was thrilled to get. Now it's time to put my money where my mouth has been all these years.... *gulp* | |||
| Saturday, January 28th, 2006. The flying lesson is with Lancashire Aero Club based at Barton Airfield near Manchester. I arrive on the day which surprisingly, is pretty decent weather-wise, especially considering it's January and it's northern England. I meet my instructor (I'll call him Tony, because that's his name) and after a brief discussion and filling out of forms we're off to the plane, a Cessna 150. My first impression is how incredibly tiny this thing is. The smallest plane I'd been in before was a 172 and that was reasonably comfortable. By comparison the 150 is about as spacious as a sardine tin. "The hardest part is getting in" Tony says and he's absolutely right. If either of us were built like a Sumo wrestler there's no way in hell we'd fit in this thing. We start up and taxi out. Admittedly I'm a bit nervous at this point. The last time I'd flown in a light aircraft I'd been about 16. Would I still find it as enjoyable? Would I fear for my life? More importantly, would I spew my breakfast all over the cockpit at the first sign of an air pocket?? | |||
| I'd mentioned that I'd flown a fair amount many years previously so Tony asks me if I'd like to do the takeoff. "Ummm.... sure, why not?". Cripes! This is unexpected. Did I overstate my experience and give him the wrong impression? I hope not. I'm given the brief. Sounds pretty easy - in theory. We line up, I advance the throttle and we're away. The plane picks up speed and begins to veer off to the left as I had been warned. A bit of right rudder straightens it out and next thing you know, we're airborne. Hey, that was alright. In fact, that was a hoot! My nervousness vanishes - I'm f**kin' lovin' it!! | |||
| We climb to 1000 feet slowly (you can't rush a 150 I learn) and head north. The Reebok Stadium looms in the distance, mecca for fans of the Bolton Wanderers football team who ignore the police notices on match days and park on our street anyway. Tossers. But I digress.... We drop to 500 feet and circle briefly over my house and then climb up to 2000 feet and head over to the "stick", the radio and television mast on Winter Hill behind my house. The top of this mast is 2100 feet above sea level. I note that there's a small hatch and a tiny platform, like a crows nest, at the top of the mast. I'm quite comfortable flying past it but you couldn't entice me to stand on that tiny platform for all the tea in England, and that's a lot of tea. | |||
| Over to to the coast now and Tony puts us into a shallow dive (a gliding descent I'm to discover in lesson 3). "500 feet is the minimum legal height above populated areas but you can go as low you like over unpopulated areas" he tells me. Cool. We fly over Southport beach at 100 feet altitude. I would have thought this would have been an ideal moment for a Battle of Britain fantasy, racing low over the beach in my powerful Spitfire in pursuit of a fleeing Me 109 whle the crowds cheer me on below. In retrospect however perhaps it's not so surprising that the thought never occurred to me since a Cessna 150 resembles a Spitfire about as much as a small pot of marmalade resembles a 1973 Volkswagen Beetle. As we climb back to 500 feet to pass over some beachcombers the scene that does pop into my head however is that of Jimmy Stewart in "The Spirit of St. Louis" and I have a brief urge to open the window and yell out "Hey! Which way to Ireland?!?" Since I already know which way to Ireland and I have no current plans to go there in a Cessna 150 it seems a bit pointless however so I decide against opening the window. | |||
| All too soon the flight is over and we're in the circuit over Barton. We touch down on the grass strip and taxi back to park. "That was fantastic! I've got to do this", I think. It's a nice dream, but one I've had for a long time. Ah well, it will always remain a dream I suppose. Little did I know.... | |||
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