Friday
Sasha and I flew 4 more flights together before agreeing I was ready to solo.
Prior to takeoff he advised only, "If you find a thermal, use it."
Question:
Which of the following songs was playing on the hangar boom box as I strapped into "42Tango", the Schweizer 2-33A with green trim, for my first solo flight?
It would have been so cool if the correct answer was “1” – that song I’ve performed live so many times with Glazed Look, and the song for which this tour’s iTunes playlist is named.
But the answer is “4”.
Which is still a pretty cool synchronicity.
Takeoff felt strange without a body in the rear seat, compared to the 73 count 'em 73 flights I'd done previously.
42T also really jumped when I flew through the thermal which, as was not unusual, had developed just off the end of the runway. The abrupt and powerful lift kicked the glider upward with a jolt that pressed me hard into the seat; then just as suddenly I was lifted against the shoulder straps and my feet were knocked right off the rudder pedals. This was alarming, as there wasn't an experienced pilot along to save my butt if for some reason I couldn't get back on the controls.
But sailplane cockpits are notoriously compact and there wasn't really anywhere for my feet to go, so I was quickly back in full control where I found the lighter ship more responsive than it ever had been, especially in terms of pitch control.
I wondered how that would manifest itself on landing, where I was often guilty of overcontrolling the elevator even with the extra inertia of an instructor pilot.
But landing was some indefinite time in the future, and a bunch of other stuff would happen before then.
At 3200 feet AGL, a wee bit higher than intended, I released from tow and banked away to the right.
That's when it really hit me.
After decades of fantasizing I was finally and undeniably the Pilot-In-Command of a flying aircraft, and what happened next was entirely up to me.
I reduced airspeed to far below the typical 60 mph we generally maintained during training. I wanted to prolong the experience so I aimed for "minimum sink speed", conserving altitude as I flew around in no particular direction, hunting for any thermal that wasn't right off the end of the runway.
42Tango is one of the fleet's two 2-33s with adjustable pitch trim. I used it to full advantage as I poked around the sky at what seemed like a snail's pace. This was a novel experience, as both Shad and Sasha had always had me leave the trim lever where it needed to be for takeoff and landing. Not messing with it meant one less thing to do wrong or forget.
Frank, on the other hand, had encouraged me to play with it.
There was definitely some lift out there, but I wasn't able to exploit it effectively, and gradually descended.
I performed the pre-landing checklist, including the step of setting the trim lever to full forward.
Entered the pattern at close to the correct place (several hundred feet north of runway midpoint) at approximately the correct altitude (1000 feet AGL), flying west at 60 mph.
Turned left on to base leg, repeatedly glancing back over my shoulder, judging angle and distance to the circular patch of graded earth that defined the threshold of Runway 3.
Kept my bank angle shallow and the yaw string straight as I turned left again: final approach.
Continued to adjust the air brakes, tweaking my rate of descent, my feet light on the pedals to keep the fuselage aligned with the runway.
There was a fleeting moment of nerves as the ground loomed up, but really this was nothing new; my flare was good and after a brief float the glider settled to the runway and rolled down the centerline.
I pulled the airbrake handle fully rearward to engage the hydraulic wheel brake, just hard enough to stop short of the wind sock, wings level.
The glider slowly tipped to the left and my first solo flight was complete. I unlocked the canopy and swung it open.
Sasha and Hunter arrived. They'd been watching and agreed my first solo landing might have been the best I'd ever done.
A syndrome not uncommon, apparently, in new pilots relieved for the first time from the intense and highly self-interested scrutiny of their instructor.
We rolled the glider back to the departure runway and hooked up for another launch.
This time I was able to catch a thermal, and a good one at that. I rode it more than 4000 feet up from a 3000 foot AGL release to 8600 feet above sea level -- 7300 AGL.
With all that altitude in the bank I'd have felt guilty if I hadn't practiced a couple stalls and steep turns.
But the lift was so good there was plenty of time for me to just relax and fly around and enjoy the view. I cruised all the way over to Montezuma Peak, looking down at that familiar summit and the ridge extending northward from a far higher vantage than I'd typically flown in the simulator.
THIS was the experience I’ve been dreaming of all my life.
My second solo was one of the longer flights I'd taken, lasting 46 minutes from launch to landing, which wasn’t as smooth as the previous one but was still better than most I’d done to date.
Did I mention my first two solo flights were flown wearing my favorite Hawaiian shirt?
Sasha and I flew 4 more flights together before agreeing I was ready to solo.
Prior to takeoff he advised only, "If you find a thermal, use it."
Question:
Which of the following songs was playing on the hangar boom box as I strapped into "42Tango", the Schweizer 2-33A with green trim, for my first solo flight?
- Learning To Fly by Pink Floyd
- Learning To Fly by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
- Learn To Fly by Foo Fighters
- Free Bird by Lynyrd Skynyrd
It would have been so cool if the correct answer was “1” – that song I’ve performed live so many times with Glazed Look, and the song for which this tour’s iTunes playlist is named.
But the answer is “4”.
Which is still a pretty cool synchronicity.
Takeoff felt strange without a body in the rear seat, compared to the 73 count 'em 73 flights I'd done previously.
42T also really jumped when I flew through the thermal which, as was not unusual, had developed just off the end of the runway. The abrupt and powerful lift kicked the glider upward with a jolt that pressed me hard into the seat; then just as suddenly I was lifted against the shoulder straps and my feet were knocked right off the rudder pedals. This was alarming, as there wasn't an experienced pilot along to save my butt if for some reason I couldn't get back on the controls.
But sailplane cockpits are notoriously compact and there wasn't really anywhere for my feet to go, so I was quickly back in full control where I found the lighter ship more responsive than it ever had been, especially in terms of pitch control.
I wondered how that would manifest itself on landing, where I was often guilty of overcontrolling the elevator even with the extra inertia of an instructor pilot.
But landing was some indefinite time in the future, and a bunch of other stuff would happen before then.
At 3200 feet AGL, a wee bit higher than intended, I released from tow and banked away to the right.
That's when it really hit me.
After decades of fantasizing I was finally and undeniably the Pilot-In-Command of a flying aircraft, and what happened next was entirely up to me.
I reduced airspeed to far below the typical 60 mph we generally maintained during training. I wanted to prolong the experience so I aimed for "minimum sink speed", conserving altitude as I flew around in no particular direction, hunting for any thermal that wasn't right off the end of the runway.
42Tango is one of the fleet's two 2-33s with adjustable pitch trim. I used it to full advantage as I poked around the sky at what seemed like a snail's pace. This was a novel experience, as both Shad and Sasha had always had me leave the trim lever where it needed to be for takeoff and landing. Not messing with it meant one less thing to do wrong or forget.
Frank, on the other hand, had encouraged me to play with it.
There was definitely some lift out there, but I wasn't able to exploit it effectively, and gradually descended.
I performed the pre-landing checklist, including the step of setting the trim lever to full forward.
Entered the pattern at close to the correct place (several hundred feet north of runway midpoint) at approximately the correct altitude (1000 feet AGL), flying west at 60 mph.
Turned left on to base leg, repeatedly glancing back over my shoulder, judging angle and distance to the circular patch of graded earth that defined the threshold of Runway 3.
Kept my bank angle shallow and the yaw string straight as I turned left again: final approach.
Continued to adjust the air brakes, tweaking my rate of descent, my feet light on the pedals to keep the fuselage aligned with the runway.
There was a fleeting moment of nerves as the ground loomed up, but really this was nothing new; my flare was good and after a brief float the glider settled to the runway and rolled down the centerline.
I pulled the airbrake handle fully rearward to engage the hydraulic wheel brake, just hard enough to stop short of the wind sock, wings level.
The glider slowly tipped to the left and my first solo flight was complete. I unlocked the canopy and swung it open.
Sasha and Hunter arrived. They'd been watching and agreed my first solo landing might have been the best I'd ever done.
A syndrome not uncommon, apparently, in new pilots relieved for the first time from the intense and highly self-interested scrutiny of their instructor.
We rolled the glider back to the departure runway and hooked up for another launch.
This time I was able to catch a thermal, and a good one at that. I rode it more than 4000 feet up from a 3000 foot AGL release to 8600 feet above sea level -- 7300 AGL.
With all that altitude in the bank I'd have felt guilty if I hadn't practiced a couple stalls and steep turns.
But the lift was so good there was plenty of time for me to just relax and fly around and enjoy the view. I cruised all the way over to Montezuma Peak, looking down at that familiar summit and the ridge extending northward from a far higher vantage than I'd typically flown in the simulator.
THIS was the experience I’ve been dreaming of all my life.
My second solo was one of the longer flights I'd taken, lasting 46 minutes from launch to landing, which wasn’t as smooth as the previous one but was still better than most I’d done to date.
Did I mention my first two solo flights were flown wearing my favorite Hawaiian shirt?
John and Sasha and 42Tango.
After the lengthy flight I went back to the office where, as usual, Shad asked, "Having fun?"
He was always more concerned about that aspect of my experience than anything else.
Shad noted the long, high flight, and mentioned he usually told his students to limit the length and altitude of their initial solos. Didn't want them getting too high and getting hypoxic, or sitting up there too long in the sun and getting dehydrated or disoriented. All these were sensible precautions but I'd been fine; I was pretty well conditioned after nearly two weeks of flying as many as ten flights a day. I'd quit taking Dramamine after day 3, though I still kept a bag in my pocket just in case.
Six flights was a good day, especially considering the length of my last one, and as the wind was starting get a bit gusty I felt it was a good time to call it a big win and head home.
I stopped at Fry's grocery because there was no way I wasn't going to pop a champagne cork on this momentous evening.*
As I was walking out a guy coming in said, “That’s the best shirt I’ve seen all day!”
Mom and I killed the bottle well before the 8 hours of abstinence required prior to the flying that would resume the next morning.
* * *
*For the significance of this, please see Smoking Wreckage and Champagne. Unless you’re interested in minute details of various flight simulators, feel free to skip over the text between “The only computer games of interest to me are flight simulators” and “It was getting on toward midnight.” Epilogs 2, 5, and 6 are all pertinent to how I got here.
Regardless of however my future gliding experiences might turn out, flying solo for the first time is what really checked my bucket list box.
I’d proven I could fly a hurtling piece of machinery through the sky without assistance, and that I thus possess at least some small smidgen of the right stuff.
He was always more concerned about that aspect of my experience than anything else.
Shad noted the long, high flight, and mentioned he usually told his students to limit the length and altitude of their initial solos. Didn't want them getting too high and getting hypoxic, or sitting up there too long in the sun and getting dehydrated or disoriented. All these were sensible precautions but I'd been fine; I was pretty well conditioned after nearly two weeks of flying as many as ten flights a day. I'd quit taking Dramamine after day 3, though I still kept a bag in my pocket just in case.
Six flights was a good day, especially considering the length of my last one, and as the wind was starting get a bit gusty I felt it was a good time to call it a big win and head home.
I stopped at Fry's grocery because there was no way I wasn't going to pop a champagne cork on this momentous evening.*
As I was walking out a guy coming in said, “That’s the best shirt I’ve seen all day!”
Mom and I killed the bottle well before the 8 hours of abstinence required prior to the flying that would resume the next morning.
* * *
*For the significance of this, please see Smoking Wreckage and Champagne. Unless you’re interested in minute details of various flight simulators, feel free to skip over the text between “The only computer games of interest to me are flight simulators” and “It was getting on toward midnight.” Epilogs 2, 5, and 6 are all pertinent to how I got here.
Regardless of however my future gliding experiences might turn out, flying solo for the first time is what really checked my bucket list box.
I’d proven I could fly a hurtling piece of machinery through the sky without assistance, and that I thus possess at least some small smidgen of the right stuff.
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