The Joy of Flight
Entry posted by caldrail
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Looking out the window this morning I see a vista of clear blue sky. After yesterdays squalls and blustery winds it's a welcome change. Years ago, on a day like this, I would phone the flying club and ask if there was an available aeroplane. There is? Brilliant, I'll be there in an hour.
There wasn't much to it. I arrive, park up, and pop by the control tower to check for weather information. Oh yes. You never take british weather for granted. It's suprised me more than once. Also there was the endless notices to airmen, photocopied lists of do's and don'ts which might apply to flights in my area. Thruxton was unusual in that they bothered to map out the directives on the wall, so that you didn't have read through page after page of dull government agency text. Only the relevant ones for my flight were of any interest.
That done, it was down to the office to sign out my reserved aeroplane. Stroll across the race track (I only had to dash across to avoid a racing car once), and toward the gate to the infield.
On one occaision a kit car was parked out there and I gave it a casual perusal as I past by. The owner was not a tolerant man. I heard a very loud and abrupt "HEY!" to warn me that proximity to his beloved creation was going to end in something very inconvenient. I was only looking. Good grief, if you drive an unusual car, surely you expect a certain amount of interest from passers-by? Still, I don't blame him for being protective.
Now I cross the grass apron amongst the ranks of stationary aircraft. Most are club aeroplanes, small two seater american trainers, such as the Piper Tomahawk I'd booked. To be honest, whilst they flew well enough and were the cheapest available, they were quite dull machines. I much preferred the rare Beagle Pup when I got the chance. Now that was a suprisingly spirited aeroplane, a definite favourite of mine.
On that day I hadn't the choice. Approaching the aeroplane on a warm day provides a sense of anticipation. There's a host of things you need to see to before you take off, so I set about stowing my bag, doing a walk-around to check the aircraft exterior for function and condition, then at last climb in and set about my pre-flight checks.
The heat! If you've never sat in an idle light aircraft in the sun, my advice is don't unless you have to. Those large curves of plexiglass trap all the sunshine and boy oh boy is it warm in there! I always used to ask my passenger to hold a door open when I was taxiing, to get some propellor draft into the cockpit. But today I'm flying alone. So I have to put up with it.
Well, everything seems to be working, and I have enough fuel for my intended hour of local flying, aimlessly enjoying the that sincere pleasure of being up there. Starting the engine is a bit of an art. Some engines fire up eagerly, others are sullenly stubborn, and all require a little coaxing with a number of levers and plungers designed in the 1920's.
Usually there was no problem. With a loud shout to warn anyone lurking near the propellor out of sight, the engine fires up and the twin blades vanish into a circular blur. Aircraft are noisty little things. Just as well my headphones ward off the worst of it. Without them, you end up battered by the insistent roar.
The normal routine is to radio the tower and inform them of my intentions. They pretty well know what I'm up to, and the clipped reply sounds very bored of the same old information. A little odd that. There's no-one else out here. I have the field to myself. A few years ago this field was buzzing and communication a frantic experience. Now we're all getting a bit lazy as the economy, regulations, and other reasons witherdown the activity I expect at Thruxton.
With the brakes off the Tomahawk accelerates readily. Turn using the rudder, avoid fast taxying despite the impatience of an intruder to my little world, a larger Robin four seater, whose brash pilot clearly has better things to do than wait politely for me to trundle out, and I make my way to the far side of the field and the appropriate end of the runway.
My rival asks for permission to turn off the taxiway and rush down the runway to take off first. To be honest, everyone, including me, are keen to let him. There's a sense in flying that rushing around is bad for you. It probably is, but he roars away and leaves me to bumble along the grass in peace.
At the runway end, time for those last vital checks. Satisified everything is working the way aeronautical science demands, I radio the tower again and announce my departure. To be honest, although the tower is termed an 'advice service' only, he's in charge when it comes to traffic around the field. Not only politeness, it's good practice. But there's no problem, no-one around to obstruct my take-off, and he lets me go.
Turning on the runway is always an odd experience. So much wider than you expect. Thruxton is an olsd WW2 airfield, where P47's and glider tugs operated from in support of D-Day, but the runway is in fact only a portion of what it used to be. The other end is now the concrete part of the apron by the tower.
Line up on the centreline. A quick mental check that everything is in order. That runway disappears into the distance, but trust me, it's not as long as it looks. I confess, this is the moment I feel the thrill. Push the throttle lever forward, all the way, and that rumble you'd gotten used to this last ten minutes erupts into an angry bellow as you sense that propellor turning ever faster.
Quickly the Tomahawk gains speed. They don't take off as readily as Cessna's, so a little back pressure on the yoke is called for, and in any case, it's good practice to keep the weight off that nosewheel. The aeroplane wants to veer. The rudder feels sensitive and keeping the aeroplane straight is occupying my attention. You can feel a relentless increase in speed. At the same time it feels impressively rapid yet agonisingly slow.
A new sensation appears. The aeroplane is wallowing just a little, feeling lighter, and the pit of your stomach registers that first hesitant rise as the wheels begin to lose their grip on the runway. We're flying! With the speed increasing more rapidly, ease back the yoke, adopt the climb attitude, and away she goes.
The ground is falling away.I would enjoy this a lot more if I didn't have to stay alert for the possibility of engine problems. The take-off is the most safety-critical part of the flight. Despite my wariness, there's no problem, and the little plane gains height above southern England lazily, not coping so easily with the thinner warm air outside. The draughty cockpit feels cooler, comfortable, and now I must deal with the protocol of flying near the ground within an airfield's territory, trimming and raising flaps, looking about for other aeroplanes, keeping to the circuit, and announcing my departure from the area.
Strictly speaking, I should change radio frequencies and tell someone else what I'm up to. The miltary airfield down the road for instance, who control the airspace around Thruxton. Truth is I don't want to. Although the air is a little hazy, perhaps a little bumpy as I fly through thermals, it just feels great to be up here alone for a while at the controls of this obedient little machine.
Oh yes. That was why I flew.
More On How It Was
There's a book at the library which I've leafed through this morning. Probably the reason why I'm waxing lyrical about flying. It's a collection of reminiscenses of World War One veterans, flyers with the RFC and RNAS. Now of course they were flying in wartime, in aeroplames made of very combustible material, without parachutes, in aeroplanes that were barely more capable than the first to fly ever.
You know what? For all the danger, I notice that they all enjoyed it too.
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