Expanding the Envelope
By Vince Chadwick
“Why
do you want to do it anyway? What are you trying to prove? You can
always save it for a better day”.
It was that internal
voice that most pilots know, particularly strident if you haven’t
flown for a while. The one that doesn’t want you to fly when
conditions are not so good. Doesn’t want you to fly at all really.
The one that reminds you about your family responsibilities, the cost
of it all, and looks for any excuse for you to stay earthbound. And
on days like this, it constructs imaginary would-be accident reports
in that smug 20/20 hindsight style that such documents adopt:
‘The
pilot had spent some time in the morning and afternoon in the
airfield tower. He had noted the wind, which was 270 to 330. It was
never less than 25 knots, and sometimes gusting over 40. He seemed,
according to witnesses, unable to decide whether to fly. Eventually,
he elected to do so, despite the conditions and the misgivings of
some fellow club members about flying tailwheel aircraft in such
strong winds.’
But how, then, does a pilot extend his
experience? How does he push back the corners of his personal
envelope without pushing his luck? Catch 22; you learn through
experience, but gaining that experience demands that you venture
beyond what has already been mastered. Well, Geoff had decided that
he was definitely going to fly. This was a perfect opportunity to
learn.
One the attractions of flying for Geoff, something
which had drawn him to it in the first place, was that a pilot makes
his own decisions and enjoys or suffers the consequences himself. No
ifs, buts, maybes, or interference from third parties; just you and
the aeroplane and the sky. There is a certain purity about that,
something rarely found in everyday life. But Geoff was under no
illusions about the risks. He had the greatest respect for the sky.
Flying today would be interesting. It would be a challenge. If he
sloped off home without flying, he would consider himself a wimp. The
conditions were difficult, but within the aeroplane’s limits
(just). And he did have several hundred hours P1 time. If he couldn’t
hack this with his experience, he had no right calling himself a
pilot.
The gale buffeted Geoff as he left the tower. The
big metal hangar doors were crashing and banging in their tracks as
he wheeled the Chipmunk, single handed, out onto the windswept apron.
The rudder banged hard over as soon as it left the confines of the
hangar, putting on the wheel brake on that side. He slid the wooden
rudder-lock in place, but even so it was like handling a live thirty
foot weathercock. He parked it facing the taxiway initially, but
there was no way it was going to stay in that position. So, with
difficulty, he turned it around into wind, set the brakes, and did
the checks. The gusts were rocking the wings and lifting the
aeroplane bodily on its undercarriage, and once more Geoff heard that
nagging voice. He ignored it, climbed in, donned straps and headset,
and called “clear prop”.
Taxying wasn’t too bad; he
did it slowly with minimum power, keeping the stick forward when
travelling downwind, and using the brakes sparingly. The rudder
needed care with such a strong wind from behind, requiring firm foot
pressure to prevent it being blown to full deflection either way,
which would apply one brake, hard, risking a nose-over.
He
completed the power checks, lined up, held the stick fully back and
the left rudder pedal fully forward, and opened the throttle. Geoff
was expecting a lively take off one-up into this wind, but as he
brought the stick forward after only a few yards, he was surprised
how the tail came up immediately with a nice crisp elevator response.
They were airborne almost as soon as the tail came up, lurching,
bucking, and swaying, climbing at an unusually steep angle to keep
within the flap limit speed.
Geoff hadn’t flown for a
few weeks, and it showed. On the first approach, he was behind the
aeroplane. He tried to hold 70 knots, but the ASI swung between 60
and 80. The aeroplane was held aloft in updrafts, then plunged down
in areas of sink with a viciousness that lifted him from his seat
despite the fully tightened harness. At the same time they were
rolling violently and involuntarily, with wing drops of 30 degrees or
more in either direction. Using wildly thrashing hands and feet, and
power changes that made the grazing sheep look up, he managed to
maintain runway heading down the roller coaster ride to the
threshold, but the speed was all to hell. Then, just when he thought
he was high, he was thrown down again, towards the numbers, in sudden
sink. Power on, ease back the stick.
Clear of the sink,
he soared up again 20 feet before he had the power off and the ‘plane
levelled. There was no smoothness. The aeroplane was flying him,
rather than as it should be. But he knew this, and was not unduly
worried. Geoff used course stick and rudder to correct another
vicious wing drop. He was half way down the runway now, with the
speed falling and the ground coming up fast. The stick felt mushy,
with poor aileron response. He was too slow, with too rapid a rate of
descent, and on the back of the drag curve. He threw the landing
away, applying full power, with forward stick to unload the wings,
and went around.
“OK”, said Geoff as he swapped hands
on the stick to retract the landing (mostly drag) flap in the climb
out, “get your act together. Stabilise the approach at 70 knots,
watch the threshold, ride the turbulence, and wheel it on. Otherwise
you’ll be up here ‘till the fuel runs out.”
There
was no comment from the nagging voice. It had stayed on the ground.
Like it always did.
The second approach was much better.
Geoff was getting back into the groove. He allowed a slightly longer
final, trimmed accurately to 70 knots in a rare bit of still-ish air,
and concentrated on the threshold and on holding the attitude. They
bucked and rolled in the turbulence and shear, rose and fell, but
Geoff ignored it. Using stick, rudder, and throttle, he kept the
threshold perspective as close as he could to where it should be,
arriving over the numbers only slightly high, nose down, and at 65
knots.
Power right off, ease back. The mains touched.
Geoff ‘felt’ the stick forward to pin them onto the ground. Not
bad. He was beginning to relax and enjoy it. Power on for a tail-up
roller, swap hands to get the flap up, ease back the stick, and he
was on the roller coaster again.
The four subsequent
landings also went well, and his last even elicited a complement from
the tower. Geoff acknowledged, just managing to reach the PTT button
on top of the forward-held stick. He eased the stick further forward
as the aeroplane slowed, and the Chipmunk rolled to a halt in the
‘wheeler’ position, just as the tail, despite full forward stick,
sank gracefully to the runway.
“Piece of cake”,
thought Geoff.
There was no sign of the nagging voice.
There never was. Afterwards.
©Vince Chadwick
Expanding the Envelope
By Vince Chadwick
“Why
do you want to do it anyway? What are you trying to prove? You can
always save it for a better day”.
It was that internal
voice that most pilots know, particularly strident if you haven’t
flown for a while. The one that doesn’t want you to fly when
conditions are not so good. Doesn’t want you to fly at all really.
The one that reminds you about your family responsibilities, the cost
of it all, and looks for any excuse for you to stay earthbound. And
on days like this, it constructs imaginary would-be accident reports
in that smug 20/20 hindsight style that such documents adopt:
‘The
pilot had spent some time in the morning and afternoon in the
airfield tower. He had noted the wind, which was 270 to 330. It was
never less than 25 knots, and sometimes gusting over 40. He seemed,
according to witnesses, unable to decide whether to fly. Eventually,
he elected to do so, despite the conditions and the misgivings of
some fellow club members about flying tailwheel aircraft in such
strong winds.’
But how, then, does a pilot extend his
experience? How does he push back the corners of his personal
envelope without pushing his luck? Catch 22; you learn through
experience, but gaining that experience demands that you venture
beyond what has already been mastered. Well, Geoff had decided that
he was definitely going to fly. This was a perfect opportunity to
learn.
One the attractions of flying for Geoff, something
which had drawn him to it in the first place, was that a pilot makes
his own decisions and enjoys or suffers the consequences himself. No
ifs, buts, maybes, or interference from third parties; just you and
the aeroplane and the sky. There is a certain purity about that,
something rarely found in everyday life. But Geoff was under no
illusions about the risks. He had the greatest respect for the sky.
Flying today would be interesting. It would be a challenge. If he
sloped off home without flying, he would consider himself a wimp. The
conditions were difficult, but within the aeroplane’s limits
(just). And he did have several hundred hours P1 time. If he couldn’t
hack this with his experience, he had no right calling himself a
pilot.
The gale buffeted Geoff as he left the tower. The
big metal hangar doors were crashing and banging in their tracks as
he wheeled the Chipmunk, single handed, out onto the windswept apron.
The rudder banged hard over as soon as it left the confines of the
hangar, putting on the wheel brake on that side. He slid the wooden
rudder-lock in place, but even so it was like handling a live thirty
foot weathercock. He parked it facing the taxiway initially, but
there was no way it was going to stay in that position. So, with
difficulty, he turned it around into wind, set the brakes, and did
the checks. The gusts were rocking the wings and lifting the
aeroplane bodily on its undercarriage, and once more Geoff heard that
nagging voice. He ignored it, climbed in, donned straps and headset,
and called “clear prop”.
Taxying wasn’t too bad; he
did it slowly with minimum power, keeping the stick forward when
travelling downwind, and using the brakes sparingly. The rudder
needed care with such a strong wind from behind, requiring firm foot
pressure to prevent it being blown to full deflection either way,
which would apply one brake, hard, risking a nose-over.
He
completed the power checks, lined up, held the stick fully back and
the left rudder pedal fully forward, and opened the throttle. Geoff
was expecting a lively take off one-up into this wind, but as he
brought the stick forward after only a few yards, he was surprised
how the tail came up immediately with a nice crisp elevator response.
They were airborne almost as soon as the tail came up, lurching,
bucking, and swaying, climbing at an unusually steep angle to keep
within the flap limit speed.
Geoff hadn’t flown for a
few weeks, and it showed. On the first approach, he was behind the
aeroplane. He tried to hold 70 knots, but the ASI swung between 60
and 80. The aeroplane was held aloft in updrafts, then plunged down
in areas of sink with a viciousness that lifted him from his seat
despite the fully tightened harness. At the same time they were
rolling violently and involuntarily, with wing drops of 30 degrees or
more in either direction. Using wildly thrashing hands and feet, and
power changes that made the grazing sheep look up, he managed to
maintain runway heading down the roller coaster ride to the
threshold, but the speed was all to hell. Then, just when he thought
he was high, he was thrown down again, towards the numbers, in sudden
sink. Power on, ease back the stick.
Clear of the sink,
he soared up again 20 feet before he had the power off and the ‘plane
levelled. There was no smoothness. The aeroplane was flying him,
rather than as it should be. But he knew this, and was not unduly
worried. Geoff used course stick and rudder to correct another
vicious wing drop. He was half way down the runway now, with the
speed falling and the ground coming up fast. The stick felt mushy,
with poor aileron response. He was too slow, with too rapid a rate of
descent, and on the back of the drag curve. He threw the landing
away, applying full power, with forward stick to unload the wings,
and went around.
“OK”, said Geoff as he swapped hands
on the stick to retract the landing (mostly drag) flap in the climb
out, “get your act together. Stabilise the approach at 70 knots,
watch the threshold, ride the turbulence, and wheel it on. Otherwise
you’ll be up here ‘till the fuel runs out.”
There
was no comment from the nagging voice. It had stayed on the ground.
Like it always did.
The second approach was much better.
Geoff was getting back into the groove. He allowed a slightly longer
final, trimmed accurately to 70 knots in a rare bit of still-ish air,
and concentrated on the threshold and on holding the attitude. They
bucked and rolled in the turbulence and shear, rose and fell, but
Geoff ignored it. Using stick, rudder, and throttle, he kept the
threshold perspective as close as he could to where it should be,
arriving over the numbers only slightly high, nose down, and at 65
knots.
Power right off, ease back. The mains touched.
Geoff ‘felt’ the stick forward to pin them onto the ground. Not
bad. He was beginning to relax and enjoy it. Power on for a tail-up
roller, swap hands to get the flap up, ease back the stick, and he
was on the roller coaster again.
The four subsequent
landings also went well, and his last even elicited a complement from
the tower. Geoff acknowledged, just managing to reach the PTT button
on top of the forward-held stick. He eased the stick further forward
as the aeroplane slowed, and the Chipmunk rolled to a halt in the
‘wheeler’ position, just as the tail, despite full forward stick,
sank gracefully to the runway.
“Piece of cake”,
thought Geoff.
There was no sign of the nagging voice.
There never was. Afterwards.
©Vince Chadwick
