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