Learning to fly

How I learned to fly

I first flew a Microlight aircraft back in 1985, and it was the beginning of a love affair which, I'm sure, will last the rest of my life.

Those who know me, will also know I love the sound of my own voice, and the sight of my own words - so for those of you who just plain couldn't be arsed to read my waffle, click here to jump to the pictures section.

1985-6

Being young and enthusiastic, I took to it like a roller-skating-pig (famed for having picked up roller-skating incredibly easily) takes to roller-skating. My instructor told me I was a natural, seat-of-the-pants flyer, and who was I to doubt his word (more on this later). Over the next year I spent a grand total of 6 hours in the air - not a lot, is it? Well, that's the British weather for you. It was a fun time though, and my Dad used to come along to watch. He thought everyone who did the sport 'had their minds right', to use his phrase, as they'd turn up in the morning and rig their plans, wait all day for the weather to improve enough to fly, then go home again with very few words of complaint. I actually think he must have had selective hearing! Sadly, he died shortly afterwards, and the associations were just to strong for me to carry on. I decided to leave it a few months then try again.

Picture an old-fashioned desk calendar, with a wind blowing the pages over to simulate the passage of time (who needs animations?)

2000

Yep. The Millennium (Yeah, I know technically it isn't, but who cares). Dawning of a new age, and all that, and I decided to pick up where I left off. Rejoined the BMAA (British Microlight Aircraft Association) and scanned their magazine for airfields offering instruction.

The world has changed a lot in the intervening 15 years - seems that most Instructors insist on you having your own machine on which to go solo (untrusting bastards!). I wasn't ready to do a spend just yet, so I looked further and further afield. Found one. Sodding Portugal, would you believe!

There's a gentleman who's quite well known in Microlighting circles - name of Gerry Breen, been doing it since Adam was a lad, that kind of thing - who runs a training school in the Algarve. I decided I could combine this with a bit of a holiday for me and my youngest Son, Michael, so off we went.

Remember that 'natural flyer, seat of the pants' stuff from 1985? The nice warm glow those words had created in me at the time had festered and corrupted over the years, and turned into an arrogant 'I can bloody do this perfectly, and there's nothing further you can teach me' attitude. Gerry soon put a stop to all that nonsense! I only got an hour a day in the air, which in hindsight was a total waste of time - go all that way then only do 10 hours over 2 weeks? At the start of the holiday, I expected to have qualified by the end, but by the start of week two, it became apparent that my landing skills were letting me down. Gerry had a cure for this: I flew up and down that runway trying to hold the plane a foot off the ground while Gerry fiddled with the throttle. This became quite easy, but then the bastard started steadily reducing the power. OK Steve, I thought, no problem - just bar out a bit. She'll slow down, but keep flying. Bit more...bit more...bloody hell, that git keeps on reducing the throttle! By this time, I had the bar right against the front strut, and the wheels just kissed the runway.

"Sorry Gerry", I said, "it just wouldn't fly anymore".

"Nice landing Steve" came the reply.

CLANG! (The sound of a penny dropping into an otherwise empty head). So, the idea isn't to fly onto the runway when landing - it's to fly very, very low and keep reducing speed while trying not to land. When the plane won't fly anymore, you've landed! Bit of a breakthrough for me, but too little, too late. Oh, I did pass 3 of the 5 required exams too, but I was so disappointed at not even achieving solo standard that I didn't really care anymore.

Picture that calendar again, but with a much lighter wind this time.

2001

Yep. The Millennium (and it really is, this time!).

To digress: it pisses me off when people spell Millennium with one 'n'. Consider this - the word derives from mille, meaning one thousand, and annus, meaning year. Now with only one n, the annus becomes anus, thus Millenium is a thousand arseholes.

I realised sometime in March that the 3 exams I'd passed would only stay current for a year, so started looking at where I could go to continue my lessons. No Son to take with me this time (tragically, he was eaten by a crocodile, while visiting a zoo in earlier January. Fortunately, the crocodile suffered no lasting ill-effects and the Zoo agreed not to prosecute), so I looked abroad once more. I'd decided it would be nice to go by car this time, so I booked up with a guy called Reg Whittall who runs a flying school called Leading Edge in France.

I decided to 'get my mind right' this time (you'd be proud of me, Dad), so I told Reg we'd just see how I did in the week I was booked in with him. Reg told me later that a lot of people say this, but few mean it, but that it became clear to him over the next few days that I really did mean it. I had a fantastic time. The landings were fine and my biggest problem was over controlling the plane (trying to smooth out every little movement of the control bar). Reg's technique to cure me of this worked as follows:

(Picture student fighting controls)

Reg: "Let me just have a feel of the bar, will you, so I can judge the turbulence for myself"

(Control silently passed from front-seat to back seat, after which all control bar movement ceased, but for the gentlest of input)

Reg: "OK, you have control again. Now I know you're doing it on purpose to try and make me feel sick"

I hasten to add that Reg had done all the usual coaxing and encouragement beforehand - i.e. a more traditional teaching technique - but as he'd got to know me, he realised I love sarcasm as both a valid form of humour and a weapon for both attack and defence. (e.g. "Hey Reg, you're really good at networked strategy games on the computer, aren't you" - Hoist by my own petard, egad!)

That was day one, basically. On day two, flying the second section in the evening, Reg got his other plane out. My heart stopped. I knew, you see, that this was the plane used for solo flying. Gulp.

A quick circuit with Reg in the back seat, and then he said those immortal words: "Ready for solo, Steve?"

I thought about it. I really mean it, I thought for what seemed like an age. I realised there was no shame in saying 'not yet' if I wasn't ready. Guess what? I was ready. Boy, was I ever up for it! Nervous, sure, but I knew I could do it. Reg hadn't touched the bar during flight since the last time I was accused of creating nausea! Back to the hanger we went to fit some ballast in the back seat, then he said "Right, the plane's all yours now - you know what to do". Did I say Gulp? Sod it - I gulped again and that's the truth!

Here we go. Checklist time.

C.H.I.P.S.

Choke - kept it closed because the engine was warm.

Hand throttle - cracked it a touch open

Indicate intention - "Clear prop", I shouted vigorously, much to the amusement of Reg and a fellow student, who were the only people within 500 yards of me, and were about 50 feet away themselves.

Propellor arc - yep, that's clear. (The cat will move of it's own accord when the prop starts turning)

Switches and Start - Turn on the ignition and pull the starting cord lustily. Guess what? No, your wrong. It started first time.

The plane was already head to wind where we'd left it, so I could swing straight into checklist number two. I can't believe how I sweated learning these initially, but they are second nature now):

C.H.I.F.T.A.

Controls - check for full and free movement (now you know why microlighters waggle the wing about before setting off)

Helmet and Harness - both done up securely, but visor kept open for now.

Instruments - Altimeter set to zero (this is called setting it to QFE, which means it now measure the height above the airfield). Engine temp running up nicely. rev counter working. No coffee cups or burning dog-ends left on the dash.

Fuel - Yep, that yellow stuff is fuel and (twist, strain) I can confirm the fuel tank cap is on and the fuel tap is in the on position.

Time - Set my stopwatch to zero and started it running.

All clear - checked both wing tips were clear, and that no-one had sneaked up behind me in time to catch a face full of high-velocity grit when I revved up to start taxiing. Final check of wind strength and then...

Taxiing

That means driving an airplane on the ground. They call it taxiing because it's not unusual for other pilots to jump on to the sides of the plane for a lift, if you're going their way. It's considered rude to hang-on beyond the point of takeoff, so it hardly ever happens.

So I taxied out to the end of the runway, which has lovely, wide taxi ways next to it. Easily wide enough to do pre-takeoff checks. I feel a checklist coming on:

RAW

Run up engine - Brake on hard and throttle up to 4000 r.p.m. Check engine beat is steady and, if necessary, hold until engine temp. reaches minimum takeoff temperature. It already had.

All clear - Have a good look around the circuit and check there isn't another plane in the bit of sky I want to put myself in, or, more importantly, descending quickly, with a view to using the same bit of runway I'm about to. Nothing was.

Wind - Check the airfield wind-sock to check a gale hasn't blown up while I wasn't paying attention or, more importantly, the wind hasn't shifted in a major way.

I eased the plane on to the run way and lined up for takeoff. No excuses. No putting it off. Full bloody throttle and steer in a straight line. Bar out. Wait for it...wait for it.... she's up! Bar in a bit to reduce the climb rate and increase airspeed. Correct for a bit of a gust lifting the right wing. I'M FLYING SOLO - TOP OF THE WORLD, MA!.

It was great, but really scary without the comfort factor generated by having thousands of hours of experience in the back seat. I found the best way to overcome my nervousness was to chat to myself. Nothing complex, just saying out loud what you'd normally just think to yourself. Made me feel less alone, anyway.

"500 feet Steve, back off the throttle into a cruise climb"

"Keep looking around Steve - don't want a mid-air now, do we?"

"Engine temp a little high, but within limits - hey, it's a very warm evening"

....etc, etc.

I got around the circuit and lined up for landing (there are other checklists I did, but I won't bore you with them). Nice and smooth....bit low....feed it a bit of throttle....bugger me sideways, where did that gust come from. Correct...correct....OK, that's it. Throttle back....Round out....flare....flare more....try and keep her flying.................I'M DOWN.

So much for Solo.

The next few days passed in a blur. More dual instruction interspersed with solo flights then, without warning, the weather went all to poo. 3 days we were grounded. We played computer games. I explored the area. We ate, we drank, we played more computer games. I drank in the rich history of the region (this is a lie, we actually played more computer games). By this time, I'd decided to stay on another few days and see if I could achieve my restricted license. Reg was optimistic, but managed not to actually say "it's do-able". I think this is a good approach, as it keeps expectations low - you can only be pleasantly surprised then.

WEEK TWO

I won't bore you with too much of the same, but the practise continued. I improved. I did two cross country flights on my own, and managed to find the airfield I was heading for both times, land without crashing, take off without crashing, come back to where I started and land without crashing again. Who could ask for more?

Finally, the last Saturday, the day of the GFT (General Flying Test). Again, I won't bore you with the details other then to say that although it was nerve racking, I passed! I hasten to add it was nerve racking only in my head. The flying was calm and I had no trouble obeying all instructions from the back seat. I even recovered one of the simulated forced landings where my approach was far to high, by throwing in a steep 'S' turn to lose height. It's a nice feeling when it all starts to get instinctive.

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Last Revised: 28 September, 2004