Endings

"All endings are actually beginnings, we just don't know it at the time." -Mitch Albom

Has it really been three weeks since I finished flight school? Gulp. I can just about imagine how many people actually still read this: it's probably the same number of people who've successfully paid me to fly their airplane so far: zero. I started writing this shortly after I passed my final checkride, and somewhere between driving 3100 miles and having the egg-nogg IV inserted into my forearm, I lost track of the blog. Who knows how much longer I'll keep this up now that my formal training is finished. The important thing is to at least share the conclusion, right?

No matter how long a particular journey is, there's always a myriad of emotions when it's finally over. But is there a certain way one should feel? Whatever the manual says, I don't think I followed it properly: there were no victory parades, no celebratory champagne toasts, and not even the obligatory trip to the Chinese buffet. I'm still not sure what happened. Did I really do this? Is it actually over? It still doesn't seem real: I'm still waiting for the FAA to storm my house in the middle of the night William Wallace-style, take all my pilot certificates, then set everything ablaze on their way out. But it really is over. Hard to believe. Look, I hate cliches as much the sandwich artists at Subway hate it when I ask for extra spinach, but it really does feel like yesterday I packed up my house and moved to Texas. And now it's over? I feel many things, but above all else, I am relieved. I'm glad that my sixteen hour study days are over, and happy that the late night sim sessions are through. Grateful that I survived the grueling pace, and thankful I made it my original goal: I'm now a certified flight instructor with 220 hours in the logbook. I scraped and clawed for every single one of those hours, and could have compiled some awfully disgusting statistics about if I'd kept track. I'm excited that I'll now have the freedom to decompose on my parent's couch while not feeling too guilty about not studying.

It took way too long for my body to detox from eating nothing besides sandwiches and noodles. For the first few days I kept reaching instinctively for sandwiches, even while Mom did everything short of strapping me to a chair and pouring pureed steak and chicken down my throat. The good news: I survived without contracting any communicable diseases and while keeping my sanity intact. The bad news: I lost an inordinate amount of weight and successfully convinced my stomach that the food pyramid is nothing but an elaborate hoax. I'm sure I'll develop some form of mutation later in life because of this.

My last checkride was largely uneventful. Back in the single engine Cessna for the last time, I took this one out of the right seat, and played the role of flight instructor. The examiner was cheerful and full of conversation, almost exceedingly kind, like he knew just how hard I'd pushed myself to get to that point. I flew a variety of maneuvers, mostly ones I'd performed before, talking through each as though I were teaching a new student. It was almost easy. On my final approach to Arlington, some 400 feet above ground, a fuel track inadvertantly drove out on the runway, parked itself, and forced me to make an emergency go-around. The odds of this happening had to be something like 227,000 to 1. I mean, my roommate and I had wasted hundreds of hours practicing this exact scenario, only because we both loved throwing unmitigated disasters at one another to see how we'd react. But who, besides terrorists, drives a fuel truck on an active runway? As I jammed the throttle forward and began to climb, I called the control tower to notify them of what was happening, and in a matter of seconds, chaos ensued. Controllers could be heard over the frequency yelling at one another, wondering how such a colossal breakdown in airport security could occur. Phone calls were made, and the words 'FBI' and 'arrests' were audible over the radios. Either way, I was soon out of the traffic pattern, and planning for the return landing. In a matter of moments, I was back on the ground, and I had passed my final checkride. As for the fuel truck guy, I think it's safe to say he didn't pass his checkride.

For the last time, the examiner shook my hand and forked over my temporary certificate. I think even someone as experienced and proficient in the airplane as he is can appreciate just how far I've come in five months. Or maybe he was lamenting the fact that I'd no longer be making trips to the ATM for the express purpose of bolstering his bank account. Did I really give the examiner $3,675? Yes. Hopefully he's enjoying that two week yacthing expedition off the Caribbean islands. You're welcome, sir. I'd prefer to not think about that money.

Thank you for reading this journey, for following along as I struggled first with a new environment and grasping the intricacies of flying an airplane, for growing with me as I flew by myself for the first time, to encouraging me during the instrument phase, for listening as I wondered if I'd ever make it, and for putting up with a ridiculous sandwich count at the end of every posting, all the way to seeing and hearing about the finished product. In a way, you are all pilots too. I may be leaving flight school, but I'll still be blogging, and since I'm writing this retroactively, there's a new journey already happening that I'm anxious to write about. In the meantime, here's a short clip from one of my favorite movies that sums up the last 5 months better than anything else I could have said:

CFI School, Part II

As the long days of instructor school turned into weeks, our collective resolve gradually began to diminish: the TV, which had been neglected for most of the first 10+ days, now found its way back into the routine. The ocean beaches, which we stared after lustily at first, soon became too enticing to pass up. And the piles of textbooks, which had ingrained themselves into every fiber of our existence, soon sat in far corners of the condo, longing to be picked up and held again. Combined, this was substantial evidence that either we had offically reached burnout stage, or that we were ready for our checkrides.

The worst part of the first ten days? The uncertainty of not knowing when it would be over. Anyone can withstand pain, torture even, when there is a clear end in sight. Just ask Detroit Lions fans. But when it seemingly will go on forever? That's when hope is lost. Eventually, word was passed down from the higher ups that our checkrides had been scheduled, giving us moderate rejeuvenation to regain our strenuous study pace.

Soon after, I was informed that I had indeed escaped 'The Executioner' for my initial flight instructor checkride and was instead scheduled with a gentleman named Walt, who also happened to be the lead ground school instructor. I couldn't have been happier. My classmates all remarked that I'd hit the lottery, and I agreed. After all, Walt was the 70 year-old grandfather figure who spent years working for the FAA, and now, in retirement, found great joy in helping future generations of pilots achieve their dreams. He purposefully sought out us students, often gathering around during coffee breaks and sharing one of his famous one-liners. He was, in all senses, a walking encyclopedia of aviation knowledge. I'd lost count of the times he'd seen me diligently reviewing his lecture notes or preparing lesson presentations and stopped by to offer his insights. This had to be a good thing, right? Having spent four years accumulating brownie points with my professors in college taught me that one can never have enough goodwill stored up-you never know when it might come in handy.

As I spent the final few days prior to my checkride making sure I'd left no stone unturned, Walt continued to help me fine tune my efforts, combing over my power point slides with the same care he used to guard his beloved Taco Soup recipe. I couldn't believe it: my examiner was actually helping me pass the checkride. He told me to let him know when I wanted to get started, and on a rainy Saturday around 8 AM, we decided to go for it.

Now, up until this point, most of my checkride orals lasted 30-45 minutes, at the most. I knew this would be different. A few of my classmates had taken theirs the day before, with one oral exam lasting 7.5 hours. Did we have to know everything? Apparently, yes. As I gathered my materials and lesson presentations, I made sure to pack my 900+ page book of aviaion law, which, ironically, my examiner Walt wrote 1/3 of.

Checkrides are a funny thing. Pilots who've successfully passed through multiple ones say that they're no big deal. To a beginning pilot though, a checkride felt like life or death. At this stage of the game, I'd become accustomed to the process, wasn't very nervous, and wanted simply to pass this one, gain my instructor's certificate, impress Walt, and go home.

Here's the thing: in the aviation world, the initial flight instructor checkride is, by design, one of the hardest to pass. It's not merely a test of skill and proficiency but also of knowledge, safety, and the ability to teach. I've heard the national average pass rate hovers around 40%. None of that mattered to me; I wanted this one bad. It's sort of like playing cards with my Gramma-at first, she's happy just to be playing, but then, after winning the first few games, she's transformed into a ruthless, win-at-all costs competitor. I'm the same way with these checkrides. It's not enough that I made it through the first five without a bust; I want to pass them all.

It didn't happen. Though I blasted through the 3.5 hour oral with few problems, the flight almost instantly turned into a disaster. Walt took it upon himself to fluster, bewilder, confuse, and intimidate me, and it worked. I lost sight of an airport. I nearly breached a restricted airspace. I botched radio calls. My maneuvers, which had been crisp only the day before, withered like a decaying garden eggplant. During the most crucial hour of my flight training, I fell apart. I had failed my first checkride.

We flew back to the departure airport, and debriefed the flight. He wanted to know what happened; I didn't have an answer. Even chipmunks could have flown better than I did that morning. Just like that, $575 down the drain. It was the most disparaging of all possible outcomes.

A few days later, after I'd cleared my head and regained my confidence, I went out and flew like Red Baron, and earned my flight instructor certificate. After all the hardships I'd endured over the past few weeks, it was more relief than anything else. Soon, I found myself back on a plane, bound for Dallas. Instructor school was finished. Only one more week of flight school.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 167

CFI School, Part I

The flight school machine may have taken a four day vacation in honor of some of the greatest Pilgrims I know, but that doesn't mean there hasn't been plenty of material stored up for another blog entry. Since I'm a freshly minted commercial pilot, the next logical step was to earn my flight instructor's certificates. After a quick trip home to Minnesota for some much-needed turkey and family time, I was told to be at the Dallas-Ft. Worth airport a few Sundays ago with all of my textbooks and study materials by 1PM. My training partners and I begrudingly packed our suitcases bound for military boot camp, disguised as certified flight instructor school. We'd heard the horror stories from classes before us: 16 hour study days, impoverished living conditions, brutally indifferent instructors, and a checkride with an examiner nicknamed 'The Executioner'. I prepared myself for the worst.

After two weeks of nothing besides sleep and studying, I can only confirm this: I'm exhausted. Each morning when the alarm clock sounds my body groans in disapproval, rebelling against the grueling pace that I've established. I keep wondering when the end is in sight, when I'll get to take my instructor check ride and fly back to Dallas. In the mean time, life is on hold: calls to my cell phone go unreturned, emails neglected, bills upaid, friendships stranded. Make no mistake: this has been some of the most awful two weeks of my entire life.

Living in hamster-like cages with 3 other students lends itself to madness. Few are the moments when I question not only my sanity but that of those around me. Annoyances fester beneath the skin until one of us erupts like some overwhelmed Kindergarten teacher during Show & Tell gone awry. GET YOUR AIRPLANE FLYING HANDBOOK OFF MY BED! Who will reach their breaking point first? It doesn't matter; we all already have. I want to go home, and I'm not even sure what that means anymore. Texas? Minnesota? I just know it's not here.

How much longer can I take it? Who knows. In the meantime, a few stories, good and bad, from the epicenter of it all:

-Delayed in Dallas for over an hour, we sprinted to make our connecting flight in Charlotte, only to have our bags left behind. Faced with the prospect of sleeping without my packed sheets and blankets, I scavanged around the unfurnished townhouse and only found a thin, shredded-up Pocahontas beach towel. Sleeping without any blankets is awful. What did I use to keep warm that first night? Let's just say that I can now paint with all the colors of the wind.

-With no time to go to the grocery store before our first day of class, I splurged and went to Subway with a few of the others in the class. One girl came along, but didn't buy anything, instead plowing some donated crackers with the intensity of a squirrel hoarding acorns before winter. When asked what she had against $5 footlongs, she replied that she only had $3 to her name. $3? No credit cards, no parental assistance, no war bonds she could cash? Nope. I was incredulous. If you're ever wondering why pilots are arrogant, it's because of what they've overcome to get where they are. I'll bet you an oven-roasted chicken breast on Honey Oat that she will never forget how poor she once was, if that airline dream of ours ever comes true.

-One of my first flights here was a required 'Spin Training and Recovery' flight. In layman's terms, a spin is the result of an uncoordinated stall, resulting in the airplane plummeting to the ground as it faces nose-down and rotates around its center axis. In other words, something I don't want to ever happen as a flight instructor. We are required by aviation law to learn proper recovery technique and procedure before earning our instructor's certificates. This was by far one of my favorite flights. The sight picture was a little scary at first, but after I developed proficiency it became a game to see how quickly I could recover. Good to know I'll be able to survive the types of disasters my future students might put me in, just like my instructors overcame my ineptitude just a few months ago.

-Being a native of Minnesota has taught me a few things about winter; namely, that people should not leave the house from Thanksgiving to St. Patrick's Day, just to be safe. The one redeeming quality of being lampooned here in Jacksonville is that I'm able to parade around in shorts and a polo while the locals bundle up with fur coats and scarves. If you need to find me, just look for the guy embracing 55 degree weather by going for late night jogging excursions.

Back to the present: to repeat the mantra I learned very early on in flight school, I'm taking this one day at a time. It's a struggle, especially as I begin to wonder if I'll be finished up by Christmas, but I'm a pilot, and therefore I'll figure things out.
PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 162

Will Fly For Food

I like to cook. Unusual hobby, sure, but it's healthier than constantly eating greasy burritos from Taco Bell 24/7, and it saves money. Unfortunately, the flight school diet has consisted of far too many sandwiches and oatmeal over the past few months, but on occasion I splurge and head for the bulk meats section of the nearest Wal-Mart supercenter, all in hopes of stockpiling the ground beef for making Hamburger Helper. If you have the discipline to ration the portions refugee-style, one can usually get 2-3 meals out of this. Even though I'm now very proficient in making this meal, it always baffles me how it's able to come together. At first it's just a lump of red, raw meat. Fifteen minutes later it's an unrecognizable scramble. Douse it with a few cups of water. Maybe add in some milk, throw a few noodles in it. By now it's all I can do to keep my creation from overflowing the pan and causing a big mess. There's nothing about it that resembles a meal, not even close. It's at this point I mix in the seasoning sauce, and that only furthers the perception that I'm cooking vomit. The discolored blob of ingredients hardly looks edible. But soon, after a few stirs, and enough time over the hot stove, the liquids settle in, the noodles begin to cook, and the pan starts to become one. An aroma flows through the air. Soon, with a little care and effort, my dinner's ready. Now, no one here would argue that Hamburger Helper is a gourmet meal. Point conceded. But there is something special about taking something ordinary and seeing it come to its full potential. Maybe it tastes better because I went through the effort of making it. Or maybe I've gone senile over the past few months and somehow decided that writing a paragraph on Hamburger Helper was a good idea.

No matter, I can't help but draw parallels from one of my favorite low-budget meals and my experiences here. One of my first recollections about this crazy journey comes from back in early May, when the first crate of aviation textbooks and supplies arrived at my house. As I sifted through the boxes, feelings of being overwhelmed consumed me. The materials were things I'd never seen before, never knew they existed. I flipped through a few pages of a training manual and thought, "What did I get myself into this time?" It was a disaster.

Over the next few weeks, little by little, I threw myself into the books. My free time was spent learning things that, even just a few months prior, never envisioned myself caring to learn. And as summer approached, and my flight school date grew ever closer, I realized there was no going back. The beef was now brown.

My arrival here in Texas was met with more books, more uncertainty, and an even greater overwhelming feeling. I remember my first night here: exhausted from the fourteen-hour drive, hungry and in dire need of a shower, I met a few of my training partners and collapsed onto my bed, wondering if I'd made the right decision. The life I'd left behind suddenly seemed remarkably appealing. Was it too late to change my mind? As I stared at the heaping pile of books and aeronautical charts on the table, I wondered how I would ever make it.

The next morning, while eating the first of the PB&J sandwiches for breakfast, I pored over the syllabus, which outlined the next 150 days of my life, almost down to the hour. I'm the type of person who likes to take things one day at a time. I thought I'd accidently stepped into a military prison camp. I felt more out of place than Captain Crunch at a quilting convention. That night my classmates and I studied until midnight. If the first day didn't kill me, I thought, maybe there's a chance I can do this.


Eventually, my classmates and I fell into a routine: wake up, study, go flying, study, sleep. And that's how it went for me for the first month. Before I could blink, I'd been here a month. The reality that I was chasing a dream sprung me out of bed each morning. Soon, after about six weeks, I'd earned my private pilot's license. A few weeks later, I'd added a multi-engine rating. Who knew I had it in me?


Slowly, but steadily, I progressed though the grueling instrument stage. If there were ever a time to quit, this would have been it. These were long days, often starting before 6 and ending well after midnight. I wanted to kill my instructor. He probably wanted to kill me. If Vegas had been taking bets on survival, odds would have been pretty much even.


Time has been on fast forward ever since. I spent two weeks flying around the country, building my hours. I took three written exams in seven days. Just last week, I conquered two commercial checkrides in one weekend, making me qualified to fly for hire. Somehow, someway, the ingredients all came together. I am now a real-live pilot. The end is near. In a few short hours, I'll board a U.S. Airways flight for Jacksonville to begin certified flight instructor school. Two weeks of grueling study and preparation for a checkride that determines my immediate flying future. After being separated for most of the past three months, my classmates from our private pilot days are joining me for this final push. If all goes well, I'll be back to Dallas and done with the program in three weeks. The end is near.


In one of my very first posts, I broke down my ambitions as plainly as possible: I just want to fly airplanes. While I've attained that goal, I'm ready for the next challenge: I want to teach people how to fly airplanes. I'm still not quite sure how this happened, but I never want to go back.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 143

Break In The Action

They say no man is an island, but flight school can sure make you feel like it. Inhabiting the basement floor often leaves me wondering if indeed the rapture has happened and I've somehow been forgotten. These are dark and quiet days, with few demands on my schedule besides a few hours of flying each day. While it's a nice respite from the grueling pace of the program, the abundant downtime leaves one with a prevailing feeling of guilt. Even tasks once viewed as a productive expenditure of time, like laundry or composing emails, now offer a chance for my conscious to challenge my diligence. You should be studying or getting ahead right now. That's what living each day on flight school autopilot will do. After all, since I first stepped foot on the tarmac way back in July, I've been bludgeoned repeatedly with one assignment, project, or test to prepare for. And now, at least until I leave for instructor school, the exams are finished and ground lessons done, giving me ample time to realize I'm not accustomed to having ample time.

Fortunately, I've combated this by purposefully scheduling early morning flights back in the Cessna and plenty of textbook review. Simply staying on guard against complacency consumes a tremendous amount of energy, especially without an individually assigned instructor for this phase of my program. There are positives and negatives to this, with the major advantage being I get to see and hear several different critiques of my performance in a relatively short period. The major downside, of course, is that I usually end up being tossed around like one of the Kardashian sisters. Since every instructor is different, each has their own idiosyncrasies that can't help but be encountered during a lesson. A checklist flow method that generates applause from one instructor might result in a tongue-lashing from another. Trying to keep them all straight almost requires the use of Microsoft Excel. Today's flight was spent with the most experienced instructor our school has, a guy with nearly 1,700 hours on his resume and enough confidence to salvage a middle school homecoming dance. His penchant for crazy unusual attitude training notwithstanding, the guy knows his stuff and is an excellent instructor. It's hard not to feel intimidated around the more experienced, battle-tested pilots. I look forward to the day when I'm considered a peer, rather than just another student climbing the ladder that seemingly lacks a top step.

A quick glance at my logbook says the 200 hour mark is fast approaching-the minimum benchmark when applying for a commercial pilot's license. Training for the commercial checkride really is a lot less awful than, say, drinking a sewage-flavored smoothie. The new maneuvers aren't all that difficult; it's mostly a refining of the basic skills I learned back in my private pilot days. What's mainly giving me trouble during my training flights is a maneuver responsible for the majority of botched checkrides at this stage, known as a power-off 180. Simply put, it's a simulation of a failed engine while in the traffic pattern of an airport. While parallel to the landing zone, approximately 1,000 feet off the ground, I cut the throttle to idle and begin turning the aircraft back down towards the runway, with the goal to put the wheels of the plane down exactly on a pre-determined spot. Sound easy? The margin for error here is +200 feet, -0 feet. If I land it a foot short, too bad, it's a failure. Also in play: accounting for the wind factor. At no point am I allowed to increase the throttle-my only weapons are adding flaps or performing S-turns while I lose altitude. It is a constant blend of determining position and airspeed while slight adjustments to align the aircraft correctly. To be honest, the few times I've successfully pulled it off so far could be attributed to minor miracle. And even while demonstrating it to me, the instructors repeatedly botch it as well. The moral of the story: hope for a checkride day with zero wind and pray for leniency from the examiner. It's more than that, and with two training flights before the moment of truth I'm sure my proficiency will increase, but it'll be interesting to see how I perform. From this point on, I'm calling it the $400 maneuver. To see it done at a passing level, click here.

There are days I'd love nothing more than to sleep in and lay around, but both of those are incongruent to the ultimate goal and the magnitude of what's at stake here. Seeing the big picture requires loads of discipline, but I'm getting weary. In my downtime I've realized how much I miss family and the structure of normal life. This is the longest I've gone without seeing any of them-4 months. And all the things I miss about my 'normal life', like sleeping in a bed long enough for my 6'4" frame. Morale remains high, and the end is in sight, but man, I am ready for some home cooking. As I finish my final few weeks of training, the sandwiches are rapidly beginning to lose their flavor. Marked on my calendar after this week's checkride: a trip to China World's massive buffet. Motivation for passing never tasted so good.

The other day, a fresh new batch of students came in, all excited and ready to get started with their private pilot program. It strikes me as fascinating that my two classmates and I are now the self-proclaimed big dogs around here, the ones who supposedly know the drill and are viewed as the wise old sages. Let me be the first to say that I feel grossly unprepared for that mantle. What's even more alarming to me is that after Friday of this week, barring a complete disaster up in the air, I will be qualified to begin earning $$$ as a professional pilot. Not that there'll be a Lion King-style stampede of job offers at my door, but still, it's a very exciting and humbling prospect.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 131

Great Moments In Aviation

One of the greatest ironies currently starring in my life involves the coffee maker in the pilot's lounge. Now, I am not a coffee drinker and probably never will be. (I heard it stunts growth and I still harbor dreams of playing in the NBA) But the peculiarity of policy surrounding the making of coffee simply cannot be ignored any longer. Our flight school trusts us enough to fly $500,000 brand new aircraft all across the United States, completely unsupervised, to airports we've never been to, yet does not think we are capable enough to follow simple instructions from Mr. Coffee. What's unclear is the horrendous chain of events that may have led to this implementation-did an unsuspecting student perform incorrect methodology of brewing? Or maybe there is somehow lawsuit potential if a student scalds himself while making it? Who knows. What I do know is that I'd much rather have the flying privileges sans coffee making responsibility than the inverse of that.


I've just returned from an eleven day cross-country flying tour that was nothing short of incredible. The final numbers: fifty-one hours of piloting time, ten different states, 5,817 miles logged, and a multitude of stories to share. It was, by a long shot, the most enjoyable phase of my training so far. Having taken over 200 photos from the air, I spent an hour or so this afternoon sifting through in search of keepers. If you're interested, click here to view them. For those thirsting for a more detailed description of my adventures, let's go to the envelopes:

The Amelia Earhart Memorial 'Crap, I Think We're Screwed' Award
Easily the most traumatic experience in my young aviation career occurred on the third day, in Jacksonville, FL. One of the most confusing things about aviation is trying to discern appropriate taxiway systems at unfamiliar airports. Even though we were equipped with a folding map diagram of the airport, sometimes things don't always make sense-especially in the heat of the moment. For this particular airport, it was unclear to both myself and the other pilot where the best area to perform a pre-takeoff check would be. Since it was my leg to fly, my partner radioed up to the tower for guidance, but the best the controller had to offer was a muffled response to 'keep going', and we'd 'see one up ahead'. Being perfectly ambiguous, yet still fulfilling his obligations, we really learned nothing from that exchange. As I moved the airplane forward to where I thought I was in the clear, a transmission came over our headsets: 'Turn back and to the right, you've past the run-up area.' As I made efforts to whip the plane back around, my left engine suddenly began to sputter and gradually gave way to nothingness. Just like that, my first engine failure. Now we were in trouble. Frantically, I attempted to restart the engine, but got no response. I took over the radios and told tower we'd need to head back to the ramp due to a blown engine. Unfortunately, I'd never taxied before on one engine, so my rudder pedal skills were pretty shaky. Before I knew it, I'd maneuvered our plane out onto an inactive runway and couldn't get it turned around. With the sweat poring over my face and cascading down the control yoke, I told the tower we might need to come get a tow, as we were quickly running out of wiggle room. Finally, I gave the engine a final chance, and miraculously it started. Pulling a quick 180, I taxied the questionable plane back to maintenance and requested a different aircraft. After a quick phone call to the dispatch attempting to explain my incompetence, we pre-flighted a new aircraft and were on our way-but not before an apologetic phone call was placed to the tower. Despite the inconvenience, I found myself thankful the engine malfunctioned when it did-any later would have constituted a real emergency.

The Octave Chanute 'Man, This Is Way Better Than A Cubicle' Award
This one goes to the leg flown from Jacksonville, FL, to Raleigh, NC. With ample time to plan, my flying partner and I created a route specifically designed to maximize our time spent directly over the coastline. As we soared past prominent cities along the route, snapping pictures at seemingly thirty second intervals, I was reminded of one reason why I am striving so hard to make this pilot thing happen: flying an airplane provides incredible scenery. The photographs probably won't due it justice, but this leg was one great picture after another. At one point, I checked the GPS to estimate how far from shoreline we were. While it was only 10 miles, the feeling over being completely over the ocean is one I won't forget.

The Neil Armstrong 'Hey Buzz, The Field's In Sight, Put It Down' Award
You probably won't believe this, but I was not a crewmember aboard Apollo 11 that landed on the moon. After a night flight with ceilings hovering around 800' at our destination, I can imagine the relief the astronauts must have felt when they finally landed. Coming back from Miami/Ft. Lauderdale last week, we encountered some questionable weather about twenty minutes out: poor visibility, fog, and light rain. Nothing terrible or flight threatening, but enough for us to select a precision ILS approach. In a precision approach, there is a listed decision altitude (DA) listed on the approach plate. Basically, this is a height that you cannot descend below unless certain specific criteria our met. In this case, DA was 1300'. Unfortunately, I was not the pilot flying this particular leg, meaning I was communicating with Air Traffic Control and doing the navigating. As I briefed the approach for my partner, I verbally confirmed with him that our DA was 1300' feet. He responded back, 'OK, 1300' feet, got it.' As the clouds enveloped our aircraft, I glanced at our altimeter, which showed us to be steady at 2000'. No airport in sight yet. We continued to descend, and I watched as we blew through 1600', then 1500', all the way down to 700' feet! My partner had just blown through our minimum altitude, and the airport was not in sight. Now, I've been lucky a few times in my life. The time my buddy Eric and I careened my car off an icy road, did a 720', skidded across the oncoming traffic lane, and buried it in a 4 foot snowbank only inches from the face of a jagged boulder certainly comes to mind. But this was different: I was watching as this unfolded. Calmly, yet forcefully, I announced that we needed to climb, and fast. Thankfully, the plate showed no towers or obstructions in the immediate vicinity. We were only 700' feet above the ground in an unfamiliar area. Just as my partner threw in the power to begin a climb, the airport lights appeared, and he made the decision to continue the approach and land. I've never been so excited to be on the ground as I was after that flight.

The Bessie Coleman 'Hey, These Chili Dogs Are Pretty Good' Award
It's always nice to get free food, in any context, but especially after a three hour flight in cramped quarters on an empty stomach. My vote for best airport goes to Meridian, Mississippi (KMEI), not just because of the massive array of military jets lining the tarmac, but because of the spectacular display of free junk food available to starving pilots like myself. Chili dogs, nacho cheese, an ice cream machine, and mountains of popcorn can cure even the sharpest of hunger pains. Well done, Mississippi, I enjoyed my time there.

The John Glenn 'We're Still Alive' Award
Selfishly, I'm giving myself and my flying partner for the past two weeks an award for surviving and thriving this far into the program. The XC phase was enjoyable, but now I'm ready for the next challenge. With one more rating to attain before the focus shifts to earning my Certified Flight Instructor license, you can bet I'll be putting in extra long hours until the very end. The next thirty days will be an insane sprint to the finish line, starting with commercial training tomorrow, followed by a trip back to Jacksonville for Instructor school. It does seem odd to me that something I've only just begun to do proficiently now enables me to teach other. While it might be a cheesy cliche, I really do feel like I just set foot in Texas last week. In many ways, I still have an inordinate amount of stuff to learn before I can call myself a good pilot. But at the very least, the last two weeks have reinforced my belief in myself, enough to the point that confidence is no longer a problem.

One more note: in our first week of training, way back in July, my instructor recommended a website to serve as a backup to our regular logbook. While it didn't seem like much at the time, I admit now it serves as a fascinating side hobby during my aviation training. One of the best features is a Google map option which shows, by way of red dots, every airport I've landed at. Because you are so keenly interested in this blog, I've posted it here for your enjoyment.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 122

A New Rating

4:45 AM, Unit #301, ATP Airport Housing Complex
This just in: the only people who should be allowed to be awake at this hour include hobos, fast food employees slogging their way through the night shift, and, on checkride days, pilots. My eyes are still glued shut as I meander towards the refrigerator, where an already-prepared PB&J sandwich serves as my breakfast. As I wolf down the all-to-familiar taste of strawberry jam, Skippy, and wheat bread, I lament briefly on the significance of today and attempt to calm myself before the storm. I am rested and eager to tackle the monumental challenge of proving myself worthy of an instrument rating.

4:57 AM, Unit #301, Kitchen, ATP Airport Housing Complex
All efforts to avoid waking my comatose roommate have been for naught as I unconsciously slam into a pre-arranged pile of dirty Tupperware, cups, eating utensils, and dishes, knocking them 4 feet downward, creating a series of loud crashes and causing him to groan like an agitated walrus. I love checkride days.

5:05 AM, Pilot's Lounge, ATP Housing Complex, ESPN.com
During the NFL season, no day should ever start without the obligatory check of the latest Enjoy Sack Lunch trade news, statistics update, and waiver wire transactions. Even on mornings when my time might be better spent elsewhere. It's only 10 minutes, right?

6:30 AM, Instrument Training Classroom, ATP Training Center
Prior to the examiner's arrival, I spend a quick thirty minutes calculating my takeoff distance, estimated single-engine climb performance, and creating a weight/balance chart for today's flight. To make the numbers fit, I have to intentionally miscalculate my weight at 190. It's the grueling and monotonous kind of paperwork that's necessary to demonstrate that I am a competent planner in any weather condition. The CFI checks over my math and gives the stamp of approval, and now the waiting game begins. It'll be at least an hour before the FAA designated examiner shows up, giving me ample time to review everything I've been studying for the past month. More than anything else, however, this is really just an intense time of heightened anxiety and paranoia.

7:15 AM, Main Offices, ATP Training Center
Like a heavyweight boxer entering the ring, the examiner walks through the front door, briefcase in hand, ready for battle. I would have felt less intimidated if had left behind his executioner's axe, but oh well. My instructor greets him as I retreat out of sight, hoping to avoid his menacing stare for a few moments longer. He grabs my prepared folder of the necessary paperwork, identification forms, and heads to his office alcove to dissect what I've prepared. More waiting, more uneasiness.

7:30 AM, FAA Examiner's Office, ATP Training Center
The absence of a gorgeous nurse notwithstanding, the initial entry to the examiner's office has the exact same feel to visiting a doctor. You wait. You read magazines. Finally, the sound of a door opening is heard, your name is called, and the moment is upon you. Hoping to impress, I shake his hand Adrian Peterson-style, and begin to lay out the required materials: logbook, FAR-AIM, appropriate charts, passport, and, most importantly, four crisp, fresh-off-the-press $100 bills. It never fails: he always makes the standard joke about his wife needing 'to go shopping', but in reality, the sting of handing over such a tangible amount of cash never is easy. He inquiries as to the weather back in International Falls, spends a few moments looking over my records for accuracy, then begins lobbing verbal grenades at me: What are standard alternate minimums? What equipment is required for IFR flight? How do I determine if my aircraft as had the required inspections? When can I descend beyond my Minimum Descent Altitude? With each fastball thrown my way, I grow more relaxed and begin to settle in. A few minutes later, and he's out of ammo. The easy part is over.

8:20 AM, 2,500 feet, Dallas Executive Airport, ILS Approach
The unique aspect to this checkride, when compared the previous ones, is that for the entire duration, I will be wearing foggles, or what's better known as a view limiting device. The examiner will serve as my real life eyes, leaving me to navigate based solely on what the dashboard instrument panel indicates. I'm comforted in the fact that if we slam inadvertently into another aircraft, it'll be entirely his fault. Upon my initial climbout after takeoff, the examiner immediately vectors me east towards a nearby airport and tells me to expect the ILS approach into Runway 31. I know now what's coming, and almost immediately after notifying air traffic control of our plans, he reaches for the left throttle and closes it, simulating a failed engine. The Seminole yaws briefly to the left, but my reactions are swift, and I'm able to stay on the correct glideslope all the way down to minimums. The first hurdle has been cleared.

8:45 AM, 2,500 feet, Cockpit of N6816A
About halfway back from Dallas Executive Airport, the examiner tells me to put my head down, remove my feet from the rudder pedals, and close my eyes: it's time to demonstrate my ability to recover from unusual attitudes. I've done this before, and not just in my aviation career: in 7th grade Art class, my attitude towards ceramic sculpturing was deemed unusual, and I successfully recovered from that by posting a solid C-. As the examiner grabs the yoke and immediately slams the plane forward, my sense of balance and position are immediately thrown off-I have no idea what's going on. His next words to me command action: "Recover!" I have only an instant to determine my next move. Instinctively, I reach for the throttles and scale back to near idle, level my wings, and slowly begin to pitch up. Exhale. I don't think I took a single breath in the last 30 seconds.

8:55 AM, Grand Prairie Municipal Airport, GPS Approach
My hand is firmly grasping the yoke now as my brain tells me to ready for what's coming: at any minute, the examiner is going to cover half of my instrument panel, simulating a real life vacuum pump failure. This was the exact scenario that, a mere three weeks ago, caused me to nearly destroy the flight simulator with a deadly crash. Moreover, the last two instrument rating applicants busted at this precise interval. Today, I negotiate the strong tailwind by reducing throttles drastically, allowing myself more time to focus on the GPS readout. I carefully correct my course to the west, note my position, and make the proper radio calls. Since I've practiced this exact approach countless times in the past week, everything seems like it's in slow motion. When I hit the missed approach point, my hand automatically pushes the throttles full forward while the other applies back pressure, and sooner than I can even think, I'm already through the hardest part of the checkride. The examiner gives me instructions on where he'd like me to enter a holding pattern, and as I brief the hold aloud, I remind myself to stay focused and finish what I've started.

9:20AM, 5 miles from BROUZ, VOR Approach to Arlington Municipal Airport
One of the weirdest things about aviation are the names of GPS waypoints and intersections found on our Low-Altitude En Route charts. While they look bizarre on paper, the are extremely fun to say over the radios. In a different world, I would have been the one to name these points. One can only imagine the logic behind some of the decisions that were made. Apparently the only prerequisite is that each 'place' must have 5 letters and be only marginally coherent. So while I may have never been to the DUMPY, SEXXY, or RDNEK junctions, I have spent plenty of time hanging out near BROUZ. BROUZ is the final approach fix on the VOR approach back into Arlington, and today, it serves as my final potential pitfall for the checkride. Descending even a foot below 2,000 prior to reaching BROUZ means automatic failure. With the two previous approaches and holds behind me, my confidence is like a tidal wave now, and before extending my landing gear and adding flaps, I make a mental note to keep enough power in to keep my altitude. As I clear BROUZ and make my final inbound communication, a feeling of relief sets in: if the examiner hasn't said anything to the contrary by now, I'm the proud owner of an instrument rating. A few seconds later, he tells me to remove me view limiting device, and as my wheels touch down on the runway, I can hardly contain my smile. It's over.

10:00 AM, Pilot's Counge, ATP Housing Complex
Because I was scheduled for the early checkride today, I'm forced to wait until the examiner returns from his 2nd flight of the day. But in reality, this waiting is substantially more pleasurable now that the exam is over. For the first time in several days, I relax on the couch and read non-aviation material. While I'm reasonably certain of the outcome, I decide to hold off on the phone calls until I have the actual instrument rating in hand.

11:45 AM, FAA Examiner's Office, ATP Training Center
The moment of truth. Once again, my name is called, and I knock gently on his door. It's just a formality, but he requests to see my logbook again, and this time endorses his name with the desired 'Satisfactory' label next to his name. It's official: I am an instrument pilot. He hands me my temporary certificate, shakes my hand, and offers congratulations. I'll be seeing him again in three weeks, and believe me, I'm sure he's already looking forward to the $400.

1:45 PM, Unit #301, ATP Housing Complex
The CFI comes ambling into the room to offer congratulations, and for the first time I now feel equal to him. He shares in my pride today, as me passing is a positive reflection on him as well. Knowing he's no longer my instructor is a relief: I've never dealt with as much relentless negativity as he brought to the table, not as a college athlete, not in any of my restaurant jobs, nothing. But I must admit: through it all, he's made me a better pilot. The red-eye simulator sessions, his Stalin-esque standards of preflighting, and the endless assigning of navigation logs have all served a purpose. Motivation comes from many different directions, but for awhile I thank him genuinely for his efforts, patience, and wish him good luck with his next batch of students. For him, the instrument process starts all over with two new students. As I lament the past month, one thing stands out above all: I never once gave up.

The next three weeks are chock-full of flying for me. Starting tomorrow, my training partner and I are unleashed, flying on assignment to pre-determined locations throughout the country. Each morning, we'll call company headquarters in Jacksonville, FL, and receive our flight destination. With no CFI on board, it will be a good litmus test of everything we've learned so far. Designed to simulate airline life, it should be a fun adventure no matter how many times they try to send us to San Angelo. Past students claim this is by far the most enjoyable and rewarding phase of the program. My goal is to build up enough goodwill with dispatch so that they'll trust us enough for a lengthy cross-country trip to Florida. Our first assignment: flying to Houston. I'll try to post as many updates as possible over the next few weeks, including the occasional picture from our trips, so stay tuned.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 112

Progress

Much of the definition of success is based on the concept of progress. Are we making progress? Are we developing the way we should be? Could we be better? Heck, even a car insurance companies choose names based on this. The majority of humans are always striving for the next big thing. Here in flight school, progress is a funny thing. I crave it most in moments it seems farthest away. My hunger for it is greatest when I'm working the hardest. Last week, progress proved to be impervious despite my best efforts, but it's slowly starting to seep in, much in the same way the recent rainwaters have flooded my basement apartment: at first, you're unaware it's happening, but slowly, over a period of days, there are subtle hints that something has happened.

I began the pursuit of my instrument rating over three weeks ago. Knowing the difficulties it would present, I told myself I'd do whatever it took to succeed. At first, that simply meant plowing through every aviation textbook within a seven-county radius, taking meticulous notes during ground lessons, and throwing down flight simulator sessions with my roommate until our eyes glazed over like Aunt Jemima. This, as it turned out, was only a viable strategy for awhile, as burnout quickly ensued, culminating with last week's desperation phone call to my Mom. Should 26 year-olds need to dial home crying? Well, um, yes. There was a time, shortly after crashing the sim and being berated by the CFI, that I wondered if I had what it takes. That maybe I was in over my head, and had been too ambitious in my pursuit of a new career. I guess that's why the past few weeks were so tough.

Bottom line: instrument flying is one of the toughest things I've ever done. I spent the better part of two months learning to fly based on visual reference, and with the advent of instrument training, it was almost as though I had to start over. People always want to know: what's so hard about this, compared to what you've already learned? To put it into the best perspective that I can, everything seemingly happens at once: locating the prescribed approach, correctly briefing it and programming it into the GPS or localizer frequency, deciphering the airport charts while maintaining the proper ground track, wind correction angle, and airspeed, communicating with Air Traffic Control, working through the checklist flows, making small corrections to the control yoke, paying the requisite attention to the numerous gauges, dials, and radio frequencies, double checking to ensure that landing gear is down and stabilized, making the appropriate verbal announcements at the right times, altitudes, and locations, and finally, using every ounce of mental concentration required to keep from yelling at/strangling the CFI. It's truly the Olympics of multitasking. Fixate too much on one of the above areas and something else goes to potts. At first, it was as though the CFI's goal was to fluster, intimidate, confuse, and befuddle me to the point of no return. And for awhile, it worked, climaxing with the sim crash of doom that I wrote about last time. But now, I've learned to antipate things and stay ahead of the airplane, trying to reduce my workload as much as I can so that in the critical phase of flight, my attention won't be as divided. It's tough, and it hasn't been an easy process, but I'm getting there.

The ways I am able to see my progress vary, but for the most part, it boils down to a confidence thing, coupled with a greatly reduced number of mistakes. I've begun to believe in myself again, and it's showing during my flight lessons. Also, it's exciting to see just what the CFI can throw my way during the sim sessions. The other day he forced me to land with 1.5 inches of ice accumulated on the wings, a scenario in real life that should hopefully never happen. Icing of the wings results in a drastic reduction of lift and a tremendous decrease in velocity. The combination, if unremedied, could cause an aircraft to pitch down at high speeds, which, of course, is exactly what happened to me. I survived the CFI's test this time, and it'll be exciting to see what else is in his arsenal tomorrow.

The rewards of mastering this stuff are tangible: there are some 614,000 licensed pilots in the U.S., but roughly only a quarter of that group possess an instrument rating. It'll be exciting to join the ranks of such a tiny sliver of the population. I've always wanted to be part of such a small club, like the time I wore a green tights and catcher's gear around the house, pretending to be Donatello from the Ninja Turtles. I've come a long way since then. Now, one could argue that only a small percentage of working professionals are circus clowns, or are qualified to drive the ice-cream truck around, but I'm hoping that this is a more rewarding career path.

Random Flight School Anecdote of the Week: The other day, while partaking in a mandated 'Fox NFL Sunday' study break, a moment of panic set in when I was unable to instantaneously recall who the head coach of the 2008 Detroit Lions was. Previously, this is exactly the type of data that would have rolled off my tongue without hesitation. But now? My brain is flummoxed with the overflow of aviation knowledge and is having a hard time defragmenting the useless information that is no longer needed. So while I may have had to enlist the help of Wikipedia to learn that it was in fact Rod Marinelli, I did NOT have to look up the fuel requirements for IFR flight, which can be found in FAR 91.167. I think this is a good thing.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 99

Low Point

Two months ago, when I had barely wet my feet into the world of aviation, I had a conversation with my CFI regarding just how difficult the journey from zero to hero would be. One of the first kernals of wisdom he dispensed was this: 'During instrument training, you'll want to pull your hair out, it's that bad.' Turns out, the CFI was only half right. I want to do more than that. I'd prefer to douse myself in jet fuel while standing underneath a space shuttle launch. That's how I feel most days. I'm spending preposterous amounts of time staring at manuals and computer screens all in hopes of solving asinine questions such as:

What is the MCA at SABAT intersection when eastbound from DBS VORTAC on V298?

A few weeks ago, asking me that question would have been like asking Chef Boyardee for an oil change. Aside from learning how to decode the above hieroglyphics, it seems like my progression has been on vacation for the past week. For the first time, I am really struggling. Not with attitude, desire, or work ethic, but in the one area that proves to be the most baffling: performance. I am simply not picking the nuances of instrument flying as quickly as I'd like, or expected. While the CFI has been remarkably patient, I am still waiting for the breakthrough that everyone keeps saying will inevitably happen. The CFI's all say that the instrument phase is crazy and sometimes it takes awhile for the light bulb to finally go on-but, it WILL eventually happen. In the meantime, it's all I can do to stay positive in the face of repeated uncertainty. This morning simulator session was particularly disheartening. The scenario was set up for me to fly a GPS approach with a 200 FT cloud cover ceiling. As I descended into the thickest clouds about 3,000 feet up, I noticed that my attitude indicator was providing some misleading information. Rather than do the correct thing and cross-check the other instruments on my panel, I chased the attitude indicator with a hard bank to the right, to what I assumed would give me the proper correction. A few seconds later, I finally glanced over at the airspeed indicator, which was showing a rapid increase to 200 kts. It was at this point I knew something was wrong. My vertical speed indicator showed I was plummeting at a rate of 2,000 feet per minute. In a panic, I yanked back on the control yoke sharply, hoping to stave off certain death. This only exaggerated the effect, and as I peered over at the altimeter in vain, I knew my time was up. In a few short seconds, the simulator screen flashed bright red, and the speakers blasted out the ominous sound of my airplane slamming into the ground.

A few moments later, after I surveyed the damage, the CFI explained what happened. He had failed my vacuum pump system, rendering two crucial instruments inoperative. By neglecting my other instruments, namely the turn coordinator, I had inadvertently entered what's known as a graveyard spiral. I'm guessing it's called that because happy endings are few and far between. Mortified and dejected, it was a rough ending to a brutal past few days. There are few things in life as difficult as feeling inadequate, and that's the prevailing emotion after most of these sessions. I want so badly to succeed at this, and to some degree, I already have. Never once did I expect this to be easy, but by the same token, I didn't think anything could be this hard. Why do the things we want the most in life often prove to be the most elusive? This is the question I'm pondering tonight as I pore over airport diagrams and approach charts in hopes that tomorrow's the day of my instrument breakthrough.

Despite repeated failures in the sim, my resolve remains stronger than ever. I can, and will, do this. Even though the road ahead remains long and grueling, I've already come so far. It's a daily battle to fight through the negativity and self-doubt-in flight school, confidence is like gold, and finding it is often a struggle, but when it DOES arrive, there is nothing you cannot do. I'll let you know when I get there. With the check ride still a few weeks off, there's ample time to keep searching. And even in the midst of the long hours of study, perpetual setbacks, and the constant wondering of whether I have it in me, I still, without a doubt, love to fly. That trumps all else.
*********************************************

On the (admittedly) small list of 'Things I Will Not Miss About Texas', the 5:30 a.m. lawn service visits to my housing complex would rank pretty high. What would ordinarily be the unmistakable sounds of weed-eaters and leaf blowers resembles something more like a chainsaw and machine guns when roused from a mid-REM cycle just prior to wake up. The first time it happened, I instinctively dove for cover underneath my bed and began making tunnels in hopes of survival. Generally, this is not the ideal way to start a morning. My brain is conditioned to tolerate only soft, peaceful noises during slumber. Anything more than that and the sensory system goes haywire. I understand their desire to avoid the intense mid-day heat, but flight school students need to sleep. Next time it happens, the lawn care team should be forced to partake in one of my simulator sessions as retribution. It's only fair.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 87

All Your Questions Answered

This morning, while plowing through a bowl of Cheerios, it came to my attention that my family has begun posting my picture on the backs of milk cartons. Yikes. Has it really been that long? It might be time to make a few calls, because I'm still alive and still a pilot. You can send the search parties back to Minnesota; the bloodhounds are keeping me up at night. As for the blog, well, it's still on life support...but has hopes of coming off the respirator here in the next few minutes. There's really a dearth of legitimate excuses for the lack of blog posts. But I have been amused by the inquiries as to my status, so let's dispense of the rumors by joining the Greenpilot press conference, already in progress:

Did you flunk out of flight school? Actually, this is the one I would believe if I were in your shoes. After all, we're going on nearly 3 weeks since my last post and in all likelihood, unless you are an Enjoy Sack Lunch fantasy league participant, you probably havn't fielded a phone call or email from me either. Let's quickly put this theory to bed, though, as I'm doing just fine academically and enjoying this portion of my training more than I expected. Remember the motto, 'Cash Above All': if I were to flunk out of flight school, I'd be out the $60K. Money, believe it or not, is a huge antidote to procrastination and serves as a powerful motivator for binge study sessions.

So if you're still in school, why havn't we heard from you? As it turns out, flight school is actually very demanding. Most days there simply isn't enough time to accomplish all the things I wish to get done. The CFI piles on the homework like Emeril loading ingredients into a boulliabaisse; there's simply no stopping him. My reading assignments for tonight only took two hours; that's a decrease from the usual allocation of infinite.

Do you eat anything besides PB&J sandwiches?
No, although, I did recently did recently discover Banquet's .58 cent frozen pot pies, which seemed like a good idea, at least on paper. This false euphoria lasted for about 3 1/2 minutes, or roughly the time it took to thaw via microwave action. Please save yourselves and your families by not purchasing this product, unless you are a fan of heart disease and Ebola. The best story I can share with you involving food occurred just a few weeks ago, on Labor Day, when the acclaimed fast-food restaurant Chick-fil-A ran their ubiquitous promotion of giving away free chicken sandwiches on the condition that you wore collegiate apparel while ordering. I didn't go to the University of North Carolina, nor did I study at Oregon State. I also was never a student at the University of Minnesota. None of these facts, however, prevented me from making four successive trips with my classmates to the nearest establishment, where I proudly displayed my shirts each time for a delicious (and free) fried chicken sandwich. If only I hadn't been verbally assaulted for wearing my Bryan College jersey. Note to cashier: yes, it's a real college. Some would call my artistry dishonest; I choose to use the phrase 'poor flight school student being resourceful.'

What do you do for entertainment?
Besides study, not much. I'm beginning to think that the academic karma police are giving me my retribution for the four years of undergrad, where I compiled an impressive ratio of 1:30 study/fun hours. That time I should have been in the library studying for my Child Development exam, but instead spent 4 hours 'acquiring' pumpkins, only to roll them down a massive hill and watch as they smashed into a cinder block wall? Yep, I'm paying for that now. The gargantuan assortment of textbooks on my desk serves as an important reminder to be more prudent with my time management skills.

What's the next phase of the program for you?
I'm heavy into the instrument stage of my training. To the casual observer, it would seem like this should take a few days. After all, it's basically just looking at gauges and dials and making the correct interpretations, right? I'm discovering it's much more than that. True instrument training dictates that you will be spending your time directly in the clouds, often flying in some of the worst meteorological conditions around. Low ceilings, poor visibility, and overcast sky conditions are the cornerstones of instrument flying. Without an instrument rating, a pilot is relegated to flying only in the most ideal of weather conditions-not to mention prohibited from flying into clouds. The overwhelming majority of airline flights will operate using Instrument Flight Rules. Consequently, unless one's career ambition is to only fly banners over the Gulf of Mexico on sunny and clear summer days, an instrument rating is the quintessential endorsement a pilot should have. Instrument flying is actually quite enjoyable; your body and brain often form alliances against you, spreading lies and propaganda about your aircraft position and attitude. With no horizon to guide you, a pilot is left only with the instrument panel as an ally. Trusting these indicators will prevent you from making an incorrect adjustment. Fortunately for me, I have experience in fighting off lies from my brain, like the time in 9th grade I was convinced that an NBA future was my destiny.

How many checkrides do you have left?
Glad you asked. After passing my multi-engine exam this past Sunday, I believe the count is somewhere near six. At $400 a pop, passing is considered to be the desired outcome. Still, this check ride seemed substantially less taxing than my initial private pilot exam, perhaps due to the confidence I brought with me headed into this one. The examiner holds every possible aviation rating known to man, and at the ripe age of 60, he clearly has had a more prolific flying career than me, making his presence in the cockpit rather intimidating. Nonetheless, I'm 2/2 on check rides now and plan on continuing that trend.

Colonel Jessup, DID YOU ORDER THE CODE RED?
Whoops, sorry, wrong press conference...

This is supposed to be an aviation blog, give us something we can use!
Hmm...well, as a commercial airline passenger many moons ago, I always wondered how pilots could see and identify the runway from so high and far away, especially if, during our final descent, there were clouds obscuring their field of vision. Were they just guessing? Did a computer do the work? Magic? I've spent the last few days training in the flight simulator doing exactly what I described above. Not to get overly technical here, but most aircraft are equipped with GPS moving map technology, which aids in determining position. In addition to that, most airports have something called an ILS, or Instrument Landing System. The ILS is composed primarily of two seperate systems, one called the localizer, which provides lateral guidance, and one called the glideslope, which provides vertical guidance. Transmitted over radio frequencies, these signals are received by aircraft antennae and displayed on the display panel's heading indicator. The glideslope can be picked up from as far as 18 miles out, spanning ten degrees from the width of the runway and basically gives a path that the pilot should follow to descend at a proper rate in order to find the runway with little visibility. From there, it's simply a matter of making small corrections in pitch and power to stay on the glideslope. By using the ILS, pilots can be guided all the way down to a minimum decision altitude, at which point, if they cannot visually locate the runway approach lights, they are mandated to perform a missed approach and enter a predetermined location for a holding pattern. So the next time you're flying commerically with a window seat, don't panic simply because the airplane is slicing its way through clouds and fog. The ILS will take care of you.

Did you really just wasted 45 minutes writing that paragraph?
Exactly. It's past my bedtime.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 77

Halfway To The Shire

I don't go see many movies. Not because I am opposed to the secular world, or because I can't get a date, but mostly due to my penchant for falling asleep during lengthy films. Think about it: is there a more conducive atmosphere for catching some shut-eye? Complete darkness, comfy reclining seats, a greased-up stomach from overpriced popcorn, and horrendously intricate plots all lend themselves to form one insurmountable obstacle towards actually watching the movie. I still remember the time my college buddy Tan conned me into seeing a midnight showing of the third Lord of the Rings. Not only had I 'missed' the first two installments, but my motive for going was questionable at best (a female may or may not have been involved). My disdain for silly fantasy storylines notwithstanding, I barely made it through the previews before I was snoring like a geriatric with a sinus infection. (note: did you know that the word geriatric derives from Greek orgin and means 'Old Man Healer'? Why are we still calling them doctors?) Since I didn't have any idea what the the movie was about, I did some minor research and can now tell you that the film revolved around a group of people (or animals, it remains unclear) who embarked on some great quest, encountered numerous obstacles, fought through adversity, and ultimately found their destiny, united by a common goal of global preservation/domination. In retrospect, that Tolkien fellow could have saved time and simply renamed the trilogy Flight School.

Hardship. Sacrifice. Uncertainty. Evil warlords controlled by an all-consuming passion for power. A relentless march to Mount Doom. The discovery of self. Parallels from that movie to my experiences here are infinite.

Like a piece of oversteamed asparagus, I have now been in the pressure-cooker for two months. I'm nearing the halfway point of the program. My existence has been trimmed of virtually anything other than flying, studying, and sleeping. Lost in the rubble are the last eight weeks of my life. How can time progress so quickly when each day is exactly the same? You could tell me that I arrived here just yesterday, or you could tell me I've been here for two years. I would believe either one.

I have tasted small morsels of success, achieved major victories, and successfully wrecked havoc on the food pyramid by refusing to eat anything besides sandwiches. Along the way I've discovered more about myself than I ever knew existed. I can fly airplanes. I know how to study. I am impervious to challenge. And, probably the most surprising: I am passionate about something other than sports. My final career destination, while still unknown, means substantially less to me now when compared to transformation that's already happened.

The savagery of a small group hungry student pilots attempting to complete flight school in five months is not pretty. This relentless pursuit of aviation knowledge leaves a tremendous trail of destruction: already one student just a few weeks ahead of me has been sent packing, deemed not fit for the rigors of flight school. One more was dismissed from the program for having a lacksadaisical attitude towards studying. Still another prospective pilot was devoured by a pack of desert lobos. Let's hope my fate more closely resembles what this program originally prescribed.

I am closer to the finish line than ever before, yet it seems further away than ever. What lies ahead is a daunting schedule I never dreamed I'd be ready for. It's going to get crazy in here, and fast: In the next 90 days, I am scheduled for six more checkrides, five written FAA exams, 165 hours of flying time, and something close to one hundred dreams involving Outback waitresses bringing me bottomless baskets of Filet Mignons.

Tomorrow, I change airplanes, leaving the Cessna to climb aboard the Seminole and leave my faithful CFI behind. The journey continues. There are new mountains to climb, battles yet to be fought, and plenty of packaged noodles stockpiled in my cupboard. This bizarre and confusing journey through Middle Earth flight school will be over before I know it. Will our hero make it? Who wins? One thing's for sure: I'll be certain to stay awake for this one.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date):61

A Night In San Angelo

It's come to my attention recently that I am perhaps making flight school out to be this terribly tramatic event, with suspenseful twists at every turn and hair-raising commentary about my life here. It is certainly not this way, at least for now. So this time, if you've come here looking for a death-defying story of cockpit heroism, I'm sorry to disappoint, but there will be no such tale. If you are simply bored and searching for random flight school antidotes, however, I'm more than willing to oblige, for the last seven days have been filled with exactly the types of mundane monotony that has suddenly enveloped my life, making it difficult to formulate coherent and entertaining blog posts. Studying. Eating. Sleeping. Repeat. Not to complain; I'm enjoying the reprieve from the pressure cooker and am preparing for the next stage of my training by plowing through the fifteen-textbook monkey that UPS happily dumped on my back. There are college libraries that hold less books than my tiny apartment now shelves. I'm running out of space here; it's only a matter of time before I have to use the refrigerator for overflow storage. I am only one shipment away from taking business from the Library of Congress. We're not kidding; it's time to cut back on the textbooks.

My last act as a private pilot was a lengthy trip out to a city called San Angelo, west of Arlington by three hours and smack in the middle of seemingly the largest windmill and oil rig colony in Texas. It's probably not found on the typical family's list of most-desired vacation destinations. Flatter than construction paper, it's the type of place where you can watch your dog run away for three days. It's unclear what people do for entertainment there; but the 106 degree temperatures tell me it probably has something to do with survival. Don't be surprised next fall when you turn on CBS and see the promo ads for Survivor: San Angelo. Remember, you heard it here first. Having said that, I'll be happy to enlist for duty since I've already managed to overcome anything the network executives could throw my way.

The normal procedure for these types of flights is a thirty-minute rest, a bathroom break, and then plan for the return leg home. So after the customary restroom visit and refueling of the airplane, I headed back out for the trip home, only to be greeted by a disgruntled engine that sounded like a Lippizaner getting a root canal . Figuring it simply needed a break, I went back inside, waited a few, and tried again. Nothing. I'm no aerospace engineer, but I knew something was wrong. After a few phone calls and running through the vaunted "Engine Troubleshoot Checklist", it was confirmed that the plane was rendered inoperative and in need of mechanical attention. I assumed that meant a few hours; my flight school had different ideas: I'd be forced to spend the night in the very place I'd already begun to loathe.

The words overnight and San Angelo proved to be a worse combination than a tuna fish sundae. Thinking this flight would be nothing more than a quick trip, I'd neglected to pack my wallet or any type of toiletries, not to mention a remedy for my now-drenched boxers and socks. Because I am a trooper, however, I tried to make the best of an unfortunate situation by forming alliances with the Days Inn front-desk lady (free toothbrush) and restaurant waitress (free pancakes). The taxicab driver, however, proved to be much more formidable. He never wavered from 'company policy', insisting on charging $56 for a ten minute ride from airport to hotel. It's a good thing my flight school is apparently flush with cash and offered to pick up the tabs; otherwise you'd probably still be peeling my scorched corpse off the tarmac with a spatula.

The plane was fixed by noon the next morning, and, after carefully checking things out, I started the engine, took off, and within three hours was back in my apartment, where the first order of business was to follow the lead of Forrest Gump and change my socks. I dutifully thanked the Chief Pilot for taking care of the arrangements and vowed to never again forget my wallet. They say to expect the unexpected in the world of aviation; I am proud to say I've now learned that important lesson. From now on, I'm definitely packing extra supplies, just in case. Whether or not that includes an attractions map of San Angelo remains to be seen.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 57

Kid Passed, C+ Average

Before I tackle everything that needs to be discussed here, my first priority is to acknowledge that we should probably change the title of this page to, "Come Neglect To Update The Blog With Me." Yes, it's been awhile. It's a minor miracle that it's even happening. Be thankful, be thankful. But I'm here, alive, with plenty of stories to go around. Let's recap the last few days of flight school:

If your family doesn't celebrate half-birthdays, you're really only cheating yourself. The origins of such a holiday are unclear, but I do recall leading riots and mass protesting on the streets in response to my older sister's birthdays, so perhaps my mom felt obligated to create pseudo-happiness for me by declaring a half-birthday. Whatever the case, the half-birthday should be commemerated as such: you should only receive half the normal allocation of 'happy birthday' phone calls, half the gifts, and generally submit half the effort required for your regular birthday celebration. Why partake in the phantom celebration? Well, for starters, sometimes twelve months is just too long to wait. An even greater reason is that the half-birthday offers the opportunity to celebrate in a different season and setting, for example, if your normal birthday parties fell during the summer months, having a half-birthday provides ample reason for your teacher and classmates to lavish attention upon you. Regardless of when your actual birthday is, I highly recommend the half-birthday experience. I recently had my half-birthday this past Friday, August 21st. How did I choose to celebrate this year? I did what any reasonable person in flight school would do: I took my private pilot checkride.

The actual event was bumped back one day due to abnormal factors well beyond my scope of control. (note: if you are an important person, it's advisable to avoid slamming your car door shut on your $300 glasses-they will be destroyed instantly) I had already spent the entire previous night agonizing over what felt like the biggest test I'd faced since the time I had to choose between Fruity Pebbles or Golden Grahms. Waking up at 5 A.M. was the easy part-I'd been restless ever since my nightly foray to the refridgerator several hours earlier. I quickly inhaled some breakfast while reviewing my checklists and study notes, then headed upstairs to begin filing my paperwork with the CFI. For what seemed like an eternity, I sat and waited, questioning myself as to whether I had prepared enough, if there was something I'd missed. Flipping open the nearest textbook, I quickly began to quiz myself. It was futile. My brain, already on overdrive and seemingly ready to explode, refused to allow any more learning to transpire-it had to save storage space for the upcoming NFL season, I'm convinced.

The examiner finally called me into the briefing room, invited me to sit, and immediately started interrogating me as though I were on the F.B.I's 10 Most Wanted List. Describe your aircraft's engine. What instruments operate using a vacuum system? How many fuel sumps does your aircraft have? Where were you on the night of the 13th? He barely paused long enough to digest my answers, then moved on to the next question, leaving me to doubt each response for accuracy and clarity. Like a mouse trapped in a python's cage, I kept waiting for the moment of impending doom, for that one questions that I didn't know the answer to. It never came. Thirty minutes later, I emerged, caked with sweat, but victorious. I had conquered the oral exam, only to walk outside and see the vast dark clouds that had swept in. Thunderstorms, which meant more waiting, more pacing back and forth in my apartment. More restlessness, more anxiety. Few things in life are as difficult to endure as waiting for something you've spent so much time preparing for. After a few hours, I finally gave in and began playing video games. I made a milkshake. I went to the bathroom about 47 times. These are the things I did to survive.

The examiner gave me the go-ahead to start getting ready. With my hands shaking, knees weak, and sweat dripping down on my suit, I had one last pep talk with the CFI, then began the preflight process. Having checked everything twice, I climbed aboard, strapped myself in, and said one final prayer. The examiner climbed in, and in an instant, a wave of confidence washed over me: I can do this-it's just another flight. I flipped a few switches, contacted ground control, and rambled down the taxiway, all while the examiner thumbed playfully with his iPhone. Nice. Either he is trying to acquire a 10% stake in Vandalay Industries, or he's feigning disinterest to see how I react. As I steered the plane just off the runway, he finally spoke: "Flaps 10, soft field takeoff." My mind reacted, reaching over to alter the flaps setting, mentally running through the checklist of what needed to be accomplished. By now, I may as well have been a participant in the World Sauna Championships; the sweat glazed my face, pools of perspiration formed in places I didn't even know I had places. As we took off, the examiner immediately reached for the yoke on his side, as though I'd done something wrong. I continued to climb, staring out of the cockpit with one eye, glancing over at his side with the other. I began verbally going through the appropriate checklists, making sure each step was heard by the person who ultimately controlled my fate. I performed the correct time and fuel calculations, and took a long-overdue deep breath. I had survived the first five minutes. The next seventy were still to come.

A few landings at a nearby airport. Steep turns. Simulated emergency. Radio navigation. Power off stalls. With every completed manuever, the end grew closer in sight. His demeanor made it impossible to gauge my performance; by my estimations I was somewhere between highly proficient and grotesquely incompetant. I actually thought I'd done well, but here's the thing: silence is intimidating. There would be no feedback, not here, not now. With my flying livelihood resting firmly in the contents of his notebook, he finally directed me to head back towards Arlington.

I landed, waited for taxi instructions, and located a parking space. Nervously, I rested my hands on the yoke and waited for his verdict...the dry lump in my throat grew to increasingly resemble the Sahara desert-part of me considered gulping some engine oil just to stave off dehydration. As I turned the engine off and monitored a few gauges, he broke the silence: "Meet me inside in a few minutes." I tied down the aircraft, gathered my headset, maps, and other flight equipment, and headed towards the the briefing center.

I don't remember the next few minutes. The CFI came ambling over, asking about the flight, but I could hardly speak. I don't know what I told him, he just sort of laughed. I just knew that it was over. Pass or fail, I could at least relax. In reality, I just wanted to shed myself of this now-drenched suit, grab a Gatorade, and find a recliner somewhere. After a few minutes, the examiner called me into the briefing room, handed me a slip of white paper, extended his hand, and said, "Well done." I'd passed. Euphoria. I instantly broke into a huge smile, thanked him, and focused my remaining energy on restraining myself from giving him a bear hug.
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I'm not entirely sure who General Tso is, but if I ever have the chance to meet him, I'll be sure to tell him how much I enjoy his chicken. I'd already made up my mind that if I passed the checkride, I'd celebrate my new pilot status by devouring as much Chinese food as possible. Unfortunately, my stomach has been conditioned over the past two months to believe it belongs to a field sparrow. Suffice it to say, it was a disappointing performance at the buffet. I'm almost embarrassed to say I could only make two trips. It won't happen again.

I am now a pilot. While my privilidges are fairly limited, it is the first milestone in my journey. With the first hurdle cleared, my thoughts gravitate towards what's ahead. Over the week, I'll continue to fly to exotic locale such as Tulsa, Houston, and Shreveport. Another shipment of textbooks and aircraft manuels has already arrived, and, as I switch from the single-engine Cessna to the multi-engine Seminole, a harrowing thought is at the forefront of my mind: my next checkride is 15 days away. Does anyone have a birthday I can borrow?

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 49

From Gym Teacher To Pilot

Aside from the usual inquiries about my peasant-like eating habits, the most common question I'm fielding these days is, "How in the world did you decide to go to flight school?" Since I'm up to my xyphoid process in textbooks and checkride study materials this weekend, there's probably never been a better time to take a break and enlighten you on the abrupt metamorphosis my life has undergone in the past eight months or so. And if this bores you, well, I'll be happy to discuss how to properly decipher a METAR or PIREP with you over a round of boilermakers. But in the meantime, let's rewind the past year and revisit the process of how I decided to become a pilot.

Sometimes the hardest part of change is simply getting started. For me, it was convincing myself to have the courage to follow my passions, which, believe it or not, do not magically appear for everyone. College may have prepared me for a career, but it doesn't really prepare one for life. Big difference there. The pressures to establish oneself immediately upon graduation and 'get ahead' are immense, and in that culturally-imposed crucible, I did the only thing I knew how to do: waste an astronomical amount of hours working in the restaurant business. With copious amounts of cash flooding my bank account on a daily basis, the need to become entrenched in a career became irrelevant. It almost didn't matter that I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, as long as the money kept rolling in. That's the real trap of the restaurant industry; the compensation is so ridiculously out of proportion to the amount of actual work performed that rarely does one ever feel the need to move on. For me, it took over three years to finally break free.

After a summer away from the lure of easy money, I finally wisened up and decided to use my college degree for something other than participating in ridiculous Fantasy Football leagues. I began working as a substitute teacher, eventually landing a permanent position at a charter school. The hours were better, and it was certainly more fulfilling than delivering piping hot plates of overpriced seafood to unsuspecting guests, so I stayed for another year. I decided very early on, however, that I wouldn't be a lifer, that I hadn't scratched the surface of what I really wanted to do for the next forty years or so. While playing sports with kids all day certainly has its moments of glory, being a physical education teacher is also a ripe breeding ground for complacency. Toting a whistle and stopwatch while guzzling free cafeteria chocolate milk is incredibly appealing-for awhile. Tattooing belligerent middle-schoolers with a dodgeball imprint between the shoulder blades is an admirable way to spend your Fridays-again, for awhile. Eventually, I grew weary of taking it easy and submitting the bare minimum effort necessary. Only Vanna White had an easier job than I did over the past two years. I couldn't imagine myself being one of those crusty, sweatpant-wearing apathetic gym teachers for the rest of my life and always wondering, "What if? Note: if you're a gym teacher, and you happen to follow this blog, please disregard the above paragraph. 99% of professional educators are jealous of you. Keep up the good work-and the dodgeball Fridays.

Since I didn't want to be a financial drain on my society, especially in this Obamaconomy, I knew if I were to leave teaching I'd have to have a viable alternative career. What would it be? I had always been interested in flying; in fact, I recently discovered an old Microsoft Word file from 1995 detailing my life goals. Oddly enough, far down on that list was to one day obtain my pilot's license. I never imagined it would happen so quickly, that it would become the driving force to turn my life upside-down.

When I first began to entertain thoughts of persuing this dream, I knew there would be periods of questioning and self-examination. Is this really what I want? Am I cut out to handle giving up everything? Can I actually do this? Almost daily, those questions weighed heavily on my mind, causing more than a few sleepless nights along the way. The seasons of uncertainty that I encountered over the next few months as I began to take the initial steps were, at times, overwhelming. On the surface, it really didn't make a whole lot of sense: I had just spent the previous three years stockpiling my savings towards purchasing my first house, had found some semblance of stability, and finally considered myself to be free of the post-college doldrums. Why would I want to start all over again, to say nothing of heaping a massive student loan on my plate? But rarely does life make sense.

I threw myself into researching every possible angle on becoming a pilot: the next few months were a whirlwind of conversations, emails, and hours spent investigating everything from pay scales to industry hiring trends to poring over airline forums, all in hopes of gaining perspective and making certain it wasn't merely an impulse. Finally, in April, I began taking flying lessons, and was instantly hooked. For the first time since leaving college, a huge cloud was removed from in front of me, and I finally had a real answer for the question, "What do YOU want to be when you grow up?" From that point, a number of things fell into place to make my dream become a reality far quicker than I'd anticipated.

I've been a flight school student for over six weeks now. The road ahead is a long and grueling one. The airline industry is littered with people like myself. Competition for flying jobs is cutthroat, and, in an ever-shrinking economy, likely to get worse. Much has been documented recently about the low pay and grotesque lifestyles freshly minted pilots have grown accustomed to. New laws may make it harder for those of us who've just begun to find employment with airlines, to say nothing of keeping that job once earned: bankruptcies and furloughs are commonplace for virtually all airlines. But despite all that, I know there's absolutely nothing that I'd rather be doing than going after this dream. There are scant moments when I don't feel like the luckiest person alive: I get to fly airplanes.

Tomorrow my former colleagues are headed back to school, their summer vacations over, and preparations for a new school year will commence. I've spoken to a few of them, and most are full of passion for what they do and excited for the challenges ahead. Makes me think of my life a year ago, and how this new journey of mine was lurking in the shadows. What a crazy and unpredictable year it's been-but a year, and a transformation, that I wouldn't trade for anything.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 43