The Departed

I have a good friend who wanted nothing more than to fly airplanes. For the past year, the thought of becoming a pilot had consumed him. After graduation, flight school was his logical next step. His arrival here was more than the beginning of a career; it was the rest of his life. Passionate for aviation, the kid was a natural-in the classroom, and behind the yoke. Of the four of us, he was the one we ordained for greatness. An unflappable, energetic, and engaging individual, he was the kind of person you wanted to be around.

Less than a week ago, subtle changes in his demeanor became noticeable. His enthusiasm was waning. Study sessions were less appealing than a bologna sandwich. The menial tasks of pre-flighting and performing checklists were taking their toll. Flying was no longer enjoyable. You could see it in his face; he looked defeated. After a particularly grueling lesson, he approached me and began to share what I had begun to suspect: He no longer wanted to be a pilot. The doubts that had seeped into his mind were real. He fought it for a few days, as his heart and mind waged warfare against each other. But deep inside, he knew it was over. The decay of his dream was complete, and he began the painstakingly difficult process of sorting through his emotions, trying to salvage what was left of his logic, to discern the best course of action. While the prospect of dropping out of flight school after a few weeks certainly wasn't appealing, neither was the idea of being pursuing a career in which he no longer had any desire for. The magnitude of his decision weighed on him; the gaping smile on his face had vanished, he was hardly sleeping, his persona had evaporated. For a few days, it was like being friends with a ghost.

See, one of amazing things about life is the complex dynamic of human relationships. We can spend countless hours, even years, with people and never truly know them, or, in a matter of weeks, total strangers can become some of your closest friends. The bond of shared experience trumps all else; that's why war veterans still gather over a round of beers, it's why college roommates are lifelong friends, and it's certainly why I am writing about Lance. We spent hours poring over study books, swapping botched landing stories, and making fun of our CFI's. The struggle he faced provided an opportunity to remove the superficiality and be real with one another. In the midst of his personal crossroads, we had a conversation that ranks among the best I've ever had. The lesson learned is to take full advantage of your time with people you care about; you never know when your paths will divert. You never know when your shared experience will cease. We shouldn't miss out on the best part of the human experience simply because we're afraid to share our story-or to hear theirs.

Back to my friend: by yesterday afternoon, his apartment was packed, and, after a few abbreviated goodbyes, he was gone. Ultimately, he'll find his way, discover his passions, and a new dream will take shape. Flight school certainly isn't for everyone; his interests are waiting for him elsewhere. The real story here is that he had the courage to pursue a dream. I don't regard Lance as a failure, and I know in the end the ambition he possesses will guide his path. He took a shot and missed. How many people spend their entire lives wondering, what if? Let the record show that Lance won't ever have to deal with that question. If only everyone could be so lucky.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 28

Bumps In The Road

I'm fully aware that anyone who reads this collection of useless ramblings has probably lost significant amounts of sleep over the past few nights wondering if I've completed my first solo flight. You should know that one of the following things has happened: 1) due to insufficient funding, my flight school has permanently closed its doors, leaving its students homeless and uneducated 2) after I crash-landed 55 feet short of the runway, the Cessna was totaled and I'm now a fugitive of the law 3) the combination of thunderstorms and the Chief Pilot taking an unexpected vacation have prevented any of us from completing our solo flights. I'll let you decide what really happened.

Another week down, another week closer to the end goal. As it turns out, flight school is a well-oiled machine, pumping students through the program at unfathomable rates. I'm amazed at how quickly the days pass. Each week brings new challenges and hurdles to clear, and when the dust settles, I'm still alive, still hanging on, still surviving. Yesterday's flight lesson was the ultimate test of my resolve. Nothing about felt right, from the minute I woke up all the way through shutting down the engine. Simply getting to the aircraft produced more casualties than the Oregon Trail. I choked while eating my Corn-Pops. I tripped over a rope on the tarmac. The left flap attacked my forehead during preflight inspection. Even my boxers malfunctioned. Sometimes you just know when it's not your day. Throw in some nasty crosswinds and a multitude of mental distractions, and it's a miracle I survived the two hour ordeal. Out of twelve landings, two were of normal quality, the other ten will ultimately serve as instructional video material on how not to perform a crosswind landing. After emerging from the cockpit, I was spent. I've seen roadkill with better dispositions. They say flying is like golf; you're never as good as your best shots, never as bad as your worst. I say break out the Richter Scale anytime I'm coming in for landing.

The machine doesn't stop simply because it's Saturday, and today is shaping up to be an important day. In a few hours, I'll be taking my FAA written exam, which is the first component of my $400 private pilot checkride. Sixty questions on aerodynamics, calculating center of gravity, estimated fuel consumption, determining (gulp) crosswind variation, aeromedical factors, and VFR navigation. Luckily, a mere 70% is considered passing; but that was also the case in my Anatomy & Physiology class, and I definitely remember how that turned out. Later tonight, the CFI and I are flying up to Oklahoma as we begin learning night flying procedures. We'll circle around downtown Dallas, practice landings up near Gainesville, and get back to Arlington sometime after 1AM. The CFI says if I'm lucky, we'll contact air traffic control at DFW International and attempt to land where the big boy jets get to play! I'm packing the camera so check back in a few days for photos and a video or two, as well as an update on the FAA written, and hopefully a 'real' story about my solo.

We're off tomorrow, freeing me to focus more attentively on selecting my 2009 Fantasy Football team name. In our league, the only criteria is that the name must somehow relate to Seinfeld. Creating a team name is one of the most crucial aspects of fantasy sports; a bad name can derail a season and make you the laughingstock of your league. Last year I was the Pudding Skin Singles, based on George Costanza's health food purification system. This year? I shouldn't even have to say it, but we'll see what happens...

Total PB&J Sandwhiches Consumed (to date): 24

Ready Or Not

Most people are familiar with the NCAA Basketball tournament, aka March Madness, or, as I like to call it, the best three weeks in any year. Fundamentally, it's almost an entire month of avoiding any real work, reduced social and personal hygiene expectations, and the only sporting event that commands as much attention at the water cooler as prominent reality TV shows. The best part is the never-ending theme of David vs. Goliath. If you've ever seen some tiny, obscure university scrap and claw its way into a game against a national powerhouse, you'll know what I'm talking about. On paper, there's no way a Southeastern Lake Erie State Technical University should compete with Kentucky, Kansas, etc...And sure, for the first 5 minutes or so, tiny college A will pull out the big guns and give the juggernaut their best shot. The score will be close, initially. At some point however, the small school will usually run out of gas, and eventually mercifully give way to the giant. But...if you're lucky, a different scenario will unfold: the underdog will gain courage, begin to believe in themselves, that they really can win. Their hustle and intensity will increase with each made basket. And despite being over matched, their abilities are taken to new heights. It doesn't matter what happens in the end; the real winners are the fans who saw the underdog learn to believe.

This is supposed to be an aviation blog; I understand your frustration. All of that to say, coming in, the odds were greatly stacked against me. I'm not the most intelligent person around. I don't have an extensive flying history. My ability to focus is lacking; if it's not about sports, I find it very hard to concentrate. I took a massive risk in leaving it all behind. I am, and will always be, an underdog. But we're over two weeks in now, and things are coming together: the sectional charts are easier to read, configuring the airplane is more natural, talking to Air Traffic Control is less intimidating, making adjustments and corrections are second nature. My test scores are rising. My landings are smoother. With each flight lesson survived, my confidence grows. I enjoy studying now. A transformation is taking root. Suddenly, the mountain I'm trying to scale seems smaller. More than anything else, I believe.

The biggest news that's transpired since my last post is my inevitable breakup with PHAK, whom I discarded like a rented mule. Since I'm not one to sit on the sidelines, I have successfully filled the immense void with a new book, the Federal Aviation Regulations and Aeronautical Information Manual, or, as I affectionately label it, FAR/AIM. It can cure insomnia in one sitting. Even Federal Tax Code provides more scintillating reading material. FAR/AIM is heavier than PHAK; nearly 1050 pages of riveting, regulatory information that I absolutely cannot live without.

One of my college buddies, Lucas, has been pestering me about mentioning him in the blog. Since he was kind enough to fly into town for the weekend, it's the least I can do. So here's your shout-out Lucas, or, as my mom refers to you, Fred Lucas. There's still time for you to be the first male follower, or even the first male commenter. But knowing you, there's probably a better chance of Bryan College mandating instant replay for intramural Flag Football games than that happening.

My logbook says I've flown close to 20 hours now, enough that on Thursday, I'll be taking my first solo flight. No CFI on board, just me and the Cessna cruising around at traffic pattern altitude for 3 quick touch-n-go landings. I'll try my best not to end up looking like this, a casualty from last week. I noticed emergency vehicles out on the runway just after lunch, and yup, he forgot to put the landing gear down. The pilot was fine; the plane, however, will likely be sold off for parts. Yikes. I'll be sure to complete my before-landing checklist on Thursday. Should I be nervous? I'm ready for the challenge, but we'll see what happens...

PB&J Sandwhiches Consumed (to date): 16

Addicted

I've never used drugs, but I do know more than the average person about addiction. Growing up, I played inordinate amounts of video games, especially when I should have been studying or helping out around the house. (sorry Mom) There was always one more game to play, an extra level to beat, or one final boss to annihilate. Everything crested with the release of Tecmo Super Bowl, and I loved the feeling that came with complete domination over an inferior computer opponent. It was a powerful, yet fairly wholesome addiction. But that pull towards video games gradually subsided, and now pales in comparison to the allure of flying an aircraft. The excitement and feeling of achievement that comes with learning to fly supercedes all else right now. All of the checklists and ground school lessons are overwhelmingly worth the chance to manuever the aircraft. Time in the sky passes like grains of sand flowing through fingers. A flight lesson is finished, and I've hardly started shutting down the engine before the first thought of "when is my next flight?" begins to flood my mind. Six months ago I had no idea this is where my life would have taken me, but I know now that I absolutely love flying airplanes and will do anything to sustain this addiction.

We're concentrating heavily on landings these days. It seems like I've landed at every possible municipal airport this side of Dallas over the past few days. And just as there are many different species of alpaca, all airports differ to some degree. My favorite by far is a small airfield in Ennis, TX, about 35 miles SE of Arlington. It's a short, extremely narrow runway (50x4000) with lakes to the immediate east and southwest and prime Texas ranchland to the north. The excitement from shooting an approach like this lies in the degree of accuracy needed to avoid slamming into the adjacent trees or submerging the aircraft into the nearby water. I survived the first touch-and-go landing, but on my second attempt, I had built up too much airspeed and ran out of runway, necessitating what's known as a go-around. It's basically swallowing your pride, aborting the landing attempt, and learning what to do differently the next time by doing a lap around the airport and making corrections as you turn into final descent. It was here, on my third effort, that I finally had a landing to be proud of. Greasing the little Cessna down smoothly was a nice alternative to my usual bouncing up and down like some hyperactive toddler. I'm sure the CFI was grateful for that one. Aside from realizing my progress, the most rewarding aspect is looking over at the instructor and seeing his hands free of the controls, knowing my fate, and his, rests completely on my side of the cockpit. Despite my new confidence, my prevailing thought is, "Man, I better not muff this landing."

Our flying schedule is vastly different now; we're flying more often for longer periods of time, which is highly conducive to both retention levels and inducing copius amounts of perspiration. This morning, I drew the 0630 flying slot and was the beneficiary of 83F temperatures. I actually made it back to the tarmac without needing to change my polo and shorts. Next time I'll bring my parka and toboggan to compensate for the Artic chill.

From now on, I'm going to cease complaining about the scorching inferno heat, because, let's be honest, at this point it's like observing that being stuck in traffic is a waste of time. I've started venturing out around Arlington more now; apparently they don't have grocery stores here in Texas, they just have massive cattle slaughterhouses and people obtain their meat there. Thankfully, there's a Wal-Mart supercenter seemingly every 2-3 blocks to help stave off hunger. The other happening place to be is the local QT, where .69 cents will garner you 32 ounces of frozen white cherry slush, serving as high-octane jet fuel for these endless study sessions, which right now commands my attention. Until next time, we'll see what happens...

PB&J Sandwhiches Consumed (to date): 13

One Step Forward...

When I finally have a few hours of free time, I'm going to conduct an experiment: who sweats more profusely, the atomic, Baptist-style preacher at church this morning, or me, while taxiing from tarmac to runway under the blazing Texas sun. No joke, it felt like Mount Vesuvius in the cockpit today, even though I chose the 8AM flight slot. The conditions were otherwise ideal for flying: calm winds, unlimited visibility, and smooth air. Everything seemed to come together on my takeoff and initial climb, so much that I found myself searching for the instant replay feature that only exists on my cheesy laptop flight simulator. Learning to fly has been a weird process; one minute, my confidence level soars and everything feels so natural, and an instant later, things can deteriorate so fast that there may as well be a walrus at the controls. When something goes incredibly right, I brace myself, for I know that in only a few moments, I'm likely to botch another maneuver. More than anything else, I'm longing to be a more consistent pilot.

After surviving the first week of flight school, the magnitude of what I'm attempting to do has really manifested itself. I see the students who are a few months ahead of me and wonder if I'll ever be at their level. I watch as the CFI's dispense knowledge and am curious how they became so proficient. I stand frozen as the old, greybeard captains stroll confidently from hangar to big, shiny jet and ponder if it'll ever happen for me. Rarely is there a day that passes without my mind allowing the doubts to creep in; it is in these gut check moments that I remind myself of my abilities and motivation, of the immense sacrifices I've made and will continue to make, and that nothing will stand in the way of my ultimate goal. There are plenty of uncertainties out there, but this much I do know: in 144 days, I will be a pilot. Getting there will be a turbulent ride-I'm prepared for that at the very least. In the meantime, I guess we'll see what happens...

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed: (to date) 11

Hope Is A Good Thing

The oatmeal that I consumed in record time before class this morning less resembled breakfast nutrition than the likely contents of my overworked, mushy brain. I'm only four days in and already feel grotesquely overwhelmed with the multitude of information heaped upon me with each ground school lesson. The content itself isn't terribly difficult to grasp, but its quantity is staggering. The trend that's begun to emerge here is that my days will be long and grueling. Each day spills into the next; I've even started dreaming of exams and online learning modules. We're scheduled to have Sunday off; maybe I'll make scrambled eggs to celebrate my cerebrum's new state of existence.

We have begun our flying lessons now as well; after just a couple of days my logbook now has nearly 5 hours of flight time, including my first take-offs and landings. As a commercial passenger these were always my two favorite elements of the flight, save for the beverage and snack service, of course, but as the actual pilot, it is an exhilirating experience for sure. Even in our small Cessna 172's, the amount of power the engine produces is unbelieveable. I wish I could tell you that flying is easy, but the reality is that most of the manuevers are quite difficult to achieve, even after a few attempts. Still, I'm confident that the process of becoming proficient will be a rewarding endeavor. My relentless studying and sifting through material makes me believe that if I had put this much time into my undergrad, maybe I would have actually passed Anatomy & Physiology the first (or second) time!

My schedule is to fly again tomorrow, with the CFI introducing stalls, steep turns, and spins. In the meantime, I'll be sharing dinner tonight with my new girlfriend, the Pilot's Handbook of Aeronautical Knowledge. PHAK says we'll see what happens...

PB&J Sandwhiches Consumed (to date): 9

It's For Real Now

If anyone reading this has a dictionary nearby, please look up the phrase 'total immersion' and see if there's a picture of me in one of those McDonald's play areas, only where all of those soft plastic balls have been replaced by mounds of flight school books, data charts, and aircraft inspection checklists. Not only did I get assaulted by the bombardment of material presented here on Day One, but I also have a solid 4-5 hours of reading and preparing for tomorrow still ahead of me tonight. And this is the first time all day I've even thought about sports. So, um, why did I start a blog again? Forgive me ahead of time for your sifting through of page after page of boring antidotes from my life here at flight school.

Despite information overload, there have been some 'exciting' developments in my life over the past few days, chief among them losing my Iowa virginity. As it turns out, it IS advantageous to drive through Iowa from Minnesota if you're headed to Texas. And I know this is hard to fathom, but despite living in Minnesota for virtually my entire life, this was the first time I'd had ample reason to make an appearance. I could assail you with lies of beautiful scenery and incredible panoramic mountain views, or I could just report to you that the Iowa state slogan reads, "Iowa: Fields of Opportunity." Really? That's the best they could come up with? If I was governor of Iowa, it would most certainly read, "Iowa: Endless Rows of Corn." Then, at least unsuspecting drivers such as myself wouldn't be fooled. I'm still waiting for that opportunity, Iowa, and no, that .79 cent week-old gas station banana doesn't count.

I'll be flying by Wednesday, putting to practice much of what I've learned today and in the days ahead. It'll be the first time I've been in the air in a couple of months-excited to get back behind the yoke. My training is all mapped out for the next 60 days; in looking ahead I was incredulous to learn that my first solo flight is a mere 15 days away! I guess we'll see what happens...

Beginnings

In just over 24 hours, my life will turn upside down and everything I know and have begun to expect and appreciate about my existence will cease to be as I embark on a new adventure in pursuit of a deep rooted dream. I'll be saying goodbye to my closest friends and family as I move to Dallas to begin flight school. Am I nervous? Scared? I can't even recount how many times I've been asked that question over the past few months as I began to broadcast my future plans. Some have called me nuts, leaving a stable career and enthusiastically digging myself into $60 grand worth of student loans in the midst of the worst economy of my youthful generation, all in the hopes of someday flying for a living. Delusional? Deranged? Probably. But it's a dream, my dream, and I'm going for it. I just want to fly airplanes. And so, to quote myself with my favorite expression (apologies to all my ex-girlfriends), "We'll see what happens." Follow along as I begin an incredible journey...