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