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

Coyotes and Checkrides

Back when I was in elementary school, I would often ask my teachers for outlandish requests to be granted, even if I knew they had little chance of generating more than just a simple laugh. For instance, I'd always suggest that our class would be better served if we went outside and played kickball rather than learn about, say, the European Renaissance. Since I never actually expected these ludicrous petitions to be taken seriously, I became accustomed to the many excuses offered up. But the one I never heard was, "We can't do that because there are coyotes on the runway." Today, while flying the first leg on my odyssey across the oil fields of west Texas, I was monitoring the control tower frequency of a nearby airport, and that was the reason given for runway closure. As it turns out, Air Traffic Control wasn't lying; there were in fact coyotes on the runway. I didn't land at that airport today, and neither did the plane several miles ahead of me. But it would have made for an interesting approach. One can only hope that the carrion the coyotes were feeding on wasn't the remnants of a downed student pilot.

I've flown just under fifty hours now, and finally had my first experience with fear and uncertainty. The other day, on a solo flight to the southeast, I encountered a wall of low clouds, around 2100 feet up. Protocol for this type of scenario depends on many things, but for a student pilot, M.O. is to basically avoid clouds at any cost. The unknown levels of turbulence associated with low clouds, coupled with the light weight of the Cessna, can make for some interesting moments. Since I was only a few miles away from my destination, and the weather in all directions appeared the same, I made the decision to continue on course at a reduced altitude. In all my training flights with the CFI, we'd never flown this close to clouds before. As I gripped the yoke and nervously watched the altimeter hold steady at 1,800 feet, my mind naturally gravitated towards worst-case scenarios: blown engine, wind shear, lightning strikes...I kept a close eye on the clouds above, and glanced at my instrument panel. Everything still normal. Checked the radio for weather updates and the recordings reported good conditions. Suddenly, my aircraft jolted to the left, as though someone had lifted the wing and tossed it aside. Now my heart was racing. Wind? I knew it couldn't be much else; I'd thoroughly checked the forecast and the radar was barren. Another gust, this one less powerful, but of greater duration, rocked me again. In all my previous flights, I'd never felt this type of turbulence. By brain kept shouting at me to remain calm and stay focused, but my heart pounded like it wanted to jump out of the airplane and run for safety. Thoughts of a frantic CFI pacing back and forth back in the hangar flooded my mind. I glanced at the GPS, showing me to be 7 miles north of Corsicana, where I intended to land. I'll make it. The safety of the flight wasn't really in question, just my psyche. After all, this was new to me. Descending another 150 feet brought slightly better air, and after a few more bursts, I was finally free and found smooth air. The airstrip was soon in sight, and, after easing in to a prolonged final, my heart resumed normal beating, my hands stopped sweating, and I made an easy landing, taxied back across the tarmac, and breathed one huge sigh of relief. It's funny looking back on it now, a few days removed, and it really doesn't seem too bad. I stand firm in the decisions that I made, I made the appropriate corrections, and I kept flying the aircraft. Recounting the story to the CFI a few hours later, he affirmed what I'd done and assured me that turbulence like that is a part of aviation; how to deal with it is part of what makes a successful pilot.

The checkride is coming. I can feel its inevitability like the dentist about to tell you he's located a cavity. Fear of the unknown serves as the perpetual motivator; the study sessions are focused on finding out what I do NOT know. Paranoia sets in when I cannot immediately spout off the dimensions of a Class C airspace. The thought of botching a maneuver brings me nightmares not felt since Pizza Hut discontinued their lunch buffet. The terror of flunking the most important test of my new career is maddening. I'm even spending time with PHAK again, and I swore I'd never go back. I've watched 7 minutes of sports in the last month. The bi-polar vacillation between confidence and despair is enough to rouse me out of bed at 6 AM and whip open the textbooks. When will it end? I'm on the schedule for Tuesday, a week from today. Passing means I'll have my private pilot's license, be almost 30% done with flight school, and have roughly two weeks to decompress before tackling the instrument stage. Failure means I'll have just wasted $400 and be the proud owner of a black check mark on my flight record for the rest of my life. In the high stakes world of aviation, it doesn't get any bigger than checkrides-unless you are a coyote, in which case, you make your own rules.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 40

Checklists At 4,500

Successful flight, as experienced career pilots would attest, is predicated heavily on the performing (and remembering) of checklists. Seemingly, there is a checklist for everything imaginable scenario: engine start up, before takeoff, emergency landing, making a sandwich, etc. Truthfully, the ingratiation of such checklists requires diligence in study, and, for myself, the unorthodox blending of two passions: aviation, obviously, and sports. Recently, it occurred to me that such checklists need to have historical sports figures attached to them in order to maximize retention levels. Now, before reading ahead, you must be reminded of several things: 1) in aviation, there exists a never-ending tsunami of acronyms that one must recall instantaneously; and 2) my memory has been conditioned over 26 years to recall only pertinent sports data and little else. Now that we're all on the same playing field, let's examine my methodology for knowledge acquisition:

Cruise Checklist: must be performed once cruising altitude is attained. Power, Engine Instruments, Landing Light, Mixture, and Magnetic Compass. For reasons unknown to me, this was the checklist I most often needed prompting from the CFI to complete, much less remembering its components. But now? The cruise checklist has a more entertaining flavor:

Patrick (reduce power to approximately 75% or 2100 RPM)
Ewing (check engine instruments to ensure proper temperature and pressure)
Likes (turn landing light off for XC navigation)
Mixing (lean fuel-to-air mixture for best engine efficiency and performance)
Coconuts (set heading indicator to compass reading)

See? How many people reading this now want to pursue a career in aviation just so they can say the phrase, "Patrick Ewing Likes Mixing Coconuts?" I know I do. Does the former NBA center really have an affinity for mixing tropical fruits? We'll never know. What I do know is that I eagerly look forward to performing it each flight. With the onslaught of acronyms and checklists headed my direction in the next few months, it's only a matter of time before I start naming these things after friends and family members.

Our progression through the ranks of the private pilot world continues. We've now begun the solo cross country phase, which, even if they offered free Chinese food at each airport, couldn't possibly be any more enjoyable. Each evening, our class individually plans a 150 mile round trip route, using navigation charts, airport/facility directories, and a host of other information to determine course route, fuel consumption, and estimated times of arrival/departure from various airstrips. Once we're deemed competent in our planning efforts, keys are dispensed and we're told to be back in the allotted time frame. That's it. No CFI on board, no passengers, just me and the airplane. Invariably, we will make mistakes; I've come to determine that's the point of our solo training. A missed landmark. Veering off course. Confusing one desolate runway for the next. The CFI's probably expect it, and ultimately that's what makes us better pilots. The few flight hours I've compiled while flying alone has taught me more than I'd learned in the previous month. After all, there's no one with me to correct for my mistakes; or, worst case scenario, bail me out of impending doom. Rest easy though Mom, because it is in these flights that my smoothest landings have happened. Without the CFI serving as conversation fodder, I'm more in tune to other aircraft and the radio calls they're making. Concentration skyrockets to levels not seen since my 3rd time attempt at passing Anatomy. Almost overnight, I am an authoritative, wiser, and more disciplined pilot. Safety, as it turns out, can be heavily emphasized in the classroom but practical application must be discovered through personal experience. My first hours as Pilot-in-Command have only come to reinforce that theory. And, at the end of the day, isn't that was flight school is supposed to be about?

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 36

Views From The Cockpit

Here it is-let's hope this is the only time I post pictures of my torn articles of clothing on the Internet. Ripping the back of a shirt off the student pilot maybe isn't the most wholesome tradition of all time, but at least now we have evidence that this actually happened. I'm not sure how it was accomplished, but they now trust me enough to fly an airplane sans CFI. I have been thinking alot about milestones the past couple of days, and this is certainly one I won't forget. I can't recall what I was feeling the first time I tasted pizza, or the first time I beat Mario Brothers, but I will always remember my emotions when I looked across the cockpit and it was empty. Freedom. Euphoria. Pride. An inordinate amount of confidence. And, as the plane blasted down the runway, nervousness and a small amount of trepidation. In the face of that fear, however, emerged a focused, determined pilot, emboldened by his newfound ability to fly. After a few landings, I taxied back to the tarmac and snatched up the CFI, who was especially pleased that his airplane-and instruction certification-remained unscathed.

I've actually had these videos for awhile now, but finally have gotten around to posting them. The first is from my night trip to Oklahoma last weekend. Flying at night is even more of an adventure than I anticipated. Everything is different; that's really the only way to describe it. You rely heavily on the flight instruments. The incessant glow of cars traveling up and down the interstate is your companion. Radio instructions from area controllers are a welcomed respite from the constant hum of the propeller-and your mind's antagonistic thoughts: Where will I land if the engine fails? And the inevitable hunger strikes: it's not like you can just pull over at the next rest area and pound some chicken nuggets. But overall it was an awesome experience, especially landing in unfamiliar areas with just the runway strobe lights as your guide:

And, on our return to Arlington, we took a few laps around downtown Dallas, sometime past midnight:

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 33