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.
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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