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