There I was at three thousand feet over northern Germany, a hundred ten knots and we’re dropping faster than Paris Hilton’s panties. It’s a typical May afternoon in the surroundings of Oldenburg – views from pole to pole but crosswind gusts that are not even mentioned in my C-170’s operating manual.
The wind is blowing from Northwest at 15 knots, gusting way higher, and landing this taildragging bitch on cleared RWY 24 seems to be as good an idea as dropping the soap in a minimum-security jail’s shower room. But it’s 2004, folks, and I have read “Flight of Passage” countless times.
Additionally, my 1952 Cessna C-170B is equipped with an obsolete, yet semi-effective stall warning system (SWS). The SWS conveniently starts blinking in your outer view somewhere down there on the panel just before your plane stops what the pilot intends it to do – flying. Who says you can’t polish a turd?
At any rate, the SWS simply does just nothing like the overhauling units in my old military camp. These SWS are the cat’s ass. But I’ve digressed.
The preferred method of approach today is the low-wing method. This tactical maneuver allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thus exploiting the supposedly secured perimeter of the airfield in an attempt to avoid evil crosswind gusts and leaving the extended centerline (and, once in a while, to avoid enemy small arms fire…) Personally, I wouldn’t bet my pink ass on that theory but the approach is fun as hell and that’s the real reason we fly it.
We have had a visual on the runway since ever, drop down to one thousand feet above the ground, still maintaining one hundred ten knots. Now the fun starts. It’s pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty Granny to six hundred feet and smoothly, yet very deliberately, yank into a sixty-degree right bank, turning the aircraft ninety degrees into the right base on RWY 24. As soon as we roll out of the turn, I start identifying familiar landmarks. Some aeronautical genius coined this maneuver the “traffic circuit”. Chopping the power during the base, I pull back on the yoke just to the point my nether regions start to sag, bleeding off energy in order to configure the pig for landing.
“Flaps Ten!, Speed at 80!, Before Landing Checklist!” I look over at the copilot and he’s shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. Looking back at the rear-seat passenger, totally not distracted by the SWS, I can clearly see the wet spot spreading around his crotch. Finally, I glance at my steely-eyed second rear-sear passenger. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he’s thinking the same thing I am.
“Where do we find such fine young men?” “Turning on final, Flaps Twenty!” I bark at the shaking cat. Now it’s all keeping rudder and yoke crossed. Aviation 101, with the exception there’s no lights, I’m totally not paying attention to the SWS, it’s Oldenburg, and now yoke and rudder are starting crisscrossing in the cockpit.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I grease the grass slices of RWY 24 with the front right Goodyear first, bring the rest of the bird back to earth, the throttles to ground idle and then force the wheels to stand still. This afternoon, the sound of rock is my single no-spinner propeller chewing through the thick, putrid, Oldenburg air. The huge, two thousand two hundred pound, lumbering whisper pig comes to a lurching stop in less than two hundred feet. Let’s see anyone else do that! We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of flying club buddies. It’s time to download their beer, tell people why this plane’s undercarriage looks so “weird”, and of course, eat Gertrud’s fried potatoes and eggs.
Walking down the pilots entry steps with my lowest-bidder, Olympus C-300 Zoom, 3.0 megapixel strapped smartly to my left hand, I look around and thank God, not Allah, I’m a German and I’m on the winning team. Then I thank God I’m not deployed to Baghdad.
Knowing once again I’ve not created a write-off to my club’s fleet, I ask myself, “What in the hell am I doing in this mess?” Is it boredom, decadence and stupidity? You bet your ass. Or could it possibly be for glory, the swag, and not to mention, chicks dig the Tutima Military watch. There’s probably some truth there too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-machine model. It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole. “Hey copilot clean yourself up! And how’s ‘bout a first round of beer?”
God, I love this hobby. Wonder if you could do it for a living!
