Just Me and My Flying Machine

To receive a Private Pilot license, the FAA requires student pilots have a minimum of 40 hours of flight time, of which 20 must be dual (flying with an instructor). However, these are MINIMUMS. No one in the history of the world has ever completed their training in 40 hours. The average is 66 hours.

                                                                             --Mikidikipedia

It took me seventy-four hours and over two years to get my private pilot license. I was in no hurry because my reason for learning how to fly wasn't for love of aviation or airplanes; it was just a goal I wanted to accomplish. Kinda like always wanting to have a horse. Once I got my horse (she was a rental actually), and I rode her round and round an acre field about fifteen times, I was ready to move on to something else.

My airplane of choice was a Piper Cherokee 140; the airport where I took my training was Indianapolis Metropolitan Airport, and my instructor was Rob, a young twenty-something college grad hoping to fly first seat on a big jet someday. 

The hook the airport used to get student pilots was a special they were running the day my friend Connie and I followed our curiosity through their front door. For only $350.00, a student could get their solo license as long as it didn't take over twelve hours. Just as they had hoped, we were hooked.

Connie and I both few high-wing Cessna's in the beginning before I switched to a low-wing Piper Cherokee.  I don't know how many hours of instruction it took, but sometime before twelve hours Connie received her solo license, and that was enough for her. Her curiosity had been satisfied. She wanted to take off and land a plane by herself; mission accomplished. 

In my eleventh hour of training, Rob was more critical than normal. Usually he would praise me, telling me I had perfect finesse and was one his best students. But here I was one hour shy of twelve hours, the cutoff time for flying solo, and he was acting strange. I'd never seen him like this before; one criticism followed another. Maybe I wasn't cut out to be a pilot after all.

When I landed the plane and taxied back to the instructor's building, he told me to shut down the engine and come inside. Then he climbed out of the plane without saying another word and walked by himself back to his office. Dang. I must have been really bad. Dejected, I trailed behind him, walked into his office, and sat down in the chair along side his desk. This was procedure because he had to sign my log book. He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a pair of scissors, leaned over toward me and cut a swatch out of my shirt. "Go take'er for a spin," he said. Oh, my gush! Oh, my gush! Oh, my gush! I couldn't believe it. He was just playing with me. (Later, when I returned, he'd hand me my cut-up shirt with my name, the date and the word "SOLO" written on it.)

I raced out of the office, still saying, "Oh, my gush!" climbed into the pilot's seat, did my run up--CLEAR--and taxied to Runway 33. Once in position, I pushed the throttle forward and this sweet little Piper raced down the runway. Faster. Faster. Lift off. I screamed bloody murder as the two of us--no instructor--just me and the flying machine left the ground behind. I looked down and saw Rob, miniature small, watching his student get her solo wings.

I couldn't stop now. Oh, no. I was having way too much fun taking off and landing and flying around by myself to not go for the gold. After the solo license, the training became more challenging, intense, and expensive. Since I was making $3.50 an hour and lessons were  $35.00 an hour--25% of my income--I wasn't able to fly as often as I wanted. My lessons would stretch over two years and seventy-four hours. But I was chipping away at it slowly; I wasn't giving up.

Some of the instructions were heart stopping like the times I had to pull the nose up until the plane stalled, at which time the nose would fall forward and cause the plane to spiral downward. I didn't like that part of the training. Obviously, I was able to pull out of the stall since I'm here writing about it. My heart is racing just remembering it.

There was this one time, though, when I got into trouble on a long cross country trip. I was close to getting my license, only a few hours away, and there was one last thing I had to do: file a flight plan, fly from Indy to Terre Haute to Louisville and back. I had passed the written exam, so one little itty bitty cross country and I'd be done. 

It was a beautiful sunny day with little wind. Perfect flying conditions. I left Indianapolis Metro Airport heading west. My instruments guided me to the airport without incident. I landed, had a coke and took off again toward Louisville. Easy peasy. Why was I worried about this? No problem. Somewhere north west of Louisville I lost the navigational instrument VOR. Oh, crap! Oh, crap! I was going to have to find Louisville airport by dead reckoning. There was just one itty bitty problem. My brain had stopped working. Not good. I took some deep breaths and radioed the airport. I explained that my instruments were not working--I didn't mention my brain had eased working as well--and I needed help finding the airport. The controllers said they saw me and I was on the flight path to land. So land, they said. But I didn't see the airport that was right there in front of me until it was too late. I passed over it, then banked left, turned left on downwind, turned on base, left again on final approach and landed; my body was trembling. "Gebongrats. Gebongrats." I heard the man from the tower say, but it didn't make any sense to me so I taxied on down the runway, just happy to be on the ground safe and sound. But the man was yelling at me now. "GEBONGRATS!" What does that mean, I wondered, my brain still not fully functioning. "GET ON THE GRASS!" the angry man ordered."NOW!"  I pulled the plane off on the grass and a few seconds later a commercial jet passed behind me on the runway. Oh, okay. Now I get it. 

I followed Interstate 65 back to Indianapolis and once there I knew my way to the airport. Rob asked me how my last cross country went. "Fine," I said choosing not to elaborate. A few weeks later, I received my Private Pilot's license. Goal accomplished. I flew several times after getting my license. Once I took my husband--the aforementioned cowboy--up for a spin around the Indiana National Bank building during fourth of July fireworks. Twice I flew to a business meeting at an RCA factory in Bloomington, and one time I buzzed our farm in Greenwood. But by then my goals had completely changed; I was pregnant with Jason and I was ready to move on to something else.