c-172 vs. Godzilla

It was the mouth of a lion. That's all I can say... big teeth, big claws, big, scary, mouth of a lion.

You know what they say about flying? "Hours and hours of complete boredom followed by 15 seconds of sheer terror." Well, last night was more like 20 minutes of sheer terror--at least for the passengers. We were planning a flight from EVV down to Patti's restaurant on Kentucky Dam, but radar an hour before takeoff showed T-storms developing right over Paducah, so I had to make the no-go again. Instead, I tossed together a flight plan for Effingham in IL (a city that can't even say it's own name... thanks Tom!), and we headed North into good weather. BIG MISTAKE.

Vader was conceived by the midi-chlorians. Sometimes I forget... I was conceived by Murphy's Law.

Those southern storms were so beautifully dormant when I took off, but then came hurricane Katrina to push them north. To make things worse, Katrina's front shoved them about a hundred miles, then stopped right on top of Evansville Regional Airport.

This was happening as we were enjoying our meal at the Neimerg's Steakhouse in Effingham, IL. Everything was in order: the sun was just above the horizon as our taxi pulled into the airport, the skies were clear, and it looked to be a wonderful return flight to Evansville. But wait... were those storm clouds to the South? No... it can't be. We'd have to get closer to really call those storm clouds. They just look like pretty sky paintings from here! Thank you God for those eloquent brush-stokes!

Brush-strokes with... giant bolts of fire shooting through them? Hmmm... Must be the work of God...

So the sun set, and it became dark outside. And then it got darker, and darker, until the only things we could see were the occasional streetlights in the occasional town and, well, giant bolts of fire gathering all around us. I glanced over at Mindy in the right seat, and for some reason I decided subconsiously that she wasn't nearly frightened enough. So I flicked on the landing light (airplane headlight) to see what beset us.

We were in the clouds, and the moment I realized it, we hit moderate turbulence.
I call it moderate, because in a 747, the pilots would report to their controlling facility "We are experiencing moderate turbulence." In a Cessna 172, Moderate turbulence in a thunderstorm is the equivalent of off-roading a Dodge Neon without any shocks. So, FLASH!!! SCREAM!!! RUMBLE-RUMBLE-RUMBLE!!!

What, this was your first flight with me? Pish-posh!

I simultaneously yanked out the carb heat and power, slowed the airplane down from 115 knots to the turbulence penetration speed of 97 knots (actually, 95... I'm careful), then barrelled down to 1300 ft (Evansville TPA). All the while I was trying to counter every dip and roll with an anticipating reaction just to keep my three passengers from vomiting (yes, my wife was also with us), as the lightning bolts shot all around us. And that wasn't even the fun part.

Then I started to worry, because even though I had two VOR's telling me my exact location, I couldn't find the #@$%ing airport. Tower kept calling me, "Niner-Lima-Kilo, the airport is now at your 2-o'clock. Do you have a visual?"

"Eh, no. Niner-Lima-Kilo."

"Niner-Lima-Kilo, the airport is now at your 12-o'clock. The runway is on high illumination. Do you have a visual?"

"Er, eh, no.... Niner-Lima-Kilo."

"Niner-Lima-Kilo, you are landing at the airport on runway 22. You are on the glideslope. You are ten feet away. We have tapped into our power reserves to bring you a new standard of supernova, and we are flashing a gigantic strobe light (similar to your Dad's) at your cockpit. We can see the horrified, lost expression on your face, you are so freaking close. You are now circling the airport mindlessly while we take bets on how you are going to die this evening."

The scary part was that I could see everything: The city, the roads, the little street lights along the suburbs... But NOT THE AIRPORT!

Then, after flying for another few minutes, I saw a big black beast of clouds just ahead, ironically in the perfect shape of the Evansville Regional air field as seen from the North. Hmmmm... I thought to myself. Then like that, we broke through, and I announced to Tower that I had the field in sight. As they cleared me to land on 22, I could hear in the background a cascade of *sighs* and *groans* and *crap, I lost that bet!*
Lightning was surrounding us, I mean ALL around us, and I managed to line the plane up with 22. After a slightly steep approach (I wanted to keep my speed up in case of wind sheer... of which there was no shortage), she rounded out 100 feet past the numbers, and made probably the most beautiful, painless landing I've ever pulled out of my... "hat." We could barely feel the airplane settle down on the pavement, much less touch the gear.

I deserve a merit badge for pulling that off.

But instead I earned a couple of frightened in-laws and a terrified wife... hmmm...

Tune in next week when I find a new way to kill my own mother!

dfb

ecky-ecky-ecky-ecky-pikang-zoop-boing...

Got to fly Sunday night. I realized that my x/c with the in-laws would have required a night landing or two, and that, well, my night landings were a little on the rusty side. It's probably been about a year since my last, actually "dark" touchdown, and that was in turbulent conditions (the best kind!). So I logged .7 in the 152 at Tri-state and cycled out 4 touchdowns and 3 full stops. They have 18-36 closed, and 9-27 is restricted because 18-36 crosses it, so I opted to use 4-22 for the evening. It was nice... I had time to burn, so I taxied all the way down to the end of 4 (winds were relatively calm) and made my first takeoff, with a standard left pattern. Tower cleared me for the option, and I touched down a little past the threshold on 4, then with Tower's permission I fast-taxied down to the other end, and took off from 22. That was kind of interesting, because there was a deer in the field just off the taxiway, crossing over to the radar dish. Kind of gave us a scare and I reported it to the Tower, but I've dodged enough deer on runways to know I'd be okay.

22 is interesting, because maybe a thousand feet into it you cross all the regional jet landing spots, and for some reason it feels like the runway drops about 6 inches. That's noticeable in a 152, and it nearly sent me airborne, but I held it down to 60 knots before I let it climb. I don't like ground effect, if you can't tell. I just don't trust it over the venturi physics and the in-flight downwash from the wings. Note: Ground effect occurs when an airplane is within two wingspans' distance from the ground. It essentially allows the plane to fly before it's flying by eliminating downwash drag. Let's you take off prematurely, and I don't trust it.

(Could be ballsy like Chuck Yeager, though... he had a bet with a friend that in ground effect, if the plane is supersonic, you would not be able to force the stick down with any and all the might you could muster... next day, Yeager asked him for the fifty bucks. Balls like churchbells.)

So I took a right pattern then, turned final and played with the power a little. I was high and fast, and I had full flaps in, so I slipped down and cut my power to almost idle. 152s have barndoors for fowler flaps, so when I cut that power, even with the nose nearly 30 degrees down, it still managed to slow down to 50 knots in a heartbeat. 172s always seem a little less responsive to that kind of stunt, but man you can feel it in a fifty. I ended up having to add power in the end, and that put me past the numbers. Bad deal on my part. The landings were all measurably good, but my power control was for a heavier airplane, and I could have hit the sweet spot everytime if I'd just had that in mind.

Ah well, at least I'm current now with my landings. Look out Mork and Mindy!

There, I posted.

dfb

remember the alamo!

Shout out to The Boy. We all have our ridiculous quirks back here, and as civilians we have that luxury, which is why you wanted to sign up for that silly weekend warrior position in the first place. I hope that your new mission is justifiable, if not to us, then to you and the soldiers next to you, and if not now, then when you return. I'd be there lined up with you if I could Boy, but you know why I'm not. We've been scouring the local news to see if we can catch a glimpse of your bald little awkward-shaped head, but it's indistinguishable from all the other bald, awkward-shaped heads. You be sure to catch the Ex-Coastie as you walk by his work when you're boarding that plane, and be sure to give a little wink to 739LK for everything she did on Saturday. Ex-Coastie's right: it's the guys next to you that will make it matter, so make all the new friends that you can. Have a good time when it's okay and think of us when you get the chance. That is, when you get to drink beer. :) You can expect my first letter in the next week or so.

A Note: Next time the National Guard deploys, have the soldiers paint insignia on their little white heads. It works during graduations. (top of Boy's head: PFC Buttshot... Hi Mom!!!) I know... I'm still on that bet...

Back on the home front: there was a meteor shower last night. The shooting stars looked purple and blue when they vaporized on their way down. Look out for falling rocks.


dfb

an ode to boy

Ah, The Boy.

The Boy is our cousin, who was effectively raised alongside the Dead FlyBoys. Within a few weeks' time, The Boy will be in Iraq, give or take a political upheaval (pray... if Curious George can do what he does while the Senate is out... may he'll take his own vacation soon) in the next day or so. He's just grown up so fast! *sniff* I remember when...

(tripped out transition screen for a flashback)

The Boy grew up looking like Sloth from "The Goonies," and we let him know every chance we could. He was tormented in such a way that his scars-for-life resemble a full-body radiation burn victim. Many times, with no small contribution from our end, has he nearly died because we thought it might be funny to inebriate him, then convince him to do something stupid. That time he was chasing spent butts off a cliff is a keeper in my scrapbook, but my beotch brother cradles a memory of far more dastardly consequence which involved a romp in Illinois' Garden of the Gods and the ingestion of a strange fungus.

In grade school, I used to beat The Boy with, well, anything that was durable. An old friend of ours, who is admittedly in-your-face, made a habit of holding him by his ankles and literally shaking him for taco money. We are all so much to blame for collectively influencing his tortured life that we shall surely pay in our afterlives, if not by some karma in this one.

Then The Boy graduated college, and we cried. *sniff* It was almost as endearing as when we found out that he was dating girls, having shed the "Sloth" demeanor with the help of braces and, like Mark Hamill between "Empire" and "Jedi", surely had some kind of vehicular accident that managed to ultimately improve his image. So The Boy ended up with a degree, and nothing to do with it. He pondered and pondered and scratched his previously Sloth-like head and thought, What am I to do? One can only imagine the Dr. Zeuss imagery that went through his bruised and beaten mind...

The Boy looked at his life, one wouldn't know why,
Having spent a small fortune to Lazik each eye
And it could be his headband was screwed on too tight
Or maybe an urge from Republicans to fight,
But somewhere inside him, somewhere with no brain,
Was a drive (maybe drugs) for stupidity again

And then he heard something
That started quite low......
And it built up quite slow.....
But it started to GROW!

He heard a recruiter, and I wouldn't lie
The man was quite shiny, like a coin with a tie
And Boy was enticed, and never asked why
But signed all the papers that pay you to die!
(One weekend a month, two weeks out of the year. Be, all that you can be.)


And so, our little The Boy grew up and out of our bubble of torment, and with a degree decided that the only life for him was in protecting oil. A note on his degree: it gave him status in Military Intelligence (eh?), but his new duty is to shoot people from atop a poorly armored humvee. Gets paid more, though.

Now, it wouldn't be appropriate for us to torment our little hero while he goes off to war, but darn it, we just can't help it.

There's a pool on how he eats it: Friendly, or unfriendly fire? And what creative body part will absorb the shrapnel?

We love you The Boy. Good luck in Iraq. Remember, never bend over in front of your buddies during target practice. Actually, do. I have a lot of money on that.

You be safe now.

dfb