drgwentzel
Pre-takeoff checklist
Flyers,
I was just wondering how the group feels about the process we are taught on short field takeoff's. I was never a fan of holding the brakes and going to full power before release. It always seemed to me that a good brisk rolling start from the taxiway and application of full power had more promise than the usual system.
At brake release the acceleration is lack-luster and anti-climatic on a good day and down right disappointing on average. The plane relucantly inches foward like a 90 year-old pushing himself out of a low sitting bed first thing in the morning.
This short field method is ubiquitous in our flight training from the very beginning of our instruction. It somehow evokes images and emotions in me that prior to this post were poorly understood.
The images are clear to me now, as is the headshaking smirk that always reveals itself on my face during this ceremony. Picture if you will: We mount our steed with anticipation and trepidation and line it up on the end of the runway. We breathe deeply and sense the shortness of the field, grandness of the trees in our path and a butterfly in our stomach.
As taught we dutifully set our flaps and press our feet firmly on the brakes. With one last inhalation we bring in full power and the engine obediently hollers to life. From outside the airplane the sight must be truly spectacular. The Lycoming’s 200 horses are roaring, growling, spitting and snorting. The airframe is shaking and shuddering. Like a wild stallion it rises up on its hind legs, whinnying and bucking. Its front extremity punches, jabs and hoof-paws at the turf demanding liberation to assault the runway and sky before it.
From within the cockpit something different is taking place. The 50-something pilot in the left seat is experiencing a more poignant response. There is a bit of nostalgia being played out before him. He is no longer the past-prime individual that entered this trembling contraption. He finds himself the 17 year-old boy that still lurks inside him, veiled from sight, like a black sheep brother that demands some explanation or apology. This youngster is not in an airplane, but strapped in the seat of his muscle car of the same era. His friends are outside waiting keenly and cheering him on as his left foot is pressed firmly on the brakes, while the opposite has the accelerator determinedly smashed against the floorboard. The engine is screaming and sneering, the car is trembling and the rear tires are protesting an ominous cry. On the release of the brakes, the car lurches forward, the occupant is pressed into the seatback and the G-forces provide the thrill that screaming tires, burning rubber and cheering spectators demand.
This musing and reminiscence rife and ripe with promise, expectation and desire never comes to fruition in our short field technique. But I do have to say that despite my disappointment on brake release, I must remember that unlike my intrepid Cessna, the 1972 Camero could never break its bond with the Earth.
Gene Wentzel – ‘71 Cessna Cardinal RG
I was just wondering how the group feels about the process we are taught on short field takeoff's. I was never a fan of holding the brakes and going to full power before release. It always seemed to me that a good brisk rolling start from the taxiway and application of full power had more promise than the usual system.
At brake release the acceleration is lack-luster and anti-climatic on a good day and down right disappointing on average. The plane relucantly inches foward like a 90 year-old pushing himself out of a low sitting bed first thing in the morning.
This short field method is ubiquitous in our flight training from the very beginning of our instruction. It somehow evokes images and emotions in me that prior to this post were poorly understood.
The images are clear to me now, as is the headshaking smirk that always reveals itself on my face during this ceremony. Picture if you will: We mount our steed with anticipation and trepidation and line it up on the end of the runway. We breathe deeply and sense the shortness of the field, grandness of the trees in our path and a butterfly in our stomach.
As taught we dutifully set our flaps and press our feet firmly on the brakes. With one last inhalation we bring in full power and the engine obediently hollers to life. From outside the airplane the sight must be truly spectacular. The Lycoming’s 200 horses are roaring, growling, spitting and snorting. The airframe is shaking and shuddering. Like a wild stallion it rises up on its hind legs, whinnying and bucking. Its front extremity punches, jabs and hoof-paws at the turf demanding liberation to assault the runway and sky before it.
From within the cockpit something different is taking place. The 50-something pilot in the left seat is experiencing a more poignant response. There is a bit of nostalgia being played out before him. He is no longer the past-prime individual that entered this trembling contraption. He finds himself the 17 year-old boy that still lurks inside him, veiled from sight, like a black sheep brother that demands some explanation or apology. This youngster is not in an airplane, but strapped in the seat of his muscle car of the same era. His friends are outside waiting keenly and cheering him on as his left foot is pressed firmly on the brakes, while the opposite has the accelerator determinedly smashed against the floorboard. The engine is screaming and sneering, the car is trembling and the rear tires are protesting an ominous cry. On the release of the brakes, the car lurches forward, the occupant is pressed into the seatback and the G-forces provide the thrill that screaming tires, burning rubber and cheering spectators demand.
This musing and reminiscence rife and ripe with promise, expectation and desire never comes to fruition in our short field technique. But I do have to say that despite my disappointment on brake release, I must remember that unlike my intrepid Cessna, the 1972 Camero could never break its bond with the Earth.
Gene Wentzel – ‘71 Cessna Cardinal RG
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