The Cessna I fly is older than a lot of the guys I work with. It is also better maintained, drinks less and, arguably, produces fewer toxic emissions.
By design a C172 is a resilient little bastard. The boffins at Cessna knew ham-handed apes like me would be learning to fly in them and built them to be ridiculously forgiving. They are stable on each axis, recover well from stalls and the main gear seems to be made from a mixture of aluminium, rubber and magic.
The C172 does everything well but nothing exceptionally well. It’s the ultimate light-aircraft all-rounder. More 172s have rolled off the assembly line than any other aircraft in the history of aviation. 43,000 at last count, with no end of production in sight. Its detractors, of which there are few, call it a “flying bathtub” and while no one has ever said a 172 is sleek or stylish to me they are sex with wings.
Unless the competition is a riding mower, a 172 is likely to lose a race where speed is an essential requirement. Its little 150 horsepower engine is only marginally more powerful than what can be found in a four door family saloon and technologically speaking the basic design would feel familiar to the guys who built Stonehenge.
Four pistons, a cam shaft, oil pan, an alternator and…that’s about it. My 1966 Mustang had double the cylinders and almost twice the horsepower; it probably used more fuel too. Although I would never claim an over-abundance of mechanical skills, I get the impression that finding my way around the power plant of a C172 would be like strolling along a well worn, if oil splattered, path.
This is not to say that the team of mechanics that keep my aerodrome’s fleet of Cessnas flying are not miracle workers, they are. My very life depends on their knowledge and skill with a spanner and torque wrench. I kiss their grubby work-boots.
What I am saying is that complex engines lead to complex problems, just the kind you don’t want on the ground or in the air. Simple, reliable, easy to service: that’s the kind of engine you want in your airplane, the 172 delivers in all three respects. It’s a trustworthy friend. Until you let your guard down and then it’s an unforgiving bitch.
In flight school we are taught three things:
· Never trust a fuel gauge that reads full
· Always trust a fuel gauge that reads empty
· Assume your engine will fail any time it damn well feels like it
We mitigate the first two points by manually checking fuel contents before each flight and calculating how much is left at points along the route. The third is slightly more problematic.
As soon as we get a few take offs and landings under our belts, all student pilots start to hear their instructors say, “If your engine quits now, what would you do?” The most obvious answer, “crash” is not what they are looking for.
Returning from my second cross-country navigation flight my instructor said, “turn onto 340” a heading that would take us away from our airfield.
I make the turn.
He pulls on the carb heat and closes the throttle.
“Your engine just quit.”
Is he smiling at me? That bastard.
Fine. Let’s do this.
2200’, I’ve got twelve hundred feet before I’m really in trouble. Nose up to the best glide airspeed and trim. Which way is the wind? 30 degrees off my tail, I’ll need to turn her around to land into the wind. Scan the ground. Give me a field that’s long enough, smooth enough and has the fewest sheep.
"What’s your field?”
“The big green one.” I can be a smartass too.
I describe the field; it has small buildings to one side and low hedgerows. It is about 45 degrees behind my left shoulder. I’ve lost almost a third of my original altitude now.
“What’s your 1000’ point?”
This is key. By the time you reach 1000’ you need to make damn sure that you can land where you are planning to land and not in a tree, lake or farm house. Up to that point you spend every second assessing if you’ve made the right choice. Up until that point you still have the altitude to veer off. After that point options become limited very, very quickly.
I point to a clutch of trees next to a farmhouse. “That’s my point.”
“OK, put her down, I’ll tell you when to go around.”
I should note that to avoid frightening and/or royally pissing off the local farmers, we don’t actually land in the fields. We do however get within 10-20’ of the deck before climbing out.
I make my turn; I’m just above 1000’. The field looks a long way away. The power lines, which I have only just noticed, look much closer.
“I don’t think you’re going to make it.” Says my instructor.
“I will totally make it.”
He shifts uncomfortably on his seat. “You’re sure about that huh?”
“No problem.”
I keep the dial on the airspeed indicator nailed to 65kts. The field that looked luxuriously long and flat at 2200’ appears far less so at 500’. I have the feeling that I’m about to land on an upturned dinner plate.
“No problem.” I say again, more to myself than my instructor.
I clear the power lines. I clear the hedgerow. I’ve got 600m of beautiful, smooth field in front of me and I didn’t even have to lower full flaps. 50’ above the ground my instructor says, “Go around.”
Full power. Fly level. Drag flaps up. Carb heat off. Positive climb; safe airspeed. Next stage of flaps up. Positive climb and safe airspeed, next stage up. Established climb, clear of obstacles, last stage up. I have a clean aircraft.
“I didn’t think you’d make that.”
“I find your lack of faith disturbing.” I say with a smile wondering if he’ll get the Star Wars reference. He didn’t. I feel very old.
We climb back up to 2,000’ and give it another go. Again, I pick a field and a 1000’ aiming point. Again my instructor says, “There is no way you are going to make that” and again I do.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
He keeps changing my heading, height and location and for reasons that I can’t explain, none of it fazes me. I just cut the engine, find a field and fly her in. Over and over again. It turns out that the only thing I’m actually good at is the one thing you hope I never have to do.