After looking around and taking some advice from friends and magazines alike, I ended up calling The Northampton School of Flying at Sibson. I was lucky enough to speak to Lucy Kimbell who arranged enough slots within the time to make it seem possible for me to do it. I arrived at a somewhat gusty Sibson on Wednesday morning with eight slots booked before two-thirty on Friday and only the tiniest inkling of what I was letting myself in for.
The welcome at Sibson was warm and friendly and I was given a full tour before being introduced to Frank McClurg, the school’s Chief Flying Instructor. Frank checked out my pitifully empty logbook with less than a hundred spamcan hours in it and didn’t even wince at my still shiny licence before taking me to the hangar to meet G-ARVO, the school’s bright yellow Piper PA-18-95. In General Aviation there seems to be something to suit every taste and most pockets; a lot of people fall for sleek and shiny glass fibre rockets with televisions where the dials should be; glass on the inside, glass on the outside but I’d fallen in love with this sixty year old fabric covered machine; I could just about imagine sitting inside, floating high above the English countryside; dope on the outside, dope on the inside, you might say.
We dragged G-ARVO from the hangar and Frank showed me a thorough pre-flight inspection before we came to the week’s first big challenge. How does a six-foot healthily built chap get himself into the pilot’s seat? With some difficulty, is the simple answer but eventually, and with a complete absence of grace and style, I was in. There is very little inside a Cub to check and so we were soon started and taxying, Frank explained that he’d talk me through a take-off and then we’d head out for some general handling before coming back for my first tailwheel landing. I was amazed at the visibility from the front seat, if you’re six feet tall with only about twenty-five percent of that made up of short, fat hairy legs then the view over the nose is quite exceptional. We taxied out to the end of 24 and Frank gently opened the throttle, raising the tail as he did so; I never did work out how he kept it that straight, didn’t smash the propeller into a thousand splinters or saw past my prop forward’s shoulders but, before I had time to take anything in, we were airborne. It had all been quite disconcerting as the aircraft took off with no-one visibly controlling it; just Frank’s quiet, calm confidence behind me.
Frank gave me control and I climbed quite slowly in the direction of Molesworth, the view over the nose and out of both sides was incredible, here I was perched under those little yellow wings flying one of the icons of light aviation. I don’t have a lot to compare the Cub to but I loved it right from the start, a proper stick and a proper throttle and an aeroplane that you could feel moving underneath you. Once I’d got the hang of something different then the turns were great fun and the stall never really happened, I’m sure with a decent headwind you’d just end up back at the airfield without turning round or the nose ever nodding downwards. Then Frank took control of my proper throttle and closed it.
‘Let’s try a forced landing. Seventy knots for the glide.’
The Cub seemed to hang in the air and I therefore chose a field which was only about three miles further than we could possibly ever glide from two and a half thousand feet. Following Frank’s timely intervention and demonstration of a side slip in which the world pauses and merely moves up the windscreen, we would have made a lovely landing in the brown corduroy of quite a different field altogether.
Then it was back to Sibson for my first ever tailwheel landing. If you’ve never tried to land a tailwheel aircraft – which, in my opinion, you should do and do it today – then you might not appreciate that the aircraft must be heading dead straight at touchdown; however, that is no guarantee of the way you will be heading three nanoseconds later, or three nanoseconds after that. If you don’t dance on the rudder pedals like Fred Astaire on cocaine then the aircraft could go any way at all and you could end up in a groundloop where the aircraft turns round by itself and has a look at where you came from. They say that there are two types of tailwheel pilot; those who have groundlooped and those who are waiting to; for me the waiting was almost over.
The circuit and descent were as I’d always done before, with the aeroplane clearly not giving a damn where its wheels were, the flare was very similar and then we were down; after a fashion. My feet were clearly half a swing behind my brain which was another half a swing behind the aeroplane. With all that swinging going on it was only a matter of time before G-ARVO slowly and gracefully turned round to give me a view of the approach.
A coffee, debrief and some good natured questioning about why Frank had had to get out of the aeroplane and turn it round by hand before we taxied back and it was time for some more. If you’ve ever been to a summer fete where one of the attractions was a crazy bicycle where nothing is connected the right way round and none of your inputs seem to affect a machine with a will of its own then you will have an idea of how the taxying went. If you’ve ever fallen off one of those bicycles then you know all there is to know about my first take-off.
Circuit after circuit followed with the occasional decent landing and the odd almost reasonable take-off; though never together in the same circuit. The taxying began to get easier as well without having to stop and ask Frank to turn the aircraft for me. For the penultimate circuit Frank showed me again just how easy it could seem and we ended the day with an unaided take-off and landing that we not only survived but managed to keep the aircraft all in one piece, too.
By the end of the day I was completely shattered and probably sweatier than anyone you’d ever choose to share a cockpit with. This aeroplane was delightful to fly but nigh on impossible to take-off or land. As I drove away from the airfield a red kite hung four feet above a bush, judging the wind perfectly and hanging in the air while it watched its prey; I know that bird’s beaks don’t actually allow them to smirk at passing motorists, however...
Day two of two and a half arrived and we waited in NSF’s clubhouse for the showers to pass. People had said to me that learning to fly a taildragger was like learning to fly all over again, it wasn’t, it was far more difficult; more like learning to juggle, in public and starting off with four flaming torches rather than two bean bags.
Three hours of circuits and bumps later and, while Frank assured me that it was coming together and it would soon just click into place, I wasn’t sure that I’d ever master this lark. I’d more or less got the idea of taxying; getting the weight off the tailwheel ever so slightly, bursts of power to get round, always thinking of where the wind was; it seemed like an expensive lesson in moving an aeroplane on the ground. Frank had taught me to feel when the aeroplane was right and get the picture right rather than chasing numbers. He was quite right, I could now feel when she was ready to fly, when she was getting too slow or too fast. When it looked right and felt right then it had to be right. I’m sure that it was coming together, just as I was told, it seemed a little bit more possible each time, the aeroplane and I at least shared the decision making now, rather than it all being up to G-ARVO. I was feeling a little dejected, though; I was a pilot, I had a licence, I should be making more of the decisions.
Friday dawned clearer and brighter with a lighter wind which almost lined up with the runway, I was feeling brighter too. If only I could almost line up with the runway at some point before two-thirty then we might even get this done. Even though I’d booked well in advance Frank had been booked solid for the day and so I was flying with James Bryan, another of the club’s instructors and one of the few men who can make a six-foot, sixteen stone ex-rugby player feel small; I felt quite sorry for little G-ARVO as we dragged her into the sun.
I started her up and taxied round to the holding point, quick bursts of power to move the slipstream over that rudder and get her round. Power checks complete and ready for departure. Onto 24, nice and straight, add power gently bringing the tail up at the same time, speed increasing, dancing on the pedals anticipating the swing before it started, ease off that forward pressure as we meet the slight bump on the runway then continue to ease it off and we’re airborne. Climbing out but not for long.
‘Level it off there.’ James instructs me. ‘I get hypoxic if we go any higher than this.’
As a low-houred PPL, who is used to climbing out to two and a half thousand feet where everybody else is, to have levelled out whilst not quite at circuit height is a new one on me.
‘You’re a taildragger pilot, now.’ James tells me.
He guided me to Deenethorpe along a track he knew well; pointing out the site of Fotheringhay castle where Mary lost her head, the faint tracks of Roman roads still marking the landscape beneath, crop marks that showed where people had lived two thousand years before, looking up at this sky that was now mine. Green fields bordered by darker hedgerows; the occasional church spire in a far off village; clouds of dust following harvesting tractors; fluffy white cumulus clouds in the unending blue above and around me; the feel of an aeroplane that wanted to fly and almost seemed to enjoy this as much as me.
Deenethorpe, asphalt, less forgiving than grass for tailwheel pilots, I’m told. Straight in, all looking good, all feeling good; the foundations that Frank had laid over two days all holding me up. Straight down the middle, holding it off, keeping her flying, holding off, all three wheels touch, we’re straight, we’re staying straight. James opens up the power slightly, just enough to raise the tail, and gets me to steer down the middle of the runway; I’m clenching my teeth so tight I think that I might break them but we stay fairly straight and then open the throttle to fly off and do it again and again. Whilst I am still working hard, it is all falling into place, I am getting this, I am not a completely uncoordinated buffoon after all. I could do this all day if I could afford to but if God had meant us to fly he would have given us more money.
Off to Conington, a landaway, I haven’t done nearly enough of those since I got my licence. Join downwind, checks complete, turn base, start the descent, turn finals, the winds thirty degrees off and fourteen knots; time for more teeth clenching. It all seems to work, though and the little waggle into wind after landing isn’t too embarrassing. We park up and unfold ourselves from the aircraft for coffee and bacon sandwiches before the return to Sibson and a three pointer that stays straight.
‘Okay,’ James tells me after we’ve refuelled, ‘go over towards the masts, get the feel of it without me in it, have some fun and come back when you’re ready.’
I’m going solo.
The tail moves round much more easily with only me on board, sat up front. Open the throttle and the tail comes up easily, we’re airborne before I’ve had the chance to worry about it swinging. Climb out and have some fun, that’s what the man said. She climbs more quickly and I’m soon up at three thousand feet, finding my way round turns, climbing, descending, just plain looking out of the window and smiling. The winds been a bit gusty and has been varying by thirty degrees either side of the runway and up to sixteen knots, then I hear Charlie Kimbell in the Tiger Moth call finals.
‘230 at 8 knots,’ he’s told.
Sounds like it’s time for me to head back before it changes its mind.
Join downwind; no overhead joins here, it’s also a parachute school, run through my checks, here we go. Everything looks good on final and the wind hasn’t changed its mind. Power off, flare, hold it off, she floats more now than before, keep holding off, all three points.
‘Nine and a half out of ten.’ The radio informs me.
I taxy in and shut down at twenty-eight minutes past two; two minutes short of my deadline.
So, it seems as though it is possible to go from groundloop to greaser in two and a half days, even with my lack of co-ordination, but you have to be very lucky; lucky with the school you choose, lucky with your instructors, lucky with the weather and lucky with aircraft serviceability.
I can wholeheartedly recommend giving it a go. It’s a challenge but it’s impossible to overstate what it will do for your confidence and enthusiasm for flying. Have fun.