Fly It Again, Ran

After climbing out of the OTW and trying not to hide my beaming grin, I strutted around the aerodrome like a peacock at new zoo for a little while. It was really nice to knock the dust off my wings. I was ground sick…sick of being on the ground and Ol’ Roger cured me (at least for the day). It looked like I could really get to like Texas a lot more than I already did. That’s especially true of the “Old Kingsbury Aerodrome”. This place was growing on me.

So, there I was again just minding my own business and enjoying the grass and air and more airplanes than I could throw a hot biscuit over and…..I’ll be dipped in Cheez Whiz if John Goble didn’t motion me toward a pretty little 1940 Piper J-3 Cub and asked me to go flying….again! If I had been able to give birth to a brick right then, I would have. I hadn’t flown a Cub since 1966!

The night before, I had met great friends of Roger, fellow pilot John and his wife, Linda, at the great Texas grease feast in Gruene. Now, I was getting to trust my life to his piloting skills. Hey; I can do that.

I used to routinely fly Cubs and Champs as a teenager so I knew this was going to be a hoot. However, as I attempted to toss a leg into the Cub, I was struck with an amazing revelation; someone had shrunk the plane! No kidding! I used to just hop into a Cub in nothing flat and go poke holes in the sky. But this airplane had been modified with some magic shrink lotion or such and the cockpit was almost inaccessible by humans! It took me far too long to hoist, heist, and heft body parts into the small aperture. I hope someone speaks harshly to the nasty unscrupulous modifier who altered such a beautiful airplane and made it so difficult for middle-aged guys to get in.

After gluing in, and after John quit laughing (he’s a normal human so he fit), someone swung the prop and the little 4 cylinder 65 HP Continental engine fired up. That was music to my tympanic membrane (especially since it was reverberating off the interior of the plane). John gave the little bird some gas and we began to taxi.

As we trundled across the grass it occurred to me that a Piper Cub can really only carry two “normal” people and a few cups of gas without being over gross weight. Without controversy, I can safely say that I’m not “normal”. According to the FAA a “normal” pilot weighs 170 lbs. In fact, that means that I’m almost a pilot-and-a-half. Now, picture a huge-but-heavy marshmallow with sunglasses stuffed into a small yellow airplane. See the fuselage sides bulge and the landing gear bow under the weight. Then hear the little engine huff, puff, and strain to haul two and a half pilots over the grassy sod. The poor little plane was now a Piper Tug.

Anyway, when John advanced the throttle I was wondering if I was going to have to get out and push the plane into the sky before we were entangled in the Texas barbed wire at the end of the runway. I can see it now: “Hey, John….I don’t think the Cub can make it and we’re running out of runway. You hang on. I’ll get out and give you a boost”. Ah, yeah.

There must have been a bit of head wind helping us because our tail lifted up. Amazingly, we soon gained enough velocity to become birdmen. We left the ground on purpose and began to have fun.

As we climbed, it was as though the clock had been wound backward four decades. I hadn’t flown a Cub in a long time. The clamor of the Continental and the wind noise that was generated as we shoved our way through the gray sky settled comfortably into my soul. I was a kid again.

John flew us around…just around. I don’t recall too much other than I got to see a lot of southwest Texas from on high. I guess I was still in the “time machine” and enjoying the view from the balcony. I don’t even recall how long we had been airborne when John deftly brought the Cub about and lined it up on final approach. As the grass got bigger, a bit of a gusting cross wind made things interesting. That and my fat head obscured the airspeed indicator so it was tough for John to make any kind of precision landing so he didn’t. We went around a couple of times until it felt right. We found the ground and taxied over to the line of other aircraft. The mixture was pulled and the engine went to sleep, ready to be awakened later for more adventure.

I unfolded my airframe out of the Cub about as ungracefully as is possible in public. I didn’t much care, though. I wasn’t ground sick any longer. Flying two airplanes in one day is good.

Flying the Cub was a real treat and icing on an already great day of flying. I can say with all alacrity that John’s a great pilot and I trust him with any or all chunks of my body. I’ll fly with him anytime, anywhere, and in any plane.

My sincerest thanks to Roger and John for “making my day”. It was one of the most notable that I’ve experienced in a long long tme. It takes wingnuts like them to understand wingnuts like me. They knew where my head and heart were (i.e. in the clouds) once they found out I was a pilot. They understood that I had to have a "flying fix" or would probably just spontaneously combust right there on the premises. They, no doubt, saved my life that day.

After a wonderful long day at the aerodrome, the weather made good on its threats and it began to rain. Everyone who hadn't already beat the incoming moisture headed for cover or departed the airport. Old biplanes and the Fokker Triplane were hustled back under cover. In only a short time, most of the planes and special event cars (from a local car club) were gone. It was quiet and almost lonely after such a tremendous event. Gray skies, wind, and rain closed the day.

Stay tuned. The Texas adventure isn’t over. We have yet to take everyone to Mr. Bakers ranch down the street. Wait until you meet Mr. Baker!

The Fly Guy


Planes to right of me; planes to the left of me; planes in front of me with engines thundering as the fearless airmen charged into the jaws of fun and flew into the mocking Texas weather (I trust that Alfred Lord Tennyson will forgive the literary license on that one). Here we are at a southwest Texas aerodrome and we're standing amidst a flock of the coolest airplanes this side of Alpha Centauri. You can bet that I’m feeling like a kid who just had a mid-air with Santa Claus and got sprayed with presents. Wonderfully, more airplanes were arriving with irregularity. I almost had to pinch myself to see if I was dreaming!

I was happily snapping away, doping off, and sucking Texas air when I heard my name being called from behind me. Roger motioned toward the 1941 Meyers OTW and said something to the effect of “Let’s go fly the OTW”. At least that’s what I think he said. I really don’t remember from that point. When I saw that he was pointing to the Meyers he may as well have been speaking Swahili or Pig Latin. It wouldn’t have mattered; I knew exactly what he meant. Somebody handed me a leather helmet with goggles and me and my wet Huggie clambered aboard the big biplane.

I say “clambered” because I’m not really sure what else to call it when an overweight middle-aged white guy tries to stuff himself into a small hole in the top of an airplane fuselage. Somehow, after much wrangling and twisting with the seat belt harness, I managed to strap on the plane and a rather huge grin. If I hadn’t been stop-drilled at the ears, the top of my head would have come off.

Someone propped the big Kinner radial and she sprang to life with a beautiful coughing and belching of smoke. It could have been Jesus pulling the big prop and I wouldn’t have noticed. I was too busy having a dream come true. I could hardly believe I was gong to fly an open cockpit WW2 biplane.

The big engine pulsed brute horsepower as Roger eased the old gal along the grass strip until we were properly aligned with the wind. Being a pilot, my head was on the swivel looking for other aircraft in the pattern. We didn’t have a radio and most of the traffic at Old Kingsbury is decidedly NODAR (no radio).

When Rog poured the coal to the big Kinner, she went to work (as did my lower digestive system). In no time flat the tail came up and, in a few more yards, the big wings hauled our plump pink fundaments into the big gray Texas sky. It just doesn’t get any better than that.

Below us the flat southwest Texas landscape rolled easily by as Roger leveled off. He pointed down at the area that held all kinds of African wildlife. That was a first for me. I was unaware that Texas had an African game preserve replete with lions and such. I guess there are a few Texans wealthy enough to import large chunks of Africa to their part of the planet.

We then started climbing and, at about 2,500 feet or so, we leveled off. Then, Roger tapped me on the shoulder and made a vertical circular motion with his hand. Ah, yes, He wants to impress me with the wonders of aerobatics in a Meyers OTW. That worked for me. I think I showed him a “thumbs up”. That or I wet his goggles. I don’t recall.

In any event, Roger stuck the nose of the OTW down and gathered some airspeed. Then, up came the nose and the G-force shoved my kidneys into my back pockets. Blue was replaced by brown at the top of the loop and I-10 became the new ceiling. I just happened to have the presence of mind to keep snapping away with my Minolta as we came over the top. I managed to get a couple of great shots.

That was unlike the time I was flying in Dan Martin's North American P-51D Mustang, "Ridge Runner", in 1988 at the Madera War Birds Fly-in. I had a nice Panasonic camcorder with me but simply ejected my brain back to the airport on take off. I pointed the video camera at my feet recording only my deck shoes, parts of my shorts, my hairy legs, and the big growling Rolls Royce Merlin V-12 engine at takeoff power. I finally pulled the camera up and taped the rest of the flight. That was brilliant. I guess the once-in-a-lifetime ride in the "Big Iron" messed with my brain. The only proof I can offer is that I couldn't speak without stuttering for the next three days after climbing out of the world's premier fighter aircraft of WW2.

Anyway...after a few G’s of gravity packed my brain and a few other vital organs back into place, Roger decided that we needed to hunt rabbits with a biplane. What the heck. It was my day off, Why not. Cruising along at about 90 mph on the deck, we waltzed about the scrub and tried to drub up a hare or two. I really don’t remember if we scared the fur off a bunny or not. It was almost like crop dusting. Only we were dusting bunnies. Get it? Dust bunnies. Nyuk. Nyuk. I crack myself up. I don't recall having this much fun since doing 8 point rolls in the Mustang.

After having way too much fun and managing to avoid the fun police, Roger headed back to the aerodrome's authentic grass strip. I couldn’t help but remember the words of some great sage or or sodden aviator (who probably flew Curtiss Jennys): “Take offs are optional; landings are mandatory”.

There was a bit of a left quartering crosswind as we turned short final for the aerodrome. Roger hugged the stick back and flared into the classic three point landing position. She landed gracefully but the wind wanted to shove us into the neighbor’s property so Roger kicked a tad of left brake and she behaved. We were back on the ground and both I and the OTW were sorry for that. I could have stayed above ground for at least a week. I was hoping that Connie hadn't misplaced the box of Mega Maxi Huggies.

Stay tuned. There’s more stuff coming. After Texas, we’ll go to Washington where Connie’s son, Tracy, got married.

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