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!