flying after 17 months

Observe the following, please: Spot any similarities between the two? Both of them have wheels, yes, I know that already. Both are mostly aluminum. And both are operated mostly by feel. Yes, that's right. Despite my fears, my angst, my worries, my endless hours of mental hand-wringing, I remembered how to fly a plane after being out of the cockpit for nearly a year and a half. They told me it was just like riding a bike, but I didn't believe 'em. I was worried, you see. I'd be going off to Korea for a year without flying so much as a kite. My old flight instructor, Mike, assured me that I had nothing to worry about. He told me I'd pick it right back up again. He said he'd taken years off in the middle of getting his pilot's license, and when he'd come back to it again he'd remembered everything. Even though Mike had approximately 3,000 times more flying experience than I did, I still doubted him. Nonetheless I signed the papers and took off to the Orient for 377 days. Then, on Monday morning, I drove down to Apple Valley Airport (AVA) to the offices of Apple Valley Aviation (uh, AVA part two). I'd gotten my medical certificate, I'd touched bases with the flight school, and now I was coming in to find an instructor and set up a lesson. I hadn't flown in 17 months, and it was high time to get back in the air and start moving toward my airborne dreams once again. There were three people in the office when I walked through the glass doors: the receptionist and a couple of guys sitting in the waiting-chairs and talking. I addressed the receptionist lady and told her the reason for my visit. I reported that I'd obtained about 12 flight-hours thus far in a Cessna 172 and would like to resume. She said, "Well, Harold does the 172 training, and he's sitting right over there." She pointed to her left, to one of the men sitting in the chairs and laughing, a short fellow in a short-sleeved, plaid button-down. He had a kindly face, a salt-and-pepper mustache, and a baseball cap. He stood up, and extended his hand. "How are you doing?" he asked. "I'm Harold. I do private pilot and multi-engine training." And there you had it. I signed up for a lesson the very next day with Harold and N42126, Apple Valley Aviation's trusty old 1974 Cessna 172M. I could've flown right then and there if I'd wanted, but I backed off. I claimed that I had some stuff to do in town that day and that I'd forgotten my flight gear (none of which would've been much of an impediment, but I was nervous about flying again and wanted time to mentally prepare). Tuesday morning I rose bright and early, collected my Dave Collins headset, my Jeppesen logbook, and some sunglasses, and drove down to the airport. I was a bit keyed up. Flying made me a little stiff. There was so much to remember, so much to be doing every second in the air, so much that could go wrong. So much that I could do wrong. I had no doubts about safety (Harold had several thousand hours of flying and instructing under his belt) but still, learning anything new and complex and screw-uppable gets me apprehensive. Mainly it's a trust issue. I don't trust myself to do big and scary things like fly airplanes. Well, that's how it used to be. Not so the moment I got into the cockpit with Harold (who also reassured me that I'd pick flying right back up again). After an extraordinarily quick and easy preflight check, we clambered into the narrow cockpit of the Cessna, fired her up and began to taxi. I immediately noticed a difference in Harold's training compared with Mike's. Mike was a good man, certainly. He was a competent instructor. But I realized then, as I was sitting in the cabin with Harold, that I'd never been comfortable around Mike. He was businesslike, straightforward, not inclined to joke or relax. He wasn't strict or harsh, but he wasn't outgoing. Harold was great. As we taxied to the run-up area of runway 18, he made little jokes and friendly conversation, a big grin hanging under his mustache. I was immediately calmed. My nervousness evaporated. Hey, I thought, I can do this. It's just flying a plane. This Harold guy's alright! That feeling only increased once the wheels lifted off the blacktop and we were airborne. Stars seemed to be aligning. It was going better than I'd dared to hope, far better. Not only was I remembering the feel of the Cessna 172, and not only was Harold a friendly and relaxing instructor, but it was a beautiful day outside, the golden sun was splashing off the jagged peaks of the Granite Mountains to the east, and moreover, N42126 was a dream to fly. It was an older model, a 1974, much different from the 2001 I'd been flying in Wyoming, N5158J. I could feel the difference. N42126 just seemed friendlier than 58 Juliet. It was easier to handle, more forgiving to fly, and it stayed at the correct altitude and airspeed with hardly any guidance from yours truly. That plane seemed to know that I was a beginner, and did its best to help me out. I began to feel supremely good about flying again. The lesson just got better from there. We flew out over the Mojave River (dry as a bone) and practiced some basic maneuvers: just, as Harold said, "to get me back in the seat again." We did S-turns, and turns about a point, and some square pattern-flying. Then we headed back in, and though I bounced on the landing, I felt exhilarated. Harold was encouraging and open, but not controlling or dictator-like. He didn't keep his hands on the controls, nor constantly pepper me with advice or admonishments. He just sat back and let me do my own thing, keeping a trained but casual eye on the instruments and my performance. I can't express to you just what that meant to me. Harold's teaching style told (and still tells) me that he trusts me. He has confidence in me. He wants to see what I can do, and he won't step in unless he absolutely has to. He never criticizes or admonishes, just offers advice and tips in his amiable voice, often cracking a joke to boot. He is the antithesis of harsh, demanding. Under such a teaching style, I remembered how to fly a plane. Movements which I hadn't practiced or even visualized in over a year returned to the fore with inconceivable alacrity. It was just like a riding a bike. More than that, and far more priceless, I began to actually feel comfortable flying a plane. I began to feel that it wasn't as big a deal as I'd made out (nothing ever is, but I always forget). For the first time since I'd taken that introductory ride back in spring of 2008, flying began to be more fun than scary. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is truly what aviation's all about. That's what Harold said, too. Both lessons since then have fitted the same mold. On Thursday, we practiced landings. We did 13 touch-and-gos (where you come in like you're going to land, touch down, then accelerate and take off again), and one full-stop landing. Or perhaps I should say that I did 13 touch-and-gos. Unlike Mike, who was inclined to help me out on landings and only let me do one or two by myself, Harold only helped me out on the first one or two, then sat back and let me do it. I kept coming in too slow (60 miles per hour instead of the Cessna 172's regulation 65), and I always flared a little high (and bounced her down hard as a result), but apart from that, Harold said I was doing fine. We did landings again this morning, and my first two, Harold said, were "perfect." (I didn't think they were so bad myself; I really greased her in.) Then we practiced emergency procedures; how to land without any power from the engine, and so on. And it was all a kick in the pants, not a jolt to the heart. What a difference moving 900 miles and flying out of a new airport in a new plane with a new instructor has made. After landing, Harold declared that, with a little more practice, I was almost ready to solo. That was both a confidence-booster and a shot of adrenaline—the good kind. With Harold, it looks like it's always going to be the good kind. On Tuesday, the day of our next lesson, Harold says we'll be flying to a different airport and practicing landings there. I've never flown to a different airport before. There was a time when the thought would've scared the life out of me. Now, I can't wait.