first solo

I spent an uneasy evening yesterday judiciously reviewing the checklists for the Cessna 172M (particularly those regarding emergency procedures). During this, I somehow managed to avoid the temptation to listen to Europe's "The Final Countdown" on YouTube. Following this, I got up at my usual 6:30 this morning and drove down to the airport for my (gulp!) first solo. Perhaps I should provide some explanation here for any visitors who might be unfamiliar with the process of learning to fly. After a certain amount of dual instruction—where your flight instructor is sitting right next to you in the plane—you start to do "solo flights," which, as the name suggests, you do entirely by yourself, alone in the airplane. Sounded a bit spooky to me when I first heard of it. But I was ultimately surprised by how not-nervous I was when the big day finally rolled around. I got up this morning, had an onion bagel with cream cheese, and got my flight gear around like it was just another day of practice flights in the pattern. I attribute that to Harold, who, as I mentioned before, is a superb instructor, and makes me feel very relaxed and cool and groovy about this whole flying gig. The only difference in my preparation between this day and any other, in fact, was that I had to fill out a "rental agreement" for the plane I'd be flying...seeing as how I'd be flying it by myself and all. I wasn't even nervous that my mom and dad were going to be there. Mom and Dad, always supportive as all get-out, both made special trips to the airport to see me fly (Mom in the truck with me, Dad from work). Mom shook Harold's hand, then she adjourned to the picnic tables outside of the airport building. Harold and I went right out onto the tarmac to good ol' N42126 and did a quick preflight. Then we saddled up and took off. We did a couple of touch-and-gos together to practice first. Harold said they were really nice. It was a beautiful morning: calm as you please, with hardly anybody else out there. Mary Lou was out somewhere to the south in her Piper Warrior, and during the second pattern entry a helicopter flew by us heading north, but that was it. As we flew, Harold briefed me on what we'd do. He said he'd have his hand-held radio with him on the ground as I flew, but that he wouldn't talk to me on it unless he needed to advise me of traffic or runway problems. He also said that the minimum for a first solo was three touch-and-gos, but that if I wanted, I could do more. If I felt like it, he said, I could also leave the pattern after the last touch-and-go and fly south over town for a bit. Then he added, "If you don't want to solo today, that's fine. I like to give people the option, just in case they feel they need to practice more." I mulled that over for only a moment. The stars seemed to align. I'd been pumping myself up for this all weekend. I'd studied, I'd practiced, it was a beautiful day, and I figured I was about ready to give it a shot. I said as much, too. And then I landed, taxied to the ramp, and shut off the engine. Mom and Dad were now standing on just the other side of the chain-link fence. I said hi to them quickly, then prepared to take off again—alone. Harold signed my logbook, endorsing it with his signature, signing me off to solo. Then he said he was going to go get his hand-held radio so he could listen to me calling out my pattern movements ("Apple Valley, 42126 turning left downwind, runway 18" for example). Then...it was time. Climbing back into that left seat, I felt rather like a fighter pilot going out to combat a veteran enemy ace one-on-one. The cockpit seemed awful big without a second body inside of it. I clapped my headset back on, ran through the start-up checklist, pumped the primer once (since the engine was already hot), and cranked her up. The 150-horsepower Lycoming engine flared to life immediately, with a few burps and a boom. I adjusted the throttle to 1000 RPM, snapped on the GPS and radios, made sure the frequencies were correct and that the transponder was on standby mode, made a radio call to announce my taxiing to the run-up area at 18, and then... ...and then... ...I began to taxi. By myself. It was about here that the theme from the movie Clash of the Titans started playing in my head. Taxiing went fine, just as if Harold was sitting next to me. It was silent in the cockpit; all I could hear was the near inaudible hiss of my operating headset, and the dulled roar of the engine outside. I taxied all the way down to the end of runway 18, turned into the run-up area, and got out the checklists again. I made sure my seat belt was secure; checked the flight controls; adjusted the instruments and the mixture controls; ran the engine up to 1700 RPM and tested the magnetos and carburetor heating system; checked oil temperature, vacuum and ammeter; ran the power back down, set the transponder to squawk 1200 (visual flight frequency)...and then inched myself up to the runway. I stopped at the hold-short line (a series of solid and dotted yellow lines painted on runway entrances, indicating where to stop for incoming traffic), looked right, looked left (squinting against the golden morning sun), and then called out on the radio, "Apple Valley, 42126 departure one-eight, stay in the pattern." That was it. I was cleared for takeoff. I took a deep breath. The trumpets and drums playing in my head kicked up a notch. Then I pulled onto the runway, punched the throttle all the way in, and started rolling down runway 18. Those testimonials I had read online last night weren't kidding: without 200 extra pounds of human in it, the Cessna climbed like a homesick angel. I jumped off that runway at 65 miles per hour and was zooming past the airport building (and my folks) before I knew it. I was proud of my takeoff: I'd managed to keep the nose wheel stuck fast to the center dotted line. Now I was climbing out at 80 miles an hour, just like Harold and I'd practiced. At 3500 feet mean sea level (about 400 feet above the ground) I turned left and entered my crosswind leg, calling it out on the radio, keeping my right foot planted squarely on the right rudder pedal to keep the ball on my slip/skid indicator centered. I stuck to 80 mph, too—just like we'd practiced. There were a few moments when I let it slip by accident, and we got up to 100 mph, but not many. A few seconds later I turned left again (making another radio call: "Apple Valley, 42126 turning left downwind, one-eight"), and was headed back parallel to the runway. At 4,000 feet MSL I leveled off and throttled down to 2,000 RPM. The weather was beyond perfect. The sun was shining, the Cessna was handling like a swallow (where it had handled like an albatross), there wasn't a breath of wind aloft, and I began to think to myself, Hey, this isn't so bad. And still that bombastic orchestra kept thundering away between my ears. Abeam the runway numbers, I pulled the throttle back, lowered the flaps a little, turned on the carburetor heat, and began to descend. I stuck to what Harold had gently drilled into me: descend at 500 feet per minute. At 3800 feet MSL, turn left base (the second-to-last turn before the final approach), adding more flaps. Don't forget to call out on the radio that you're turning left base. After turning left base, lower airspeed to about 70 mph, continuing to descend at 500 feet per minute. Then turn onto your final approach, adding a last bit of flap, making a radio announcement, and then... ...well, land. I did all of this, if you don't mind my saying, pretty near flawlessly. I turned left base at 3800; pulled the throttle out some more to descend properly; watched my airspeed; made the appropriate radio calls; and lowered the flaps further, all pretty much simultaneously. When the time came a few seconds later, I turned final, added more flaps, made the last radio call, and started my approach. I kept my eyes on three things as I came in for that first touch-and-go landing. First, I watched my airspeed. Final approach speed is 65 miles per hour, the lower bound of the green (safe) arc. Too fast and you'll bounce when you hit the runway. Too slow and you won't even reach the runway. To help make sure I was doing okay and would reach the runway right when the airplane reached the ground, I kept my eyes on the VASI lights on the left side of the runway. I forget what the acronym stands for, but VASI lights are a brace of bright beacons that inform pilots if they're too high, too low, or just peachy to land. Too high and both lights appear white. Too low and they both glow red. If you're at just the right height, however, the left-hand light turns red, and the right-hand light shines white. There's a nifty mnemonic device my previous instructor Mike taught me (which most instructors inculcate their pupils with) that helped me remember what the VASI lights' colors mean. "Red over red, you're dead." "White over white, you're outta sight." "Red over white, just right." Every time I looked, I was red over white. Perfect. I also kept my eyes on the runway itself. What with all the landing practice Harold and I have been getting in, I've gotten pretty good at eyeballing how far I am from the runway, and how high I am away from it. Because of this, I know just when to pull a little power (to decrease altitude) or add in some more (to increase altitude) when I need to. See, that's the weird thing about landings. Normally, your pitch (how far up or down the nose of your plane is pointing) determines your altitude, and the throttle controls speed. When landing, this is reversed. With the flaps down, you use the pitch to control your speed (pointing the nose down to speed up, and up to slow down) and the throttle to control your altitude. Lucky for me that I have such a good instructor in Harold, and that he and I hit landings so hard the past few lessons. It was a piece of cake to get myself lined up with the runway (even if I did turn a bit early for my final approach), keep myself at the right altitude and airspeed, and just come right on in. I flared a few feet above the runway, floated a little while (the Cessna was remarkably light, after all), and touched down in a decently smooth fashion. Yes! I straightened myself out, popped the carb heat off and the flaps back up, pushed the throttle back in, and took off again. And that was all there was to it. I did that twice more, and the sunniest of grins began to spread over my mind (if not my face, which was still set in concentration). Hey, I thought again, this is nothing. This is actually pretty easy. This is GREAT! I came in for the fourth and final time for a full-stop landing, having successfully kept my eye on the Stinson that was taking off, and Mary Lou, who was on the ground fueling up her Warrior for most of my touch-and-gos, but who took off again right before I finished. I landed, popped the flaps up, adjusted the throttle to 1000 RPM (taxi power), taxied right off the runway, shut off the carb heat and set the transponder to "standby" once again, made one last radio call ("Apple Valley, 42126 is clear of runway one-eight, taxiing to the ramp") and taxied to the ramp. Mom was smiling and bobbing up and down and flashing me an enthusiastic thumbs-up when I came wheeling in and pulled to a stop right by the gate in the chain-link fence. Dad walked through the gate and stood just off the high wing of the Cessna (well clear of the whirling propeller) as I shut off the avionics, pulled the mixture control all the way out (idling the engine to shutoff), switched off the ignition, and shut off the master switch. And that was the end. I took off my headset, laid it on the dashboard, leaned back, and took a breath. The symphony in my head drew to a soft and satisfying close. Later, there would be congratulations, and hugs, and handshakes, and pictures taken next to N42126, and logbook signings, and more congratulations (from Debbie, Apple Valley Aviation's receptionist, who'd come out to watch me), and a congratulatory second breakfast of burgers and burritos at Skidmarks Cafe just inside the airport, but at that moment, as I stepped out of the plane back onto solid ground and breathed in some of that cool desert air, I was on Cloud 9. And I haven't come back down since.