You know what a Cessna Cardinal is?
This:
Four seats, 150-180 horses, high wings, tricycle landing gear. Produced from 1968 to 1978. It was meant to replace the wildly popular Cessna 172 Skyhawk. The Cardinal has a streamlined, futuristic sort of look, not to mention a few technological goodies like laminar-flow airfoils and cantilever wings. It wasn't nearly as good an airframe as its predecessor, though. Instability problems and (in the early models) an underpowered engine spelled disaster for the 177. Nonetheless, Cessna kept working with it and brought out some significantly improved variants in the 1970s, including the 177RG (pictured above), which had retractable landing gear. Many Cardinals are still flying today.
And that's what I want to talk to you about, in fact.
I like Cessna Cardinals. They've got nicer lines than the clunky old Skyhawk. They also have big doors, meaning I can cram my 73 inches inside without much grief. And the annoying support struts (which plague high-wing airplanes) aren't as much a factor.
There's this dude out at the airport who owns a Cessna 177. Lovely little machine. Blue, with white stripes. Skin's a bit worn but the frame's in good shape. Beautiful control panel and interior. Engine sounds pretty good. Even the landing gear has spats.
I don't know what the owner's name is, or where he came from. He looks to be in his sixties, drives a Volvo station wagon, and managed to procure himself a hangar within six weeks of moving his airplane to Apple Valley. That's quite a feat, considering there's other pilots hereabouts who've been on the waiting list for a hangar for over two years.
He's tall, around six feet. His white hair sweeps back from his forehead and temples in little waves, like a composer's powdered wig. His nose is Romanesque; his jaw square; his face is covered with freckles and blemishes. His spare frame is disguised by the billowy fleece he continuously wears. The cargo compartment of his Volvo is filled with boxes of spare parts, tools, old rags, and cleaning solution. It's a mobile repair shop; he pulls the car up to his hangar, cracks open the rear door, and sits there polishing spark plugs and connectors.
Irrespective of the man's outward appearance, it's his behavior I want to discuss with you. The guy's a wacko. He is planning to mutilate that little Cardinal of his. My pilot, JM-1, was conversing with him a couple of months back and learned all the dastardly things he's planning to do to his airplane. They range up and down the scale from unwise to downright ludicrous: telescoping wings, overpowered engine, retractable landing gear...
Heck, we've even heard rumors that this fellow plans to turn his beautiful little airplane into a remote-control drone.
Needless to say, we're horrified. This guy's a mad scientist. We don't know where he's getting the money for these modifications, nor why he's choosing to spend it on such madness. But we're all going to be sorry to see that cute little Cardinal cut up into itty-bitty pieces.
Stories of this gent and his brainchild have spread all over the midfield hangar block. They're met with a universal shake of the head. Nobody can stomach the thought of a perfectly good airplane being butchered, much less turned into a mutant cyborg. The old gray-hairs sitting in the lounge would pay money to get a line on Mr. Volvo's train of thought. I certainly would.
Fortunately this species of oddball seems to be rare enough. I don't know anybody else around Apple Valley who's planning to conduct scientific experiments on his airplane. Most of the rest of the weirdos at KAPV are the lovable, interesting kind.
Take Pete, for instance. You remember Pete? The master mechanic at M_______ Aviation? I don't think I've described him in adequate detail. He's on the short side; five-foot ten, I shouldn't wonder. I'm not mentioning this fact in advance in order to color your opinion of him; I'm well aware of the multifarious stigma which the vagaries of human consciousness may attach to a man's height. No, I'm merely describing him, laying out pertinent facts in their proper place. Pete's height has nothing to do with the impression he transmits upon meeting him for the first time; rather than drag him down, his stature actually buoys up his credentials. It's desirable in an aviation mechanic that he be the diminutive sort, since the business of repairing flying machines involves a great deal of crawling into tight spaces, cramming one's hands or fingers into minuscule crannies, and wiggling about the narrow tract between ground and fuselage. His reputation suffers no misfortune which stems from his size.
Pete's mustache is peppered with salt. His eyes, ringed with crow's feet, sit beneath weather-beaten brows in a deeply tanned face. His greasy long-billed cap is perched evermore upon the crown of his head; a blue cotton jacket, jeans and comfortable black tennis shoes (all oil-smudged) complete his ensemble. His voice never rises above the level of an office chair rolling across a carpeted floor. One is forced to lean forward and concentrate to absorb everything he says. When he speaks, all activity in the flight school stops; the secretary ceases shuffling her papers; the Dutch matron's fingers hover above the keyboard; the student will halt his rummaging through his flight bag; the instructors stick their folders under their arms and pause on their way out the door; the old heads reign in their tall tales and polish their spectacles. Everyone freezes to hear the mechanic discourse. I have heard of only one instance in which Pete raised his voice; and that was but a rumor. His hair, half-brown, half-gray, sticks out at odd angles from beneath the baseball cap which eternally adorns his head. I have no idea whether the pate beneath is bald or still clothed to some degree in brownish-gray fibers. The baseball cap is mum on that point. Pete goes through caps like a baseball pitcher his gum or a smoker his squares; they are purchased new and used until utterly unrecognizable. So caked do they become with oil, grease, and assorted shop grime that their original lettering, decoration, pattern or filigree will be completely obscured. The process is inexorable and astoundingly quick. Bets are taken around the premises on how long it'll be before Pete's brand-new cap will take on the luster and appearance of a rotten banana peel or a lump of coal.
On that same topic, when a screwdriver or a pneumatic wrench isn't occupying Pete's stubby, sunburned, oil-stained fingers, a lit cigarette invariably replaces it; and cigarette butts litter the titanic doorway of the repair shop hangar, where Pete and his trusty acolytes habitually toss them. That hangar, on any given day, is awash with the sounds of men at work: the whine of the pneumatic wrench, the growl of the electric screwdriver, and occasionally the lusty ring of the hammer. A fire bell rings in time with the telephone inside, notifying the men of an incoming call; the voices of Rush Limbaugh or Lauren Ingraham or John and Ken echo and blare through the metallic cavity, denouncing the Obama administration and the Qaddafi regime.
None of this is weird, of course; but I find it suitably eccentric, unique enough, let's say, that it warrants special mention in this blog post, which was intended to be as objective as possible.
I suspect every smallish airport has its own eclectic collection of rare, quaint, queer, whimsical, offbeat or aberrant individuals, much as any museum, no matter how small, will have its collections of tarnished farm implements, corroded fossils and incomprehensible paintings. These are taken as they are. The strange people at your local airport are no different. They are not to be blamed for their disparities, unless they interfere or impair others' ability to operate, in which case the bastards would be mentioned in the previous post.
No matter how aggravating their behavior may be, how perplexing their fancies, how inaudible their speech or wavy their hair...such oddballs are an integral component of flying itself, as much as any strut, wheel or rivet would be. They're indispensable to the process, like the ignition of the engine or the turn of the propeller (or rotor, or turbine). They complete the picture. They add a qualitative bonus to the overarching fun and adventure of aviation. They make the event come to life, bring it home in mind and soul, add another brick to the wall of experience. No trip to an airport is complete without meeting all the weird and wonderful characters who abide there, listening to their stories, observing their idiosyncrasies, shaking your head at their capriciousness, telling the tall tales to your friends back home. So long as they don't come winging out of eleven o'clock at you at 5,000 feet or cut you off on a taxiway, the wackos make life a little more interesting.
Won't someone just please think of the Cardinals, though?
And that's what I want to talk to you about, in fact.
I like Cessna Cardinals. They've got nicer lines than the clunky old Skyhawk. They also have big doors, meaning I can cram my 73 inches inside without much grief. And the annoying support struts (which plague high-wing airplanes) aren't as much a factor.
There's this dude out at the airport who owns a Cessna 177. Lovely little machine. Blue, with white stripes. Skin's a bit worn but the frame's in good shape. Beautiful control panel and interior. Engine sounds pretty good. Even the landing gear has spats.
I don't know what the owner's name is, or where he came from. He looks to be in his sixties, drives a Volvo station wagon, and managed to procure himself a hangar within six weeks of moving his airplane to Apple Valley. That's quite a feat, considering there's other pilots hereabouts who've been on the waiting list for a hangar for over two years.
He's tall, around six feet. His white hair sweeps back from his forehead and temples in little waves, like a composer's powdered wig. His nose is Romanesque; his jaw square; his face is covered with freckles and blemishes. His spare frame is disguised by the billowy fleece he continuously wears. The cargo compartment of his Volvo is filled with boxes of spare parts, tools, old rags, and cleaning solution. It's a mobile repair shop; he pulls the car up to his hangar, cracks open the rear door, and sits there polishing spark plugs and connectors.
Irrespective of the man's outward appearance, it's his behavior I want to discuss with you. The guy's a wacko. He is planning to mutilate that little Cardinal of his. My pilot, JM-1, was conversing with him a couple of months back and learned all the dastardly things he's planning to do to his airplane. They range up and down the scale from unwise to downright ludicrous: telescoping wings, overpowered engine, retractable landing gear...
Heck, we've even heard rumors that this fellow plans to turn his beautiful little airplane into a remote-control drone.
Needless to say, we're horrified. This guy's a mad scientist. We don't know where he's getting the money for these modifications, nor why he's choosing to spend it on such madness. But we're all going to be sorry to see that cute little Cardinal cut up into itty-bitty pieces.
Stories of this gent and his brainchild have spread all over the midfield hangar block. They're met with a universal shake of the head. Nobody can stomach the thought of a perfectly good airplane being butchered, much less turned into a mutant cyborg. The old gray-hairs sitting in the lounge would pay money to get a line on Mr. Volvo's train of thought. I certainly would.
Fortunately this species of oddball seems to be rare enough. I don't know anybody else around Apple Valley who's planning to conduct scientific experiments on his airplane. Most of the rest of the weirdos at KAPV are the lovable, interesting kind. Take Pete, for instance. You remember Pete? The master mechanic at M_______ Aviation? I don't think I've described him in adequate detail. He's on the short side; five-foot ten, I shouldn't wonder. I'm not mentioning this fact in advance in order to color your opinion of him; I'm well aware of the multifarious stigma which the vagaries of human consciousness may attach to a man's height. No, I'm merely describing him, laying out pertinent facts in their proper place. Pete's height has nothing to do with the impression he transmits upon meeting him for the first time; rather than drag him down, his stature actually buoys up his credentials. It's desirable in an aviation mechanic that he be the diminutive sort, since the business of repairing flying machines involves a great deal of crawling into tight spaces, cramming one's hands or fingers into minuscule crannies, and wiggling about the narrow tract between ground and fuselage. His reputation suffers no misfortune which stems from his size.
Pete's mustache is peppered with salt. His eyes, ringed with crow's feet, sit beneath weather-beaten brows in a deeply tanned face. His greasy long-billed cap is perched evermore upon the crown of his head; a blue cotton jacket, jeans and comfortable black tennis shoes (all oil-smudged) complete his ensemble. His voice never rises above the level of an office chair rolling across a carpeted floor. One is forced to lean forward and concentrate to absorb everything he says. When he speaks, all activity in the flight school stops; the secretary ceases shuffling her papers; the Dutch matron's fingers hover above the keyboard; the student will halt his rummaging through his flight bag; the instructors stick their folders under their arms and pause on their way out the door; the old heads reign in their tall tales and polish their spectacles. Everyone freezes to hear the mechanic discourse. I have heard of only one instance in which Pete raised his voice; and that was but a rumor. His hair, half-brown, half-gray, sticks out at odd angles from beneath the baseball cap which eternally adorns his head. I have no idea whether the pate beneath is bald or still clothed to some degree in brownish-gray fibers. The baseball cap is mum on that point. Pete goes through caps like a baseball pitcher his gum or a smoker his squares; they are purchased new and used until utterly unrecognizable. So caked do they become with oil, grease, and assorted shop grime that their original lettering, decoration, pattern or filigree will be completely obscured. The process is inexorable and astoundingly quick. Bets are taken around the premises on how long it'll be before Pete's brand-new cap will take on the luster and appearance of a rotten banana peel or a lump of coal.
On that same topic, when a screwdriver or a pneumatic wrench isn't occupying Pete's stubby, sunburned, oil-stained fingers, a lit cigarette invariably replaces it; and cigarette butts litter the titanic doorway of the repair shop hangar, where Pete and his trusty acolytes habitually toss them. That hangar, on any given day, is awash with the sounds of men at work: the whine of the pneumatic wrench, the growl of the electric screwdriver, and occasionally the lusty ring of the hammer. A fire bell rings in time with the telephone inside, notifying the men of an incoming call; the voices of Rush Limbaugh or Lauren Ingraham or John and Ken echo and blare through the metallic cavity, denouncing the Obama administration and the Qaddafi regime.
None of this is weird, of course; but I find it suitably eccentric, unique enough, let's say, that it warrants special mention in this blog post, which was intended to be as objective as possible.
I suspect every smallish airport has its own eclectic collection of rare, quaint, queer, whimsical, offbeat or aberrant individuals, much as any museum, no matter how small, will have its collections of tarnished farm implements, corroded fossils and incomprehensible paintings. These are taken as they are. The strange people at your local airport are no different. They are not to be blamed for their disparities, unless they interfere or impair others' ability to operate, in which case the bastards would be mentioned in the previous post.
No matter how aggravating their behavior may be, how perplexing their fancies, how inaudible their speech or wavy their hair...such oddballs are an integral component of flying itself, as much as any strut, wheel or rivet would be. They're indispensable to the process, like the ignition of the engine or the turn of the propeller (or rotor, or turbine). They complete the picture. They add a qualitative bonus to the overarching fun and adventure of aviation. They make the event come to life, bring it home in mind and soul, add another brick to the wall of experience. No trip to an airport is complete without meeting all the weird and wonderful characters who abide there, listening to their stories, observing their idiosyncrasies, shaking your head at their capriciousness, telling the tall tales to your friends back home. So long as they don't come winging out of eleven o'clock at you at 5,000 feet or cut you off on a taxiway, the wackos make life a little more interesting.
Won't someone just please think of the Cardinals, though?
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