The Flying Bug

Aviation is a sickness. It was something I caught as a child. I’m not sure how it happened. Perhaps it was because my father seemed to travel a lot. We would dress nicely and see him off at Minneapolis International. Then, a few days later, dress nicely again and pick him up. I couldn’t wait to see those old North Central Airlines Convairs. Or maybe I caught it from my Uncle Karl who took us flying in his plane on occasion. Or maybe it was my Uncle Roger who worked for NASA. Or, it could be that when I was young, I was a boy.

When I was in high school I decided to stop dreaming and actually become a pilot. I signed up for flying lessons. I would take my paychecks from Kjellberg’s Carpet and bring them over to the Maple Lake Airport. You could actually do that back then. My first flight instructor was amazing. His name was Jim Shadduck. He really knew his stuff and he got me to solo with about 7 hours of instruction. I was partway through my total 40 hours of flight instruction when Jim left teaching to become an air traffic controller. I think he had the bug, too.

Part of the requirements for my license was to fly on a three-legged trip with each leg being more than 100 miles away from the next. My first stop was in Rochester, MN. It was also the first towered airport I ever landed at. I had no problems. I found the nice lady at the desk and she signed my logbook proving I was there. I gassed up the plane and started down the taxiway. A Northwest 727 was also taxiing and trying to beat me to the takeoff end of the runway. But I wanted to go first to avoid waiting for his turbulence. “Cessna 150, this is the copilot of the Northwest 727. I request you slow down and let us taxi first so we can keep our schedule.” I was not happy. So, I replied, “Copilot of the Northwest 727, this is the Captain of the Cessna 150. No.” and I kept taxiing. Then the tower came on and said, “Good job Captain.” Jim was very proud of me.

My second instructor had the odd habit of making strange noises after I did certain flying maneuvers. It really bothered me. I started to believe I was a horrible pilot based on the sounds he would make. Jeeze. Pffft. Khhhaa. It was all under his breath but quite audible to me. I was talking with a friend about my new hobby and about my new instructor and his audible musings. “You dummy, he has Tourette’s Syndrome.” I didn’t know what that was. Had I known beforehand, I probably would have been more scared. Eventually I received my license and was able to fly with passengers. Some of you reading this may have been past victims of this obsession.

A guy I used to work with named Russ offered me a motorcycle ride in exchange for a plane ride. I obliged. He made the grave mistake of popping a couple of wheelies on the way to the airport. I did not enjoy that. When he realized that he was scared of small planes, he realized what he had done. But I was nice and I promised not to make any violent maneuvers. I waited until he was thoroughly distracted looking out the side window at his family farm in Hanover. While he was waving at the cows I kicked the door on my side of the plane. Boom!

“WHAT’S THAT?” he yelled with the complete look of abject horror on his face. He instantly turned white and started to recall all the former sins he had ever committed and promised to become a castrated priest if God would grant him continued life. “I’m not sure. It was probably nothing.” I pretended to frantically fiddle with dials and levers pretending to pretend to not be afraid. He took the bait. The rest of the trip was spent in silence as he contemplated his life and prayed that God would grant me the wisdom of flying a horribly crippled Cessna 150 back to Maple Lake Airport and land without incident. But I never confessed my sin. So, Russ, if you’re reading this, it was all a fake. But you deserved it.

More flying stories to come.