Another rant that starts in a quasi-rational manner…
It’s Sunday morning and I’m out at the airport, as usual. The weather is great, I’m feeling great, the co-pilot isn’t grumbling any more than usual. The airplane has been in the nice, warm hangar all night. This should be good
(Of course it wasn’t - if it had been, this wouldn’t be in the Pit)
Anyhoo, do my pre-flight in the hangar, make sure everything is ship-shape before opening the big hangar doors. There is a vague premonition of things to come, as the lineguy (he’s new) attempts to move the plane with the wrong size tow-bar, but the airport regulars and I take matters in hand and, incidently, save a Skyhawk, Warrior, and small twin from having conjugal relations in the the doorway.
(They’re conjugal relations because if the airplanes tangle, you (or at least your wallet) are fucked)
Climb into the Warrior and get her fired up. Woo-hoo! Starts the first try! (This is not always a given on cold mornings, hence, we keep them in the heated hangars when scheduling an early morning flight). Run the checklists and check stuff out, everything seems to be functioning normally. Woo-hoo!
Out to the runway, one last check of everything AND WE’RE OFF INTO THE WILD BLUE YONDER!!! (woo-hoo!)
Rollin’ rollin’ rollin’ rollin’
Rollin’ down the runway
Rollin’ rollin’…
LIFTOFF!
WOO-HOO!
Then, like a good little pilot, I double check the gauges. One of them is the tachometer, which should be reading 2500 rpm. It’s not. It’s saying 2300 rpm
This Is Not Correct
And I’m already 20 feet off the ground and climbing. So I make sure the throttle is full forward. I make sure the carb heat is off (the carb heat is… oh, nevermind, it’s supposed to be off on take-off, OK? Just go with it). The fuel pump is on. The fuel pressure is pressing. Etc. Etc.
Well, at least we have an adequate rate of climb. In fact, it’s rather better than I’d get on a 90 degree Farenheit August day. (That’s because it’s cold - you climb better in cold air,all other things being equal)
But, we’re still not getting full power.
OK, this is Not Good. I wouldn’t call it a Bad Thing, but definitely Not Good. The guy sitting next to me says “What’s wrong?” (He’s a pilot, but he doesn’t normally fly this particular sort of airplane)
“We’re not getting full power”
“What?” (There is a hint of distress in that question) “Our rate of climb seems OK.”
“We’re getting enough power, but we are not getting full power”
“Oh. That’s not good.”
“No, it’s not.”
And we go through a jiggle the throttle, carb heat, fuel pump, throttle, mix, throttle routine. Nope, we ain’t getting more than 2300 rpm. So I’m circling around, setting up to land as promptly as possible, making sure I’m within easy gliding distance of the runway. Co-pilot is keeping an eye out for other traffic in the area. Things are rather quiet on the intercom between us, because we’re listening for the first sign of trouble or hesistation in that engine. There’s only so much diagnosing you can do in the air, after all, and I’m not a mechanic (actually, the co-pilot is a mechanic, even so, it’s prudent to return to ground under these circumstances)
Here’s the hard part, the really hard part.
I have a questionable engine. I’ve got it as tweaked as I can get it and I’m still a couple hundred rpm’s short. As you might imagine, there is a great reluctance to reduce power any further. Problem is, 2300 rpm is too much during landing - in order to come down, I have to reduce power. Of course, with a sick engine, reducing power might mean… zero power.
OK, make sure we are definitely within gliding distance of the runway. Pull back the power gradually. I’m going to make this as normal a landing as possible. Set up a nice, steady descent. Maybe delay flaps until I am absolutely SURE I can make the field. OK, here we are, landing the airplane, la dee da dee da dee da… hey, I even sound calm, cool and collected on the radio. Nice, crisp, concise communications “One Gulf November, turning base for two-six”, “One Gulf November turning final for two-six full stop.”
Completely uneventful touchdown. OK, a little crosswind and float, but gentle kiss of wheels on pavement, and snappy radio report about going back to the ramp. Go back, park, perform by-the-checklist shutdown, push the airplane into final position and chock the wheels.
NOW the rant begins:
Walk into the desk area. “Oh, you’re back so soon! Thought you were going airport hopping.”
“We were - couldn’t get full power.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never got above 2300 rpm”
“Aw, you don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s nothing, go ahead and fly it.”
Alright boys and girls - who can tell me what’s wrong with that statement?
(It’s not like you need to be a pilot to figure it out)
“Excuse me? What’s to debate here? The tach said 2300, that’s it.”
“It’s cold out. That’s all.”
Now, boys and girls, 25 F (about -4 C) is cold, yes, but I’ve taken off at 10 below zero. 25 F is cold, yes, but not cold enough to cause that sort of problem, OK? I’ve been flying through Chicago area winters since the late 20th century, alright? I know a little bit about these matters.
Shouting match ensued. The essence of his argument was that I was an incompetent nicompoop with delusions of piloting skills and I argued he was a trumped-up wet-behind-the-ears instructor with more ratings than sense who was no more a mechanic than I am.
How the FUCK do these assholes make it to commercial pilot? Hell, how do they make it through high school?
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH SOMEBODY THAT THEY CAN’T UNDERSTAND WHY IT’S JUST FUCKING PRUDENT TO RETURN TO BASE THE ENGINE IS QUESTIONABLE?
Is it a sick engine – or a broken gauge? I don’t know. That’s the point - I DON’T KNOW. And he doesn’t either. And no mechanic is going to diagnose the problem without lifting the engine cowling and having a look inside. Excuse me, I’m not a damned mechanic, just a pilot. All I can say is this is not normal and customary on this airplane. I can’t tell you why it’s happening. Maybe it’s minor and I scrubbed the flight when I didn’t have to. Or maybe it’s major. I just don’t know. And since it’s my ass on the hot seat (not to mention 800 feet in the air) IT’S MY FUCKING DECISION.
DO YOU HEAR THAT ASSHOLE? IT’S MY DECISION. THAT’S WHY I’M CALLED THE PILOT IN COMMAND And when I am sitting in the captain’s seat YOU DO NOT QUESTION MY JUDGEMENT!
Maybe I’m just weird. I actually take seriously the notion that when I’m at the controls I have the responsibility for every life aboard that airplane. If I make the correct decisions, everybody has a good time. If I make the wrong decisions, people could die. Therefore, I must make the correct decisions on every flight. This is not MicroSucks Flight Simulator. There is no reset button. I have to be correct, it’s that simple. The laws of physics have no cheat codes.
I get so fucking sick of assholes with paper credentials, no common sense, and a bad attitude. God damn! People like him are part of the reason general aviation has a bad reputation with some people.
