Slowing down matters as much as accelerating in most auto racing, and the same is true of STOL Drag racing. Unlike traditional Reno-style pylon racing, which involves no slowing down whatsoever, STOL Drag requires starting and stopping twice while flying less than a mile.

I have never been to a STOL Drag race, and so I will probably be pummeled for whatever I say, but here goes anyway.

Two pylons and corresponding start/stop lines are set 2,000 feet apart. A third pylon is placed at the 1,000-foot mark, just for reference. The idea is to take off from the first line, fly to the far line, land, come to a full stop, turn around, and repeat the process without touching the ground between the lines. Two airplanes compete side by side, and the winner is the one that first comes to a full stop at the end of the race. Best times are just over 50 seconds, so, for a pleasurable activity, it’s brief.

In principle anyone can participate, but the really serious competitors use highly modified airplanes that can accelerate like mad and stop very short after touching down. However, competitors are paired off according to aircraft performance, so it wouldn’t be unusual to see a Skylane compete against a Beech Bonanza.

• READ MORE: Valdez Fly-In STOL Competition Celebrates 20th Anniversary

Since it’s a time trial, the race rewards acceleration, speed on the airborne segment, and deceleration after each landing. But the equation is complicated by the need to begin to slow down long before reaching the far pylon. Pilots accomplish this by chopping power, kicking in full rudder, and slipping toward the line. But even this phase isn’t as simple as it sounds. Airplanes decelerate quicker with wheel braking than aerodynamic braking, so while it may seem as if it’s best to touch down at minimum speed to reduce the rollout distance, it may actually be better to get the wheels on the ground as quickly as possible, even a few knots above the stall speed.

Initial acceleration is a function of the airplane’s mass and the engine-propeller combination’s thrust. Big thrust requires lots of power and a big prop. Two of the dominant competitors in the sport, Toby Ashley and Steve Henry, fly a Carbon Cub and Just Aircraft Highlander, respectively.

(Henry’s Nampa, Idaho, company, Wild West Aircraft, sells the Highlander as a light sport kit.) Neither racing airplane has much in common with its ordinary Lycoming- or Rotax-powered brethren. Both use liquid-cooled, geared, turbocharged, intercooled engines with very big props. They say the engines put out around 400 hp. The airplanes are stripped down, competing at weights less than 1,000 pounds. Since they are generating more than 2,000 pounds of static thrust, and therefore achieve an initial acceleration of 2Gs or more, it’s not surprising that both get airborne in a couple of seconds and a few dozen feet.

• READ MORE: The Ryan YO-51 Wowed with STOL Performance

The powerful initial acceleration does not last long, however, because thrust diminishes as speed increases, and drag grows in proportion to the square of speed. At 90 knots, which an airplane accelerating at an average 1G would reach in five seconds and 400 feet, drag has increased to more than 200 pounds and thrust is cut in half. Since the drag can be subtracted from the thrust to get the net force accelerating the mass of the airplane, it follows that the forward acceleration may already be well under 1G.

The actual segment times, based on videos of Henry racing at Reno last year, are, as you would guess, asymmetrical, reflecting the fact that it is easier to speed up than slow down. From brake release to throttle down at midcourse, about 10 seconds elapse. From there to wheels on, another 10, but at that point the airplane is still moving at around its stall speed of 35 knots. The rollout takes four seconds and another four to get turned around. The times going back are similar for a total of 52 seconds.

If the average acceleration up to the middle of the course were two-thirds of a G, the maximum speed attained would be about 125 knots. If the touchdown speed at the far end were 35 knots, the average deceleration in the slip would be a bit under under one-half G—more at the start and less at the end. By the time the wheels touch the ground, the rate of deceleration is pretty low. Wheel braking brings it back up to the half-G level.

• READ MORE: Valdez STOL Competition & Fly-In Air Show Marks 20 Years of Excellence

The Carbon Cub and Highlander regularly finish within a fraction of a second of each other, and successive heats also differ by small amounts. That consistency is a testament to the pilots’ skills, since, as you find when you watch any of Henry’s cockpit videos, quite a lot goes on during the brief race. Everything hinges on the deceleration timing, staying as low as possible, and amount of wheel braking that can be applied without nosing over.

Henry claims to use his airplane as a daily driver—probably at about 20 percent of power. But I suppose that if STOL Drag racing continues to be popular, it may eventually engender purpose-built airplanes. Very likely the slip-to-slow-down approach would be supplemented or replaced by large air brakes that would add several square feet to the airplane’s equivalent flat plate area. Maybe a slight edge in acceleration could be gained by cleaning up the front end, replacing the big intercooler radiator with a small tank of ice water, and getting engine cooling air to the main radiator with a scoop and duct. But aerodynamic refinement may be pointless, since so little time is spent at high speed.

High wings and a tailwheel are taken for granted on STOL airplanes for a lot of practical reasons. But I wonder whether a low wing with some extra span—taking better advantage of ground effect—and tricycle gear with brakes on all three wheels might bring some advantages. Add lots of horsepower and an airfoil with a maximum lift coefficient of two, and then…off to the races!

This column first appeared in the April 2024/Issue 947 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Looking at the Physics of STOL Drag appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

So, how did I get down there? I’m sure you can guess.

New York to Birmingham is about the limit for my Beech Bonanza as far as nonstop flights go. At more than four hours, it’s also the limit for me. At that point, my brain and bladder are competing for who more urgently wants to land. The flight down was a breeze. Good weather, nary a bump. I actually did stop at Tazewell County (KJFZ) in Richlands, Virginia. I like the ForeFlight feature that allows you to find the cheapest fuel on your route. Cheap fuel usually corresponds closely with remoteness and level of services—the farther from a population center and the fewer amenities, the cheaper the gas.

In this case, it also seemed to tie in with the difficulty of the approach. The field rests on top of a plateau surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains with a steep drop-off on the approach side of Runway 25. Now add some gusty winds, and it’s a pay-attention approach even in CAVU conditions. As I descended and started to feel the effects of the wind passing over those mountains, I remembered that I had not been flying in more than five weeks. Not my usual M.O., but life got busy, and I did not have any time to fly all of September.

• READ MORE: The Things We Men Pilots Do to Impress Women

There are parts of flying that are akin to riding a bike, but generally it’s not a very useful analogy for aviation. The truth is, your skill set does diminish with time, and it’s usually in the most critical envelopes of flight. I narrowed my focus, watched my speeds, and landed firmly with only half flaps to counter the gusts with a little breathing room. I took fuel, chatted up a pleasant retiree from Maine, and departed for Birmingham. On departure I thought about how the approach caught me off guard in a way that I could not have prepared for by any method short of flying more. Noted.

While my friends brought my bike, I brought everything else down in the airplane. With the rear seats removed (yes, I have a separate weight and balance prepped for just this purpose), I was able to fit everything from spare tires to tools, a full-size tent, sleeping bag, gear bag, and bike stands. There is this utility scorecard that lives in my head for every flight I make. The more utility and efficiency I can pack into a flight, the better I feel about the decision to use the airplane, and more interestingly, myself.

Being able to utilize the Bo to its maximum ability combats the small voice in my head that still whispers barbs about the extravagance of owning an airplane. The same goes for the pilot, and this is where things get sticky. As far as the airplane goes, I will load it close to its maximum weight and balance. I extract every bit of convenience and performance I can from the Beechcraft. Approaching those limits is easy as they are written in stone and simple to obey. Finding those limits in myself is quite a different experience.

I spent the weekend on the track riding my Kramer, all the while watching a large weather system make its way north and east. I rode well, which helps me do everything else better, from tying my shoes to making espresso to flying an airplane. Racing fires every neuron you have. It sharpens you in a way nothing else can. One second of inattention can spell disaster. Even instrument flying in IMC gives you a greater margin than that.

I woke up on my birthday, the morning of October 7, to terrible news from Israel. Between the approaching storm and my family in Jerusalem, I decided to head home and not race. Everything went back in the airplane save for the spare tires whose sacrifice to my lap times meant they would retire in Alabama. Filed IFR for 10K and headed up into the clouds. I was slightly nervous about the flight but gave myself a pep talk: This is why you have an instrument rating. This is why you have enough Garmin glass to warrant an exhibit at the Corning factory. This is why you have a Bonanza. I mean, isn’t that the point of all this? It is, with one large caveat. You can only load and fly the airplane to its limits so long as everything is in working order. Same goes for the pilot.

• READ MORE: Conversations in Dispatch Can Get Tricky

These are unedited notes I pulled from my flight log, written the evening of the flight after driving home: 

That was an intense flight. Must’ve been in the soup for almost the entire four hour and 20 minute flight. No convective activity, but moderate to heavy rain most of the way, with some turbulence thrown in for good measure. Black hole approach into Sullivan with a tiny bit of oil on the windscreen doing a lot of harm to the visibility. Oil did not register during daylight portion of flight. ATC cleared me for the approach, and I intercepted the glide slope just fine, but I was unable to turn the runway lights on. I was seconds away from going missed when I realized I had not switched over from New York approach to the CTAF. I quickly clicked seven times, and the runway lit up and I landed. For how prepared I was and how much time I had the end was a little bit of a pig f—.

Unlike the airplane’s state of utility, which only need be measured once before the flight, the pilot’s is a moving target. Decidedly not static. Milking every last bit of efficiency/utility from myself is not as straightforward as the aircraft’s. We often talk about evaluating ourselves before a flight. We don’t always think about it in the middle of the action. Things change. Look alive up there.

Also, from what I understand, ATC does not love it when you key the mic 42 times in a row trying to turn on nonexistent runway lights inside its facility.

This column first appeared in the January-February 2024/Issue 945 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Milking It: How to Extract Every Last Bit From Airplane and Pilot appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Waiting for the parts to arrive, I called someone I met a few years earlier when I was stuck in Albuquerque during COVID-19. Back then, Brandon Maestas was the in-house avionics guru at Santa Fe Aero Services, and he got my Garmin software updates squared away while we all waited for the world to come back. It was nice having some order in an otherwise chaotic moment in all our lives. I recalled him being a smart technician and getting things done quickly and cleanly. You remember people like that when they touch your airplane.

I rang up Maestas this time around to find he had left Santa Fe Aero for Los Alamos National Laboratory. Yeah, that one. He still does work for Santa Fe on the weekends, though, and agreed to meet me on a Saturday to update the software on the many boxes in my aviation stack. It was just the two of us in the large hangar, and we had time to catch up as the software loaded. Maestas’ new job involves him keeping 400 CNC machines running at the labs, and he loves the problem-solving skills the job requires.

Maestas has the kind of brain that likes to solve puzzles. Give him something broken, and he will fix it. Describe an issue, and he will diagnose it. I get it. Think of the joy we all felt as children in finishing a jigsaw or solving a logic puzzle. The satisfaction felt in “working the problem” is supported biochemically by bursts of dopamine. As it turns out, some of us are just better at it than others.

Sitting in the airplane, I told Maestas about a particular squawk in my avionics stack that no one, not since its installation, has been able to sort. When I say no one, that includes techs at Garmin, the entire online BeechTalk community, and at least five avionics shops spanning the country.

When I press the power button on the G5 AHRS unit that controls my autopilot in flight, the strangest thing happens: The tail will wag once, intensely, then settle back into coordinated flight. It’s disconcerting to say the least, and you must decide how badly you want to change the dimmer settings on the unit—the only reason I ever futz with the G5. My guess has always been that it’s a wiring issue. Something must have gotten crossed in the install so that the electrical impulse of pushing the power button somehow energizes the yaw damper.

I told him my theory while sitting in the airplane, and he neither nodded nor spoke. In Brandon-speak, that means my idea was being tacitly dismissed out of hand in real time. Right. I’ll be quiet now. Maestas sat there in the left seat thinking, considering, working. He then reached over and pushed the button himself. I knew better than to tell him the G5 had to be powered up for the oddity to occur. He then pushed on the other side of the unit, where there is no button at all. I was confused and skeptical at this point, but I just watched silently.

He then turned to me. “The G5 isn’t tightened down all the way,” Maestas said. “When you press the power button, you’re moving the unit itself, causing the internal, solid-state accelerometers to yaw. The servo is just reacting to the input.” I pushed on the unit myself. It moved, yes, but less than one-eighth of an inch. I told him that didn’t seem like nearly enough of an input to elicit that strong a response.

He just looked at me. I doubled down. “If a loose screw is the reason this has been happening for five years, I’ll buy you dinner next time I’m in town.”

Maestas took out a small screwdriver and tightened down the offending fasteners and replied without looking at me: “Where are you going to buy me dinner?”

• READ MORE: Inspired Individuals

My good friend Ilya is an ER doctor working out of a very busy Brooklyn, New York, hospital. He’s had plenty of opportunities to move up to an administrator position. He has declined them all. The extra money requires additional, and in his mind, unsavory work. Fundraising and palm-pressing are not Ilya’s strong suit. He’d rather stay in the trenches and do the real work. Every person that walks into his ER is a puzzle to solve. His brain accesses years of anecdotal, on-the-ground data that he has acquired as a practitioner, which is then cross-referenced with the medical encyclopedia that resides in his head. His brain then goes to work and, sooner than later, a solution is spit out the other end.

He has saved many lives over the years, but his job is still not as celebrated in quite the same way as others. Ilya has a humorous, slight disdain for surgeons and all of the kudos they receive. He explained to me that surgeons are high-level technicians. Craftsmen at best, glorified plumbers at worst. There is a skill set involved, no doubt, but it requires little thought. They don’t have to figure out much. The problem has already been solved by the diagnostician. They just have to implement the solution. They have to cut. And while both Ilya and Brandon are adept at using their hands to execute a designed course of action, the real joy lies in the diagnosis, in solving the puzzle. Why is this happening? Where did it originate? How can I fix it?

In my quest to get home, I found an angel in David Espinosa of Air One Systems. His shop is at the Double Eagle II Airport (KAEG) on the outskirts of Albuquerque. Espinosa interfaced with Garmin and got my new gyro ordered and installed. All was well again. I finally departed Santa Fe and continued my journey back east. Fried chicken in Memphis, Tennessee, and grits in Arkansas completed the trip home. On my last leg, up at cruise altitude, I reached over and carefully pressed the power button on the G5.

Nada. Nothing. No yaw. No movement. Not from the unit or the airplane. Just a command to change the dimmer setting. Looks like I’ll be buying dinner next time I pass through Santa Fe. Brandon’s choice.

This column first appeared in the October 2023/Issue 942 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Some Just Diagnose Problems Better Than Others appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

The early Bonanza 35s started off as four-seat single-engine piston designs with reasonable cargo carrying space—but always more attuned to the business trip or family cruise as opposed to hauling a lot of stuff. That would come later, as Beechcraft built on the model’s popularity. The V-tail versions spoke to greater aerodynamic efficiency—and attracted the pilot looking for a distinctive ride. Yet the company went back to the conventional tail with the 36 model series that would take its place starting in 1968—as well as that of the 33 models. Why that happened is just one element of determining which Bonanza would be right for you. With more than 17,000 Bonanzas of all flavors built—and a high percentage still flying—there’s quite a selection to choose from, and they retain great value on the market to this day, more than 75 years later.

Design and Evolution

The first Bonanza, the Model 35, came with a 165 hp engine that was quickly upgraded to 185 hp for a minute on takeoff. At an original max gross weight of 2,550 pounds, it weighed at least 1,000 pounds less than its Model 36 brethren that followed. With a stall speed of less than 50 knots, the early 35s could get in and out of short runways, and still cruise along at 140 to 150 knots. With the C35 model in 1951, the tail was improved, with an increased chord and adjusted angle of incidence, and a bump in horsepower to 185 max continuous and 205 hp for takeoff.

The J35 gained fuel injection, and another increase in horsepower up to 250—with a resulting nearly 170-knot cruise speed. In 1982, the P35 model saw an update in the instrument panel to accommodate the (improving) avionics of the day, with the analog gauges in a standard six-pack configuration as opposed to being all over the place. A third cabin window had shown up in the N35, and the Continental IO-520 was introduced with the S35—at 285 horsepower and a zoom almost to180 knots in cruise.

In the 1980s, the 35s underwent extensive wind-tunnel testing after a handful of inflight breakups. The FAA determined the design didn’t meet current airworthiness standards, so an AD was issued to strengthen the tail. The 35’s relatively small CG range also garnered attention.

For the A36 series, the fuselage remained similar but was stretched to accommodate a third pair of seats. This was not accomplished with a “plug” but in a legitimate extension of 10 inches and more forward placement on the wings. Both elements helped to increase the CG range from that of the 35s, though it still warrants close attention, as it can be loaded forward enough to be difficult to land well—as well as too far aft with even more dire consequences.

The 36 returned to a standard empennage configuration, with a conventional vertical fin and horizontal stabilizer and elevator. Later versions include club seating and a cargo door that can be removed to leave the gap open in flight—making it a great platform for aerial photography.

Up front, the original model transitioned first to the Continental IO-520-B 285 hp engine, and then as the A36 with Continental’s IO-550-BB at 300 hp and the higher takeoff weight that it afforded. Aftermarket up-grades continue to be a popular way to breathe new life into a well-loved Bonanza of either model series.

Market Snapshot

As of early May 2023, there were a lot of Bonanzas of all flavors on the market. Taking a look at Aircraft For Sale’s piston single section, two of the V-tails ranged from $49,000 to $169,000—14 years apart and several upgrades making up the price differential. Those represent other market outlets well, where there were a total of 54 V35s available, with a range of $45,000 for a run-out model to $280,000 for one newly equipped with a Garmin flight deck. Average asking price was $141,960. The total time ran from roughly 1,590 hours to 7,150 hours, with an average of 4,934 hours.

On the A36 side, prices climb to reflect the six-seat configuration and newer model series, with 23 on the market, ranging from $209,000 to $565,000 on the top end for a turbo-normalized model. The average asking price came in just over $300,000. Total time was a bit lower as well—though some folks have obviously flown the heck out of their A36s.

FLYING’s travel editor Jonathan Welsh took a close look at the Bonanza models when searching for his latest airplane. “Concerning Bonanzas, my shopping revealed a wide range of prices and equipment. In general, though, Bos seem to always cost a bit more than you think they should.”

Welsh found that “the A36 is easily the most sought-after model, mostly because it has six seats, and prices have jumped in the past few years. My wife and I found a 1977 model about four years ago, with less than1,000 hours on the engine, dated avionics, and it listed for $175,000. Today I see similar planes priced around$250,000—sometimes with run-out engines.

“I think you can argue that the V-tails are the best prospects, if you like the styling. They seem to be priced lower overall,” perhaps because lots of potential buyers remain spooked by the unusual design, and what Welsh points out as “the largely false notion that the tail surfaces could break away at any moment.”

It comes down to mission—and aesthetics. “For some pilots the V-tails are absolute classics and represent something special in the evolution of aircraft design,” says Welsh in conclusion.

“[They represent a] nice combination of performance and retro-cool emotion. And they do look great on the ramp.”

Flight Characteristics

Some airplane designs are optimized for maneuvering—like a Pitts or an Extra—and others for cross-country cruising. Though they have common heritage with the T-34 Mentor, the Bonanzas fall solidly in the second camp, with stately handling characteristics that make for a reliable IFR platform. Like many piston singles from the era meant to be flown by civilian pilots of varying backgrounds, the control responsiveness follows a standard progression, with rudder actuation taking reasonable pressure, pitch control feeling relatively heavy with a tendency towards straight and level, and aileron response more sprightly, yet in no way twitchy.

Differences between the V-tail 35 and A36, however, exist and are significant to show up on a comparative level. First, actuation of the V-tail’s ruddervator configuration feels traditional, though the airplane was designed to be easy to maneuver. “It’s a sportier feel,” than theA 36 models, says Ben Younger, who owns a 1972 V35B. “It’s a more fun airplane to fly from that perspective.”

Another difference in flight characteristics between the models is the implementation of an approach flaps setting on the A36. As compared to the 35s, this makes slowing down while going down a bit easier—and they can be deployed at roughly the same point as the landing gear from a speed standpoint (about 150 knots, depending on the model), balancing the pitch-up and pitch-down forces.

Early models of both lines feature a non-standard gear retraction piano-key-style switch that can be difficult to distinguish from the flap switch right next to it. You can tell a pilot of these models by the phrase they utter before bringing up the flaps after landing—“these are the flaps”—to ensure that the gear switch isn’t brought up by accident.

Ownership

“The gotchas always have to be how the airplane was maintained, not necessarily the difference between the models,” says Younger of the pre-buy process for approaching any Bonanzas in either model run.

One key item to check into during the pre-buy inspection—the swage buckles. They’re found underneath the floorboards and provide structure for the aileron cable runs. On certain V models, condensation can collect and drip onto them, corroding them severely to the point of breakage. Sometimes you will find these with just safety wire holding them together, according to one owner who is familiar with another pilot who suffered a failure of one in flight, leading to a dramatic left-aileron-only situation. The good news is that this is now an airworthiness directive, and thus required to be regularly checked.

Other updates include the windshields on older model 35s that aren’t sloped, and that most owners have wanted to replace over time. The electrical system may also need attention—there was a change from a 14V to a 28V system at V35B serial numbers D-10097and D-10120 and after, in 1978. Updated avionics—and a better engine start—may demand a move to the higher-load system. Under the cowl, there’s the ability to move into the IO-550 from a previous powerplant for 35s and older 36 models under STC.

Once upgrades and any outstanding ADs have been addressed, annual inspections run in the moderate range. “My annuals will be as little as $4,000 now,” says Younger, but that’s after significant investment he’s made in upgrading not only what’s in the instrument panel, but also windows, wiring, and other parts behind the scenes.

The American Bonanza Society (bonanza.org) forms an important hub for owners to tap into, both during the research process and acquisition, through pilot proficiency and maintaining the airplane. With nearly 10,000 members, the organization offers de-tailed backgrounds on all models, as well as meetings, training programs, and an active forum. Its Bonanza Pilot Proficiency Program (known affectionately as the “B-Triple-P”) is justifiably famous in the general aviation community for its depth of training for both new and veteran Bonanza pilots.

The ABS is leading one critical charge for potential Bonanza 35-series pilots: the Maciel Ruddervator Prizeto help source an alternative solution to the magnesium-alloy ruddervator skins used on the 35’s empennage. Textron Aviation no longer produces the skins, and appears unwilling to invest in an alternate solution, though it may have released information to potential candidate companies to produce a supplemental type certificate (STC) for a replacement, according to the ABS.

Insuring a pilot in a Bonanza typically follows a straightforward path—for the non-instrument-rated pilot, premiums can rise steeply. But the airplane has enjoyed a relatively low overall accident rate com-pared to others in the class—with the danger lying in pilots who take it into poor weather on cross-country flights. Still, with an IFR ticket, most pilots can expect between $2,000 and $4,000 per year on a mid-range hull value on the 35s, with slightly more on the 36s, reflecting the higher hull value.

Our Take

The specter of losing the leaded avgas required to run the engines found in most of the Bonanza fleet hangs closely depending on where you live—but it will come to roost for all in the U.S. by 2030. Unleaded fuel testing is taking place under the auspices of several associations, including tests in a Beechcraft Baron with similar high-compression Continental IO-550 engines as are found in much of the late-model Bonanza A36 fleet.

Aside from this concern, the Bonanza model line forms an excellent choice of cross-country cruiser—and depending on your mission and your pocketbook, it makes for a solid choice. If you only need up to four seats, and you’re comfortable with the prospect of an STC looming in the event you need to reskin the ruddervators, the 35 line offers great value. But if you need up to six seats—and you want less concern regarding parts down the road—the A36 is still well supported by the manufacturer and will likely retain its value for years to come. It comes at a premium price, but the A36 remains at the top of many a pilots’ wish list.

“Impeccable Flying Qualities…A Star in the Market”

When the Bonanza Model 35 came out, its modern lines were unmistakable. FLYING’s then editor-in- chief Richard L. Collins drew it plainly, in a review in the August 2007 issue: “I have flown every model of the Bonanzas and some stand out as milestone V-tails. The first is the straight Model 35. There is no question that the airplane had some problems with wing skins and center sections, but there is also no question that the Bonanza 35 is the most revolutionary piston airplane ever built. Everything since has been evolutionary. Nobody came close to the Bonanza at the time, and it compares favorably with the best that are being built 60 years later.”

Of the Model 36 that followed, Collins had more glowing praise in a June 2000 report. “The Bonanza 36 is one of the more coveted airplanes in the general aviation fleet.” He went on to confirm its steadfast design. “For a long time, traditionalists scoffed at the 36, feeling that the V-tail was the only true Bonanza. That has changed now, and the 36 is the Bonanza that is out there every day, doing the work, upholding the Bonanza tradition.”

This feature first appeared in the June 2023/Issue 938 print edition of FLYING.

The post Air Compare: Beechcraft A36 Bonanza vs. Bonanza V-tails appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Both fly.

We are currently experiencing a profound loss of craft in our world. As a society we consume and we replace. We do not repair. There is no incentive to do so when goods are cheap. Efficiency has come to eclipse all other manufacturing qualities—most notably, quality. In this booming consumer culture, the individual artisan has been sidelined. There have always been exceptions, but they demand a higher price tag governed by the laws of volume. Beechcraft and Porsche are two companies that never lost the thread.

The Porsche 911 GTS and the Beechcraft Bonanza pictured were built 40 years apart on different continents. One in 1978. The other in 2018. One in Kansas. One in Stuttgart. But they were built by the same type of human—fanatical artisans. My people. Where some see a status symbol, I see functionality taken to its logical conclusion. I used to own the airplane while the car was generously loaned to me so I wouldn’t feel out of place driving around Hollywood (I own a RAM pickup back east).

• READ MORE: Ben Younger Archive

Karl Marx wrote at length about the alienation of the worker.

“In your enjoyment, or use, of my product I would have the direct enjoyment both of being conscious of having satisfied a human need by my work, that is, of having objectified man’s essential nature, and of having thus created an object corresponding to the need of another man’s essential nature…Our products would be so many mirrors in which we saw reflected our essential nature.”

There is truth there.

Compare that to the worker on an assembly line who is estranged from the final product by means of extracting all of his potential in a repetitive movement. His labor is rewarded with a wage but he is removed from the satisfaction of completion because of his restricted role. Marx would argue this alienates him not only from his work but from himself. He is unable to fully express himself within the framework of those that hold the means to production.

No, I’m not a Communist. I am someone that wants a deeper connection to the things I purchase. And I want to maintain those things over time, not throw them away. My current Bonanza has the same birth year as me—1972. I plan on taking as much care of her as I do in me.

Yes, I understand the larger needs of the masses and the impracticality of one worker putting together my pickup truck. But it doesn’t mean we can’t appreciate the artisan’s contribution and try, where we can, to reward that work. I once bought a kitchen knife from Bob Kramer. He made the knife himself. He forged the carbon steel. He shaped and sharpened the blade, finally attaching a hand-carved wood handle at its completion. I never mention the knives I bought from Bed, Bath & Beyond to friends who visit my home. But everyone hears about the Kramer and the man behind it. I will pass the knife down to my children. They will in turn, tell Bob’s story. This is not insignificant.

As airplane owners we are privileged to live amongst craftsmen. I remember going into the shop at ACE Cylinders in Greeley, Colorado, when I had the engine in my airplane overhauled. Brian Rosin had the Continental 550 mounted on a stand in the middle of the room. He was alone and absolutely focused. I watched him measure, bolt, press and fit. Hundreds of pieces that needed to come together in the right order at the right tolerances with the right tools. The work he does and the skills used can not be acquired simply from text or an app. Brian learned from Joe Folchert, who in turn learned from a builder before him. Know-how is passed down in the oral tradition from one craftsman to another. Am I romanticizing it? Absolutely. Does that mean it doesn’t have real world value?

You don’t get to shake the hand of the individual who built your car’s engine. Not so with your airplane. Engine builders welcome you into their shops and these interactions are beneficial on all counts. Meeting the customer, the artisan sees where his hard work is going and enjoys the warm glow of recognition, thereby incentivizing him to continue to do good work. The pilot learns about her engine and the craftsmanship that went into building it. Leaving the shop she carries with her not just the engine, but a sense of comfort and security in knowing that an artisan put it together with care and deliberation. My contractor upstate is fond of saying “You can have it cheap, fast or well done. Pick two.” In aviation you can remove cheap and fast as options and that’s just fine. The stakes are that much higher in our world since you can’t pull over to the side of the road when something goes wrong flying an airplane. Brian’s artisanship is not only represented as a thing of beauty but also as an existential safeguard for my life. His work checks a lot of boxes.

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We may be, however, witnessing a resurgence in craft and artistry. It is beginning to resurface in organic farming and manufacturing. Small batch and high quality. There is a thirst for it. People are beginning to recognize the value in something that was made with care by another human being. And there are signs that the corporations are listening. If you look at a motor in an AMG, the performance arm of Mercedes, you will find a plate attached to it with the signature of the craftsman who put that motor together.

Beechcraft was sold to Textron in 2013 and the Bonanza is barely holding on under its new corporate ownership. A certain unnamed manufacturer that rhymes with Kirrus introduced an airframe parachute system that obliterated all other sales of high-performance singles. Aside from avionics upgrades, the Bonanza has not functionally improved in many years now. Where there is no financial incentive, there is no innovation.

A publicly traded company cannot continue to produce machines at a loss. The trick is selling something else so profitable that it allows the artisans to continue their work unburdened by practical (read: economic) considerations. Porsche sells a lot of Cayennes and they make a lot of money doing so. And so the 911 lives on. I hope Textron can find a way to do the same so that my beloved Bonanza—the longest, continuously produced aircraft in the world—can continue its run. True artisans (and artists) are less concerned with economic outcomes. This is a good thing. They should spend their days dreaming and drafting. Who knows, maybe if Textron were to let those fanatical artisans loose they might innovate enough to both keep their artistry alive and make the corporations some money doing so. Crazy thought. I know.

Editor’s Note: This article originally appeared in the Dec. 2021 issue of FLYING.

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Ah, airplanes. A magical vehicle, taking Seven and me to destinations markedly different from our point of departure. In the many trips we made by truck to racetracks in the southern states, she would feel the gradual change in temps at each rest stop on the interstate. But getting off a commercial flight in Costa Rica having departed JFK in the coldest month New York has to offer must have been bewildering to her. Maybe magical too.

When Seven first started flying with me, she hopped right on the wing with her tail wagging, expertly maneuvering through the 180-degree turn into the back seat of the Piper Cherokee I trained in. She’d look out the window during climb, then fall asleep for cruise and wake up on cue for descent. When I bought my airplane, she made it her own, same as she had with the pickup. She wanted so badly to stick her head out the window but never did quite understand why this wasn’t possible. I wanted to build an AirCam just so she could experience an open-air cockpit.

By airplane, Seven and I went to some amazing places together. We flew to my friend Jay’s lake house in Georgia, where she pooped on the ski boat but settled in nicely after said deposit was made on the bow. We flew to Telluride, Colorado, where I snowboarded while she played in the snow with my friend Rosie’s dog, Indy. We flew to Montauk, New York, where she frantically dug holes on the beach with my friend Glen, searching for buried tennis balls. In flight, she entertained and calmed nervous passengers who were unsure about flying in a small airplane.

Seven never made a mess in the airplane. It seemed like she knew it as our magical truck, not to be desecrated. Preparing for trips, she watched me carefully as I loaded her food, water bowls, and (most important) an assortment of balls and Chuckit launchers. As she came to love the airplane, she began to migrate from the back seat to the cargo area behind it. She would make the move midflight, throwing off my CG a bit, but happily finding a suitably flat area to stretch out in.

We had years of adventure together. When there wasn’t a human to share a new experience with me, there she was, ready and willing—and eternally excited to see what would be waiting when she jumped off the wing at whichever new town we landed. Everywhere we went, Seven melted hearts. FBOs unfriendly to dogs made sudden exceptions. Ubers let her jump right in the back seat. Hotels that don’t allow pets—well, I would sneak her in the back door once I checked in. She loved Sedona, Arizona, the most because the airport’s restaurant on the field had an honest-to-god dog menu with food prepared by the same cook that made my dinner. In return for that loyal companionship, Seven trusted me to get her wherever we were going safely. I held up my end of that tacit agreement—for a time.

The Night Things Changed

Departing Caldwell, New Jersey, one night a few years back, we encountered turbulence so great that one bump forced her to vertically leave the rear seat, hitting the ceiling hard enough to displace an overhead panel before being dumped back into the seat with no less force. She looked at me, whimpering, as if to say: “This is not a flying truck. I do not love this any longer.”

From that day on, she had no desire to jump onto the wing. Any trips by air required her to be picked up and gently placed on the wing, at which point she dutifully boarded, clearly unhappy about it and likely thinking this was her last flight. For a solid year, I flew with my right hand behind me, stroking her soft head to stop the shaking that occurred every time she settled into that rear seat. Treats helped. I always had a few pieces of something in my pocket to coax her in and then calm her down. Her anxiety lessened but never went away. She stayed vigilant to the dangers of flight in a way her owner did not. She was on board that fateful spring morning when I stalled our Beech Bonanza departing Telluride and slid down the runway so far that we burned the aluminum skins down to the spars, totaling the airplane.

I’ll never forget the moment when I let her out after we came to a smoking, grinding halt. She always jumped out of the airplane with purpose, happy that we were back on terra firma. But this was different. She leapt off the wing onto the tarmac and stood stock-still, waiting for me to come to her. I held her there on the runway while she shook uncontrollably.

She looked at me as if to say: “Hey, I’ve been cool with this flying thing for a while now. I know it makes you happy and all, but this is it for me. I’m done.”

We took a long break after that as my new Bonanza was prepped and readied. Once done, I had no intention of leaving Seven at home. My girlfriend, Kim, was in the picture at this point, and the two of them became close. Kim spoke dog, and Seven associated her with love and safety. With Kim, Seven would came along, albeit reluctantly, the shaking beginning as soon as the hangar door opened. If Seven saw anyone else in a nearby hangar, she would sprint to them and act as though she were pleading for an instant adoption or safe passage off the airport via a ground vehicle. It was like canine political asylum, with Seven claiming her life was in danger with her owners in the next hangar. Kim would dutifully follow and reclaim her, lovingly loading her in the back seat of the airplane and comforting her for the remainder of the flight. I hated seeing Seven so afraid. It reminded me of my extraordinary failure as a pilot.

Seven came with us to Oshkosh, Wisconsin, in July. We spent the week looking at “magic flying trucks” and marveling at airshows. Afterward, we flew to my good friend Mike’s home airport in Rice Lake where he picked us up in his Cessna 182 amphib. We parked the Bonanza in his hangar and climbed up into the highest cabin that Seven or I, for that matter, had ever been in. Kim was already in the back seat. I gently passed Seven up to her. She settled into Kim’s lap as Mike started up the engine, taking off in clear air toward the setting sun and his home on a nearby lake. Though I did not know it at the time, it was to be Seven’s last flight. She passed away a few days later. But that night, as the Cessna rose into the sky, I looked back at her from the right front seat. Seven was falling asleep in Kim’s lap, not shaking even the slightest bit.

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At the age of 27, having just made my first film, Boiler Room, I found myself riding a brand new BMW K1200RS south on the Henry Hudson Parkway in Manhattan. The bike was a gift from Ben Affleck (it’s customary to buy the director a modest gift when you wrap a film, but this was generous by any measure). This is a relevant detail because I thought the world belonged to me at that age, and an ancillary effect of that foolish thought is the sense that you are immune from harm. Or as some refer to it: your 20s.

I was in the left lane on the elevated section around 68th Street, and I was flying—90 mph and threading the needle around slower traffic in front of me. I shifted my weight, leaned in, and shot from the left lane all the way to the right. An old Ford van switched lanes just as I made the move. He never saw me coming. No amount of braking would get me slowed at that speed. I was committed. The only thing my reptile brain allowed me to do was to try to make the quickly disappearing gap between the van and the short concrete wall overlooking the 100-foot drop down to the Hudson River. The van was so close, I might have touched it with my left elbow. I can’t remember. Your brain only allows the production of certain memories in situations such as these. Some details stick, others disappear forever.

What should have stuck was that I fundamentally needed to change the way I rode on the street. But surprisingly, that event did not change the way I ride. On that day, I cruised away thinking I was just an exceptional motorcyclist. I refused to acknowledge that it was mostly luck that saved my life. See above regarding your 20s. Throw in some arrogance for good measure.

There is a sense of disconnect between who I am today and who I was back then. I don’t altogether recognize that version of myself. What I remember clearly is that sense of always needing to touch the stove. I look back at that 27-year-old me and marvel at how fortunate it is that he didn’t kill himself.

But this can’t be chalked up to youth alone. Quite a few touch-the-stove moments presented themselves to me years later as a budding pilot at the ripe age of 40. Some I learned from, some I did not. There was the time, as a newly minted private pilot, I flew down to Georgia from New York to see my friend Jay. The rental plane did not have an autopilot. I hand-flew for hours, dodging thunderstorms the whole way down. Twenty miles out, the controller I was talking to told me he didn’t think I’d beat a 100-mile-wide squall line to my destination—Heaven’s Landing (4WV4), West Virginia. This was my first time flying into mountainous terrain as well as my longest flight to date, and there I was trying to convince myself I could beat a quickly approaching, massive line of storms. The concern in his voice was sufficient enough that I landed at the nearest airport.

The rain and wind that hit before I even parked on the ramp scared me. The approach I made into Heaven’s Landing a few hours later, after the storm passed, scared me still more. The airport is located on top of a mountain with rising terrain on all sides—a challenge in even the best conditions. It would have been ugly had I attempted it.

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How much closer to the stove did I need to get to understand that it could burn me? I am a firm believer that pain is a far better teacher than praise when it comes to self-preservation in the cockpit, but when I think further about other close calls I’ve had in the past, I always see the younger version of myself as being green and inexperienced. It’s always in the past tense, as if that person no longer exists, replaced by an adult who makes impeccable go/no-go decisions. This is an obvious fallacy.

Unlike the BMW incident on the Henry Hudson that happened more than 20 years ago, the close calls I have experienced in airplanes have all happened in the past eight years—the time I’ve had my pilot’s license. How is this possible? I view myself as being far more cautious and responsible as compared to my 20s, and yet, the examples persist.

Not too long ago, I took up my brother and two nephews in a rented Piper Arrow for a low-and-slow flight over the Delaware River. We departed from a short strip in Cherry Ridge, Pennsylvania. My sister-in-law, Stacey, stood on the ramp watching us taxi out while holding her newborn daughter—my niece, Bella. She looked nervous. Sure enough, I forgot to pick the gear up and wondered why the climb rate was so sluggish. We cleared the trees at the end of the runway, but it was a lot closer than I had planned or wanted. Stacey was right to be worried.

Today, I see myself more clearly. I am a motorcyclist of moderate ability possessing an incredible amount of historical luck. But how can I be sure that I have the right amount of deference? If every few years I look back and think, “Boy, you didn’t know anything back then,” how can I completely trust my ability in the present? I suppose if I stayed home and never flew in anything but CAVU, I’d know I was sufficiently cautious. But then I wouldn’t be flying very often.

One benefit of age is that it allows me to feel the heat from the stove from a distance and learn the same lessons I would from an actual burn. But there is still danger. From wishful thinking regarding weather to confirmation bias on runway selection, I continue to commit sins in the cockpit. I cannot count on my currency and experience as enough. This is why we use checklists. This is why we read Aftermath in this very magazine. This is why we want to hear, in agonizing detail, how the next guy ended up bending metal. Anything to stay away from that stove.

This story appeared in the September 2020 issue of Flying Magazine

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With several events commemorating Girls in Aviation Day on September 26 via an app, it’s fitting that this would also be the week to release a book that celebrates the accomplishment of one young woman’s recent round-the-world flight. Shaesta Waiz made history as the first Afghan-American woman to pilot a single-engine airplane solo around the globe. Waiz marked the feat in 2017, following her graduation from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University, with bachelor’s and master’s degrees, and the foundation of Dreams Soar.

Fly, Girl, Fly! a picture book authored by Nancy Roe Pimm—with illustrations by Alexandra Bye and published by Beaming Books—follows Waiz’ path to the flight deck and around the world. Waiz was inspired by the historic flight of Geraldine “Jerrie” Mock, who made her mark in aviation’s big logbook when she flew her 1953 Cessna 180, the Spirit of Columbus, solo around the world in 1964. Pimm’s first book recounts Mock’s story in picture-book form, so it’s elegant that she covers Waiz’ successful mission more than 50 years later.

Waiz flew across five continents, with 30 stops in 22 countries along the way in a Beech A36 Bonanza, covering nearly 25,000 miles. Waiz said, on the publication of her story, “I am thrilled to have my story come alive in this beautiful new book to further inspire young girls to follow their dreams. Thanks to author Nancy Roe Pimm and Beaming Books Publishing for making it all come together; they have been a joy to work with. I am still so grateful for everyone in the aviation community that helped make my trip of a lifetime such a success. I hope you all enjoy the book and share it with all the children in your life.”

Waiz’ foundation, Dreams Soar, continues its mission “to inspire the next generation of STEM and aviation professionals,” according to a press release. “The global solo flight was the first phase of Dreams Soar’s worldwide effect to inspire and empower the (STEM) and aviation, specifically for young women and minorities.”

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