I retire - Work stops - eventually.

By B. Umble.

I retired, now I’m an OAP, unemployed and unemployable. Time on my hands I thought-WRONG! How did I ever find the time to go to work?

What to take up as a challenging hobby?

The list of hobbies is endless so I took up FLYING and not just any old flying but ‘MICROLIGHT FLYING’ which is why I found myself standing on a muddy patch of ground flanked on one side by a ‘sea wall’ and on the other by a line of tall electricity pylons and a single track railway.

It was mid November 2001.

I had, had a certain amount of difficulty in finding this very unlikely airfield mainly because I had been looking for something resembling Heathrow or Gatwick but slightly smaller. I reasoned that an airfield would stand out well on this desolate landscape and would be the most obvious landmark for miles around.

Eventually I found and followed a few roadside signs purporting to point to ‘the airfield’. These signs led me to an oversized Nissen hut situated at the far end of a scruffy little lane. I could drive no further so I parked my car next to the oversized Nissen hut. Now on foot, I followed more signs, which led me to a vaguely discernible track crossing a ploughed field. At the end of this track I ducked under the overhead cables, crossed the railway line and wound up on a patch of muddy grass. To my left was a Portakabin-like construction and a large corrugated iron shed spanning the distance between railway and sea wall. To my right a fairly long strip of grass disappeared into the distance. I assumed the ‘toy’ aeroplane,

The Thruster T600 N.

which, appeared to be tied to the railway fence probably, belonged to an ambitious aero-modeller.
It was cold and windy so I sought refuge in the Portakabin but the door was locked. I was a few minutes early for my appointment. I was in the process of retracing my steps in order to seek shelter in my car when I met a man coming in the opposite direction.

‘Are you the 10 o’clock trial lesson? He asked. ‘Yes’ I said.

We went back to the Portakabin, now identified as the ‘Club House’, and the unshaven, tousled haired man introduced himself as the CFI. He unlocked the door and played with a few switches so that we had light and even more pleasing, heat from a small fan heater. ‘Like a cuppa’? He asked. ‘Yes please’. I said.

This was my first big mistake because at the age of 68 years and a couple of months one should always make sure that one is travelling in a ‘corridor train’ if one wishes to participate in liquid refreshment prior to a journey!

When inside the clubhouse I was asked to complete a form. The form, once signed by me, absolved everyone from the Cleaner to the Chairman and MD of the Company, the local Mayor and Town Council and various other agencies from any responsibility whatsoever for my sudden demise whilst being flown around the skies of Kent in a Microlight aircraft piloted by the said CFI.

By this stage I was having second thoughts to say the least. For the time being I kept all my questions to myself –but: -

Where were all the aircraft parked?

Where were the ‘ground crew’ hiding?

Where are the petrol bowsers?

Where is the control tower?

Where, even, the emergency service vehicles?

And above all-Where is the actual airfield?

I reasoned that the strip of muddy grass outside the clubhouse, and continuing, at a guess, for some 300/400 yards into the gloom of this November morning could not possibly be the runway. Surely nobody in his or her right mind would contemplate using this place for active flying?

The CFI had disappeared into a small back room and could be heard on the telephone so, I was left very much to my own devises, sipping tea and thumbing through a few old magazines. I was somewhat bored as well as apprehensive. Without warning the clubhouse started to shake, gently at first but with increasing vigour as a noise of machinery approached. A train, a heavily laden goods train, was thundering ever closer. The clubhouse shook more ferociously and took on a motion as though floating on a rough sea. I decided, then and there that ‘Microlighting’ was not for me although, having found the place, I would hang around today just long enough to see what other nerve shattering experiences were in store.

The CFI reappeared from his little backroom/office and stated that, ‘the weather has improved greatly in the past half hour and while the wind is still fairly strong it is not ‘moaning’ in the pylons’. ‘Moaning in the pylons’ seemed to be the criteria when judging wind speed suitability. I would have to remember that if I continued in this madness. On the other hand why should I bother?

The CFI now took command of my ‘wavering’ and suggested that I should remove my bulky overcoat, relieve myself, one of the pre flight checks, and follow him. He also said that there were a ‘few things’ that needed to be done before take-off and he would show me what these ‘things’ were so that I would know in the future. What future?

I dutifully followed the ‘great man’.

To my horror we appeared to be walking towards the ‘toy aeroplane’, the one tied to the fence. Surely not, I thought, far too small for one person let alone two. I slowed to a stop in order to reconsider my position. My mind raced through the possibilities and in the end I decided that this ‘toy’ was probably a scaled down ‘genuine’ Japanese plastic ‘gate guardian’ or a mascot of some kind used as a training tool?

Not so. This was ‘IT’ and I was supposed to get into IT?

The toy aircraft kind of crouched there looking, for-all-the-world like a broomstick with appendages. I had certainly seen nothing like it before.

The CFI chap was muttering.

‘This is the T600N Thruster’, he said, and added ‘It’s just been rebuilt to the 450kg. Category following an unfortunate accident on the marshes-turned over on me when I had to do a forced landing’! As a confidence booster-his confidence or mine was not clear-he then added, ‘It is a very strong aeroplane of course’. I could not help thinking that it ‘blooming well needs to be if it keeps falling out of the sky’.

He hinted that the problem lay in the ‘Two Stroke’ engine being less reliable than the ‘Four Stroke’ engine’-Why I wondered? I also wondered why, if this was a proven fact, that all ‘Two Strokes’ were not replaced with Four Strokes?

We continued our perambulations around the little machine, which was shuddering and shaking in unison with icy blasts that were battering the field, although it was not, I was pleased to note, ‘moaning in the pylons’. There were words about ‘Blue-Top’ engines and ‘E’ gear boxes and even a few numbers thrown in for good measure. Total gibberish, all of it, but the CFI was enthusiastic and I did not wish to hurt his feelings at this stage by suggesting that we postpone the ‘fly round’ to another date. I had a date in mind too, say-November 2011. No need to rush things.

We were now set for the ‘off’ or so I thought. Wrong yet again. The ‘few things’ that had to be done before flying had not been attended to, I was told.

We needed fuel for starters. One of my questions was about to be answered-the fuel bowser would now obviously appear…

Some fifteen minutes later I was struggling back towards the ‘toy aircraft’ carrying a 25-½ litre plastic can of petrol/oil mixture, a large yellow plastic funnel plus an aluminium tray identified as a ‘drip tray’ for use when filling the tank. Draped over my shoulder was a soft, wet rag to be used exclusively for windscreen cleaning. I had become the ‘fuel bowser’, the ‘ground crew’ and the cleaner all in one easy lesson.

I was not amused by this strategy as employed by the CFI. The last time I had hired a car I had not been told by the car hire company that the vehicle was ‘not quite ready for me’ and that there were a ‘few things to be done’ prior to my departure including the finding of fuel in a shed, in cans no less, and a funnel, to say nothing of a drip tray in case I spilled the fuel on the muddy grass. I was not handed a soft wet cloth to clean the windscreen and neither did I have to tip the car up in order to drain last night’s accumulated rain water from the floor. The seats were dry, the vehicle clean, fuelled up, oiled up, serviced and ready to go. The car hire company even supplied maps and a very comprehensive sheet of directions on how to depart the airport in question. Different world, different country too-it takes the UK to bring you back to earth and reality.

So, here I was, humping a can of fuel towards a ‘toy aeroplane’ in preparation for a now unwanted flight in less than reasonable conditions probably approaching certain death, if not from injury, from hypothermia at least, and still I was unsure of the location of the actual runway!

I tipped most of the contents of the can into the fuel tank. I tipped the ‘toy thing’ backwards so that the rainwater sloshed around on the floor and found some roughly drilled holes, presumably put there for this very purpose, and drained the cockpit. I had even cleaned the plastic windscreen. Job completed I returned to the club house to find it empty of personnel. I was again on my own.

I had a quick revision of events so far. I had been given a lesson in petrol/oil mixing (50:1 in favour of petrol) and been shown the exact location of the oil store additives–very important when flying ‘Two Strokes’. I had, had a lecture on wind speeds-very important that it is not ‘moaning in the pylons’. I had been shown around the aircraft and had been given all manner of information-still ‘gibberish’ to me but probably very important never the less. I had even cleaned the windscreen very carefully and remembered to replace the fuel filler cap on the tank. I had returned all the bits and pieces from whence they had come and I was now ready for the ordeal of flight. Unfortunately however the CFI had now ‘done a runner’ and who could blame him? I could tell from his general demeanour that he was none too impressed by my performance so far. It was not really my fault, under trying conditions of wind and cold, that I had put more fuel down the front of myself, all over the tank and surrounding area and missed the drip tray completely with the spillages. Blame the weather. I had the feeling that he was none too keen on OAPs cluttering up the place and getting in the way of genuine students especially this particular petrol/oil soaked OAP. Maybe that was why he had disappeared for some 45 minutes without explanation-just in case I blew up?

When the CFI returned he seemed quite surprised to see me still waiting for him.

‘Lets get going’ he said.

He handed me a pair of earphones and a map. ‘Hells Bells-what do I want a map for’? He must know his way around the local area by now surely?

The fun was about to start.

We returned to the toy aeroplane and after considerable trouble I eventually managed to get into the seat provided but without my left leg, which, was very uncomfortably, still dangling outside the confines of the cockpit. Another big struggle ensued until I had managed to rectify the situation to an extent. I now had both left and right legs outside and the rest of my not inconsiderable bulk-inside. ‘Side saddle’ I thought! A certain amount of gentle instruction then followed and I managed to get all my limbs inside the aircraft-I would worry about getting out later.

Under the earlier heading of ‘things to be done’ which had included things to be checked, filled, cleaned and emptied had been one further instruction namely, ‘turn the aircraft around and leave pointing into wind and pointing away from the railway fence’. This I had not done. This was pointed out by the CFI. I then started a ‘getting out procedure’, which I thought would be useful at a later date.

‘Stay!’ he barked as though I was some old Labrador Retriever.

The aircraft tipped up and slowly pointed in the opposite direction as the CFI laboriously humped it round through 180º. I again sensed his displeasure.

With great agility he jumped in beside me without struggle or contortion on his part.

I was amazed. He made it look so easy.

‘Harness’, he said.

I managed to retrieve both parts of the ‘harness’, one part still being outside the aircraft and the other part upon which I was sitting. I had tied both parts about my person.

‘Head set’, he said.

I dutifully put it on my head with what turned out to be the microphone pointing aft. I wanted a clear view and thought this protuberance would be inconvenient.

All this being done we then went through a ‘start up procedure’-more gibberish to me, because obviously you are going to make sure the fuel is turned ‘on’ and that the fuel gauge registers sufficient fuel for our purposes-it had to-had I not just filled the tank? Talk of pumps, chokes, master switches, ignition switches and throttle settings went completely over my head. All this activity culminated in a loud shout from the CFI of what sounded like ‘Clear Prop!’ I thought this a little strange, as we were quite obviously the only two people on ‘Planet Earth’ as far as I could ascertain. At whom was he shouting? Is he hallucinating, I wondered?

The propeller started to turn-this was it, the engine fired into life, we had ‘Start Up’. The little aircraft lurched forward, stopped momentarily and then lurched forward again. It was guided to a narrow track next to the sea wall.

Where is the actual runway though? I can’t believe that we are going to ‘mix it’ with pylons, wires and railway line. The CFI did things. He turned things on and off and played with all the switches that, in my opinion, should have been left well alone in that he had made such a big thing in the first place of making sure they were all ‘on’.

We were again on the move. We lurched back to the point from which we had started.

‘We will use runway ‘24’ as the wind sock indicates’, he said.

I wondered where the other twenty-three runways were to be found?

‘Put your feet on the rudder pedals and your hand on the stick’.

‘This is the stick’ he added, waving a slightly taller piece of ironwork around which was positioned between us.

Having nothing better to do at that moment, I complied. If nothing else it would give me something to hang onto.

He turned the little machine so that it faced the line of grass running parallel to the railway line and without so much as a ‘by your leave’ we were heading at full power along ‘the runway’. Another question answered.

I sat there bemused. The only thing or things I could see were the pylons. Even when we had obviously ‘lifted off’ the pylons were towering above us. I felt resigned to my fate-sudden death amongst the blue flashes and then run over by a train! What would my wife say?

We were now climbing rapidly away from the mud strip but still pointing at a pylon. Fortunately the CFI appeared to be aware of this fact and veered the aircraft to the left. Panic over!

I looked down and was surprised to see the runway still below us-IT WAS BENT! It was definitely bent. It resembled an unripe banana lying on its side! Henceforth I would only be able to refer to it as the ‘BANANA STRIP’ when engaged in polite conversation.

My present predicament was possibly becoming less dangerous, although we did appear to be drifting ever closer to a tall chimney, probably part of a power station complex. I tried to relax and take in the view.

What I viewed did not cheer me up a great deal. Through the November mists I could see nothing but mud and water to my left and wires, pylons, ploughed fields, marshes and even more water to my right to say nothing of a tall chimney ahead. This has to be madness. I should have stayed gainfully employed for a few more years or have selected a different would-be hobby.

I noticed that we were going through a turn to the right and that the engine note had changed from raucous to not quite so raucous although I guessed that we were still going up, either that or the clouds were coming down to meet us. Finally we levelled out. I glanced at the CFI and noticed his lips were moving. He must be talking to himself. A hand attached to an arm came round behind my head, fastened on to my left ear phone and fiddled with a knob sticking out from the dome shaped exterior and suddenly I could actually hear what it he was saying. I had located this knob earlier in the flight but because I could only hear heavy breathing, mine as it transpired later, I had turned it to the ‘off’ position.

The CFI was inviting me to ‘take control’ of the aircraft and do nothing more than keep it straight and level. I reasoned that, that should be easy enough even for me so I tightened my grip upon the ‘stick’ and promptly caused us to disappear straight into a passing cloud. After a certain amount of re-adjustment I had another attempt and was gratified to find that it was perfectly simple-don’t touch anything and it flies on its own! This situation could not last of course as, at this time, we appeared to be crossing the English Channel and the land on the other side of this wide expanse of water was foreign territory-France-or was it Essex? Either way it was definitely foreign territory.

‘Try a level turn to the left’, I was instructed.

‘Now what?’

I resumed my vice like grip on the ‘stick’ and yanked it over to the left and at the same time extended my left leg so causing what I can only describe as an horrendous plunge towards the water below. The windscreen vista had changed from sky to water and I noticed a small but ever increasing in size, boat rising to meet us.

The CFI must have been anticipating this move or had very quick reactions because some readjustment to the controls made by him had us back on an even keel in no time at all.

‘Think we should try that again, don’t you? He said.

My immediate answer should have been in the negative. My actual answer was something weak like, ‘If you feel up to it’.

‘Try’ he said, ‘Try to be gentle but firm, a little bit of rudder and stick to set it up and look forward and keep the propeller boss on the horizon’.

We plunged earthwards once again but not quite so steeply this time, in fact we lost no more than 200 feet in a complete turn, I was told. At this rate we could easily make 50 feet under ground in a matter of minutes!

The trial lesson continued. I was being ‘instructed’ in a manner befitting an OAP fast nearing senility as a result of four heart attacks, three strokes, two severe bouts of cramp and a coughing fit, all within the previous three-quarters of an hour. Worse still, the pre-flight ‘cuppas’ were now reminding me that I should be back on the ground!

Suddenly I recognised the ‘Banana Strip’ below upon which we were about to alight but first I was given the ‘conducted tour’ of the immediate area.

‘Old German U-boat down there-14/18 War vintage, biggest and longest wooden jetty in the country there, Kings North Power Station there, Grain Power Station there and that little island is important too when on the circuit’, he said.

I could not imagine why this small mud patch island should be considered significantly important unless it could be used as a crash pad?

I still had my hand on the stick and my feet on the rudder pedals as we lined up for landing. Again, I only had eyes for the pylons but now the large corrugated iron shed appeared to be barring our way. This place was obviously designed to frighten the living daylights out of any would-be aviator.

The CFI kept us flying towards the ground fortunately contriving to miss all the obstructions and at the last minute eased the little aeroplane up so our collision with Mother Earth resulted in a fairly smooth arrival.

I had flown my first trial lesson in a Microlight fixed wing aircraft-what a relief to be down, in more ways than one.

The CFI appeared to be a kindly soul, polite too, but I could ‘hear’ his thoughts concerning me….’What a Plonker’…. or words to that effect!

My ‘Trial’ was over and I was free to go home and find another hobby, yet, for some unaccountable reason, I was in the clubhouse, in the back office, actually writing out a cheque for hundreds of pounds and agreeing to ‘have a stab at it!’

I had actually enjoyed the experience and I think too that I had the vague idea that this was ‘The Challenge’ as represented by the ‘Banana Strip’, the pylons, tin shed and railway line that going to the office everyday had lacked. It certainly was different.