Always Learning

Even though I was in an aerobatic airplane, with a qualified instructor, performing an intentional aileron roll, the urge to aggressively right the airplane—blue side up!—was difficult to suppress. I paused, silently reminded myself that this is what I came for, and kept the ailerons deflected until the horizon came back around.

In flying, “trust your gut” is often bad advice. When we start flight training, stalls, turbulence, or G forces may feel deeply unsettling because our gut reaction to these stimuli is based on decades of experience walking the Earth at 1 G. But these phenomena aren’t necessarily unsafe, just unfamiliar. And in the three-dimensional realm of flying, your gut reaction could be the opposite of what the situation calls for, as Dave Hirschman describes in “Fun with a Purpose” (p. 32). The training we go through helps us make sense of the new sensations and learn to respond appropriately.

But why go beyond training for the type of flying you actually plan to do? Why would I, a regular weekend flier, ratchet into the five-point harness of an Extra 300L to do loops and rolls over western Maryland in this 300-horsepower aerobatic beast?

Just like our experiences on the ground condition us to “normal,” consistently flying within a narrow envelope tells our brains what flying “should” feel like. That baseline can help keep pilots from venturing into situations beyond their capabilities, but it also leaves potential misunderstandings and bad habits unchallenged. All that can be remedied with a little aviation cross training.

Bruce Williams, known for his BruceAir instructional videos, donated the Extra to AOPA to be used for flights like mine—to introduce upset recoveries and aerobatic concepts, and spread the lessons to as wide a pilot audience as possible. One obvious benefit to aerobatic and upset training is the practice of what to do when a normal situation turns abnormal—for example, spatial disorientation or a wake turbulence encounter. But this type of training also addresses potentially dangerous gaps in our understanding.

In level flight, for instance, it’s easy to mentally substitute airspeed for angle of attack when it comes to stall avoidance. But the magic number pilots memorize for “stall speed” isn’t so helpful once maneuvering starts. Wings reach their critical angle of attack at a higher airspeed in a turn—and they can stall even pulling up from a high-speed dive.

What’s more, pilots who spend all their time comfortably in the middle of the flight envelope risk trading a perceived danger for a real one. If airspeed is what keeps you safe from stalling, why not throw in a few extra knots for a safety margin on final approach? Maybe a little more—and pretty soon you’re floating down the runway because of all the extra energy you brought into the landing flare. Similarly, as Hirschman describes in this issue, the pull-back-go-up relationship in the normal flight regime does nothing to suppress the “panic pull” reflex.

Many times, what we perceive as instinct is really conditioning. It’s important to study the aerodynamics of flight to understand what’s happening near the edges of the flight envelope and how to respond—but then you need to go out and fly. Once your brain comprehends the concept, your body has to feel it. Over and over again, until you can distinguish between discomfort and danger and the correct reaction comes automatically. Aerobatic and upset training teaches you not to ignore your senses, but to refine them.

On that note: Don’t ignore your senses. Flight training should challenge you, not make you miserable. Not half an hour into my Extra flight, my stomach felt queasy and my face hot. I probably could have stuck it out for another maneuver or two, but we headed back to the airport uneventfully. Sometimes it’s OK to trust your gut.