More than a machine

Like all successful relationships, ours is a relationship built on trust. I treat the airplane well and it treats me well. When I clearly articulate my needs, like adding full throttle in a go-around, it does its best to oblige. In return, I invest in annuals, hangar rent, and good insurance. There appears to be some mutual affection and admiration as well, although that might be one-sided. I smile when I think of my airplane and buy it gifts like oil changes and experiences to new grass strips.

I know my Cub doesn’t have feelings, but the affection and trust seem to be reciprocated because, so far, the airplane has treated me well, kept me safe, and enriched my life. So, it pains me to say that I’m cheating on it. This isn’t a full-fledged affair, but it’s definitely an emotional one. My eyes are wandering, and I’m afraid that my commitment might be slipping.

I had expected ours to be a lifelong committed partnership, like two swans or penguins. But here I am, only two years in, and I’m thinking about other airplanes. It’s not that I’m not happy and satisfied in my current relationship. Far from it. I still grin like an idiot when we’re together and I miss my airplane when we’re apart. But lately something has been off. I think it’s me. I’ve changed.

It began when I was trying to plan a family trip to the Outer Banks in North Carolina. This is a grueling and soul-sucking multi-hour drive from my home, but a pleasant flight of just around an hour in a typical Spam can. In my airplane it’s more than two, we can’t bring any bags (tough on a vacation), and half the family has to stay home. It’s enticing to leave the kids at home, but I suppose that’s missing the point. Renting is out of the question because of minimum daily rates, so we’ve decided to make other plans. Which is just another way of saying we’re probably staying home.Should I feel guilty about trying to find an airplane that can show me the wider world out there?

I’ve also noticed the Cub and I are spending less time together, and I’m not as excited to drive to the airport on the weekends. Some of this is probably my new work schedule and long commute, but no doubt the flame has died down a bit. I’m just not in the mood.

Do I feel guilty about even thinking about trading in my airplane for a new model? Sure, a little. But a pilot has needs. Should I feel guilty about trying to find an airplane that can show me the wider world out there? I don’t think so. It’s not that I love my airplane any less. I just need more.

When I think about making the switch, I’m torn. We’ve had such great times together, and I’m worried I’ll be throwing that away. You can’t recreate your first love. But people grow and change. They mature. And maturing looks an awful lot like the ability to at least bring the entire family along.

Upgrading will no doubt be more expensive. Then there’s the hangar. Will I be able to hold on to it? Will a new larger airplane fit into the same space as my current one? So long as it’s a high wing, I think it will work. That means I’m probably looking for something like a Cessna 172, or if I can make it work financially, maybe a 182. They’re more practical, for sure, but also a lot less exciting than a Cub.

When people ask what kind of airplane they should buy, the standard response is to make sure it fits the majority of your missions. Maybe 70 or 80 percent. No airplane will fit into your life perfectly, but so long as it makes you happy, generally fits your lifestyle, and you spend lots of flights together, it’s the right choice.

This is good advice. I should take it. I would love to go on exotic trips over grand distances. Heck, I would love to go highway speeds over short distances. But nothing makes me feel happier or more content than loafing along at 1,000 feet with the door open on a summer afternoon. But is that enough?

Please don’t show this column to Ian J. Twombly’s airplane.