When I was a young
fellow, probably 22 years old, I bought
my first new car. It was a Volkswagen
Beetle. Come to think of it, it’s the
only car that was brand new I’ve ever
owned! All of my vehicles since then
have been from the used car lots, and
most were much more than a basic Bug.
Owning a brand new car every year or two
has just never been important.
I would never deny the next person
his desire, his requirement for the car,
the truck, motorcycle, or whatever it
is that turns his crankshaft. For a
time, owning an airplane really made
sense to me. And I have to admit to
becoming rather attached to one or two,
even to the point of giving one a name.
This particular plane had the
registration letters CF-UFU. The
obvious affectionate name became “FOO-FOO”.
Foo-Foo and I had some wonderful
times together. She was a Cessna 150,
and taught me much about flying, more
than any instructor ever did. She
responded well, forgave me when I asked
too much of her, and in spite of all the
hours I’d flown in bigger, faster more
powerful airplanes, she became my
favorite. Her landings, even with some
of my awkward inputs, were smooth and
graceful. On cross-country trips, she
loved to fly on her own, without me
having to do anything more than nudge
the trim wheel occasionally. She had no
bad habits.
We became good friends, the
airplane and I. We knew what to expect
from each other. I’d put in the gas,
sometimes even Mogas, but Foo-Foo didn’t
seem to mind. It all burned the same to
her. She didn’t use up the fresh oil
that I gave her every 25 hours. Other
pilots before me had helped to wear out
some of the parts, but they were soon
replaced over time at the annual
inspection dates. It was one aircraft
that I came to trust on any flight. I
soon relaxed more and more instead of
constantly being on the lookout for a
place to land if the engine ever quit.
Foo-Foo’s 0-200 was always strong and
smooth.
The radios and intercom
provided crisp, clear communication with ATC and any passengers that came for the
ride. All the instruments gave me the
precise, accurate information on their
clear round faces. Everything worked
together the way the manufacturer
promised when she was new, so many years
ago!
Instructors can teach a
pilot to fly, take off, land and control
an airplane. It’s the airplane that
teaches how to enjoy it all. Foo-Foo
rewarded me with picture perfect, gentle
touchdowns on our days in the circuit.
She seemed to communicate the commands
of when to nudge the elevator, kick in
some rudder, or add a touch of power at
just the right moment. Then with a
barely audible squawk, the wheels kissed
the pavement, and she was rolling. No
bounce, no bumps, no shimmy. We could
float with a touch of power until just
the right moment, the right spot on the
runway where brakes were not required to
make the final exit and taxi in to her
hangar. I often imagined the
controllers in the tower pausing from
their duties to admire the perfection of
it all.
I was privileged to join
two other pilots in a successful
partnership as owners of Foo- Foo.
Fortunately for me, there were not many
conflicts in booking time to fly her.
Extended trips of a week or more were
often possible for each of the owners,
and we all enjoyed being treated well by
an airplane, an inanimate piece of
machinery that bored it’s way into our
minds and hearts to become a good
friend. When time came to move on, I
sold my share, and said goodbye to the
airplane. Other flying was in the
works, and there were times that it
became more of a job than I would have
liked. These days, I often think of the
little Cessna 150 as another personal
airplane. It’s not terribly exciting,
not an exotic flyer, not fast. But the
connection between man and machine is a
reality. Some day, I can see myself
attached to another Foo-Foo.