Previous
Files
November
19, 2007
September
25, 2007
August
27, 2007
August
9, 2007
July
24, 2007
May
28, 2007
May
2, 2007
March
1, 2007
January
10, 2007
October
8, 2006
June
26, 2006
May
23, 2006
April
25, 2006
December
6, 2005
October
14, 2005
July
22, 2005
May
10, 2005
April
20, 2005
March
29, 2005
March
16, 2005
March
11, 2005
|
July
14, 2008
In
the summer of 1974 I was operating a Flying Service in the
northern part of West Virginia. My days were full to overflowing
as I jumped between management and labor, managing when I could
and flying when I was needed to fill-in for the other pilots.
The charter business was booming at that time and many
of my days (and nights) were spent flying businessmen and
freight all over the Eastern part of the US in the Navajo, the
Seneca and the Aztecs that we operated for hire. During one such
trip to a small airport in the Eastern section of Pennsylvania,
an ad on the office bulletin board caught my eye.
"For
Sale, 1937 J-2 Cub", the sign said. I owned a 1939 J-3 at
the time, but I'd always been curious about the earlier Cubs
that used the 40 horse power Continental engines. I inquired
about it from the lady running the little airport, and she
stated that it had been her deceased husband's airplane and she
wanted to sell it to make room in the hangar.
This was
the first J-2 that I'd seen in person and I noted that it
differed from the later J-3 in more ways than the engine. Rather
than having the familiar sling for the rear pilot's seat, the
seat sat on a plywood box that was built over the elevator bell
crank. The trim cable ran along the surface of the left side of
the cabin wall, looking and operating like a pulley clothesline.
It had no brakes and instead of a tail wheel, it sported a tail
skid.
Looking back, I think it was the skid that did
it. The tail skid was shared with Sophwith Camels and Curtiss
Jennys' and dozens of other glorious old airplanes that had
fascinated me since I was a kid. The tail skid had a certain
romance about it. The tail skid captured an era that was gone. I
had never owned an airplane with a tail skid. I really needed, I
thought, to own this J-2. I went back to the office for a
serious discussion with the lady.
An agreement was
struck, and a week later I came back with money. An hour after
that, I clattered into the summer sky with the old girl,
climbing reeeealy slooowly. I was used to the relatively
spritely performance of the J-3 with one aboard, and I wondered
how this airplane could ever carry two people aloft. Allegedly
producing 40 horsepower, this Continental engine felt about half
as powerful as the 65 horsepower power plant in the J-3. I
wondered if all the horses were awake.
About 30
minutes were required to reach an altitude that was comfortable
for crossing the Allegheny Mountains, but once there she settled
down and had a decent, if Cub-like, cruise speed. The summer
landscape passed slowly beneath us and the weather remained fine
and the headwinds light. At Bedford I stopped for fuel and a
coke, then taxied out for take off from their short runway.
When I worked for Cessna Aircraft Company, my boss Jim
who was a bit of a sage told me once that you could tell by the
aircraft's instruments when the pilot before you had had a close
call. When I asked him how the instruments would show this, he
said that the pilot's heart would have come out of his mouth and
beat the glass out of them. The takeoff from Bedford probably
would have proven Jim's theory if the panel had boasted many
instruments. I was getting the idea that this airplane's strong
suite was its uniqueness and ramp appeal, not it's flying
qualities.
Arriving
back at home base, the airplane was a magnet that drew admirers
by the dozens. Everyone that heard about it came to see it and
admire its taught fabric and jaunty posture. It was a jewel I
knew, but I didn't care if I ever flew it again. My J-3 was a
delight to fly and it would do just about anything I asked of
it, but it seemed like unrewarding toil to fly this Cub. I
decided to trade it for something more fun to fly.
An
ad was written and sent to Trade-A-Plane, to be placed in the
Swap or Trade section. Within a week the calls started to come
in. Did I want to trade for a boat? A cabin on a lake? Land in
the Ozarks? Could they make payments? Finally there was a
response that piqued my interest. Would I consider a straight
across trade for a 125 horsepower Cassutt Racer? I would, and we
made plans to meet at an airport equidistant to both of us.
A few days later I spotted a yellow dot on the ramp as
I flew downwind at the appointed airport. I landed and as I
taxied in, I got my first look at the Cassutt, crouched
menacingly on the tarmac, looking like an artillery shell with
wings.
The owner and I introduced ourselves then
circled each other's airplanes, like a couple of nineteenth
century horse traders appraising the worth of the other's
property. After a short while we declared mutual satisfaction
with the potential trade and all that was left to do were the
test flights. 'Go first', I told him, thinking that if he got
the slick little racer here in one piece, he wasn't likely to
wreck the Cub. He buckled in and I gave him a prop and he
waddled out to the end of the runway.
He was back in
20 minutes, and apparently not fazed by the 150 fpm rate of
climb demonstrated by the J-2 during his (solo) demonstration
flight, he climbed out of the Cub declaring himself ready to
trade. Now it was my turn to fly the Cassutt.
We
repeated the 'brakes and contact' routine, this time with me
strapped in the pilot's seat and him swinging the impressive
scimitar shaped propeller. The engine caught instantly and the
bark of the four short exhaust stacks surprised me. My 6 foot
frame was stuffed into the confined space of the cockpit, with
my head brushing the canopy and my legs stretched straight out
in front of me, disappearing under a carry through spar that
looked massive enough for a bridge. There were no shoulder
straps, only a single belt that I couldn't seem to get tight
enough to hold me securely. I taxied out, getting the feel of
the tail wheel steering and brakes, and lined up on the 3000
foot runway.
I was unprepared for the performance of
this little rocket. With a weight of only 700 lbs the 125
horsepower gave it the approximate power/weight ratio of a World
War II fighter. Before I could blink, I was off the ground and
climbing at 2000 fpm. The controls had a lightness that I'd
never experienced before and within seconds I knew that I wanted
to do the trade. The airplane was like a trained and spirited
horse that responded to your very thoughts and for the next
twenty minutes I did some of the most enjoyable flying I'd ever
done. I landed, and the Bills of Sale were signed and exchanged
and hands were shaken. The little yellow bullet was mine.
The
trip home was a never ending series of rolls, as I exalted over
the ease with which the airplane went around its axis. My
previous aerobatic experience had been in the Luscombe, which
had ailerons that felt like the stick had been set in a bucket
of cement, and the Citabria, which though somewhat easier on the
controls, required me bracing myself on a cabin strut to exert
enough pressure for a roll. I found with the Cassutt, I could
put my feet flat on the floor and just slap the stick with the
flat of my hand and it would do a quick and perfect roll. I
didn't know airplanes like this existed and I couldn't get
enough of it.
For the next week I flew the Cassutt
whenever there was time, feeling out its capabilities and trying
ever more difficult maneuvers. I did loops, Immelmans, Cuban
Eights and eight point rolls. My confidence in the airplane grew
and finally I felt I was ready to try some maneuvers that were
new to me..
 A
vertical roll is exactly that; a roll about the airplane's axis
while it is flying straight up. The vertical roll is very showy
and is a maneuver that is only seen at airshows. I'd never flown
an airplane with enough speed and power to do one, but I was
flying such an airplane now and today, on this fine August
afternoon, it was time to try one.
Down went the nose
and the airspeed quickly accelerated to over two hundred. I
pulled the stick back and the G forces built as the nose came
up, through the horizon and on up, up until the wings were
exactly perpendicular to the ground and the nose exactly
vertical. At that moment I pushed the stick to the right and the
airplane rotated. Unfortunately at the same time I also
inadvertently added a bit of forward stick and negative G force.
Instantly I saw the propeller stop dead, as the fuel stopped
flowing to the carburetor, the engine quit and the airplane
tumbled out of the vertical plane. Without an inverted fuel
system this engine would not run without positive gravity on the
airplane and I had just taken that away.
My first
thought was only that I had blown the maneuver and would have to
try it again. My second thought, following closely on the heels
of the first, was, 'Oh crap, I don't have a starter!!!'
I
needed to get the prop rotating again, or I was going to be
landing directly below my present location and there wasn't an
airport there. I quickly dumped the nose steeply down, trying
for the pinwheel effect of the wind to start the propeller
turning, and again the speed built, slower this time with the
drag of the stopped propeller. But even as the speed built, the
prop didn't budge and I was quickly squandering the altitude I
had.
I pulled the nose back level, slowing the ship to
the best glide speed and started looking with a great deal of
interest for a suitable landing spot. The terrain was typical
West Virginia with steep hills and narrow valleys and nowhere
was there a field big enough for even a Cub, let alone the
Cassutt. Then I saw that a mile to my west and 2000 feet beneath
me laid I-79, its ribbon of concrete shinning in the afternoon
sun. I quickly set up a pattern that would allow me to land in
the south bound lane, which was a straight and level section of
the highway, but once established on the approach I saw that the
traffic looked too heavy in that lane to allow a safe landing.
The north bound lane had much lighter traffic, so I changed
directions once more, using up the rest of my excess altitude. I
was now committed to a landing in the north bound lane of the
interstate. This was not, I now saw, a section of the road I
would have chosen for a landing if I'd had a choice. This bit of
the highway ran slightly uphill, but the real problem was I'd be
landing in a curve. I considered the point moot, since I was out
of options, and I settled myself to the landing.
 Looking
ahead I saw power lines crossing the road in front of me at
about the height I would be when I arrived at there, given my
current glide angle. Once again I dumped the nose to get below
the lines, and just as they passed above me I passed over
several cars, moving much faster now than normal approach speed
and faster than the traffic. Now the road in front of me was
vacant and as I milked my speed down for the landing I saw that
my touchdown would be just where the highway went through a
bridge, still in a slight uphill curve. Just before I touched, I
took the airplane out of the turn I'd used to match the curve in
the road and touched down in the bridge going straight. I used
the width of the bridge to get the airplane solidly on the
ground and once there I steered left to guide the coasting
airplane around the curve. As I slowed I steered the silent
little ship to the breakdown lane of the road and coasted to a
stop.
To be continued ...
|
