Flight Journal: flight 07- part 1

[beaky]

Flight 06
01-08-95

C-150H
TEB
Local

3000 SCT; vis 20; wind 310/06; temp 40F


1.4 dual

"Taxiing, norm t/o, 4 fund, coll. avoid, slow flight, area orientation, norm. lndg"

First lesson with F., and it turns out to be a pleasant transition. He's very much on my wavelength, and seems to take great pleasure in instructing.
This morning, I'm to sit through another ground school class before the flight, and I discover that F. is now also the ground school instructor.
It also turns out that I am the only student present today, so I get a good one-on-one lesson on radio navigation, which is something I've been a bit confused about.
It's getting near midday as the class ends, and F. announces that he's breaking for lunch. I'm pretty damn hungry myself, so I decide to join him. We drive over to a nearby Burger King; F. has an extra coupon for a free chicken sandwich, so I decide to get two. Having skipped breakfast I'm ravenous; I inhale the two sandwiches, fries, and a chocolate shake before I even consider the possible consequences...
Now, fast food, for me, has never been as much fun to digest as it is to eat... belching lightly as we return to the airport, I ask myself why I've just pigged out like that right before a flight- my first lesson in four weeks, no less, and with a new instructor... why?
Hungry, I guess.
F. hands me the 150's clipboard and tells me to go do the preflight.
"I've got stuff to do; don't start it, but go ahead and sit in the plane for a while, and practice some of the stuff you've been working on."
Interesting idea... a little while later I'm sitting in the parked airplane, making an imaginary turn, when suddenly the yoke jerks in my hand-
It's just F. He snuck up on me and moved the elevator as he passed behind to get in the right seat. I decide it was funny, if a bit odd, and it's quickly forgotten.

I soon discover that this is simply F.'s style: he likes to amuse himself, and isn't bashful about involving others. In general, he's very relaxed, with an undertone of smooth professionalism.
He makes himself comfy in the right seat, with the air of someone who doesn't mind that the 150 is a puny, wimpy sort of bird.
"Didja do the walkaround?"
"Yup. She's all set."

He doesn't bother re-checking everything himself, but he does pull out his fuel sampler to sump the tanks. This, too, he does in his laconic style- simply reaching out the door to the valve under the wing, taking and inspecting a small sample, then handing me the cup with a grin, for me to do my side.
The fuel is clean, so it's time to start the engine.

F. shows me the proper way to start a cold engine in cold weather without preheating:

Mags and master OFF; two shots of primer, mixture FULL RICH, climb out and pull the prop through a few times to loosen the oil, then it's master ON, mags BOTH, hit the starter while pumping the throttle, and when it turns over, carb heat ON until the oil temp gauge moves a bit.
Now it's time to roll. I'm putting off buying a headset until I can afford a good one, so I'm using one of the school's worn-out loaners. I'm used to wearing headsets and shock cups and whatnot, but it is distracting today. The real problem is that the cheesy boom mic can't make up its mind where it wants to be, although it's narrowed it down to: too close to my mouth, or too far away.
On top of this, I have to use the handheld mic, as this 150 is not wired to use the headset mic for transmitting. I need it for intercom, though, and as the mic moves away from my mouth again, I glance over at F., grinning under his expensive David Clarks. The bastard...

I seem to be a little nervous today. My comm work while taxiing is not very smooth. However, I also seem to have made a breakthrough in taxiing! We line up behind a 172, awaiting our clearance.

Then F. does another strange thing, even stranger than his earlier prank...
We can hear Tower clearing another plane to land, and after the pilot responds, F. grabs the mic and transmits a single, cryptic word:

"Duh."

I'm bemused... what the hell is he doing, saying "duh" on the Tower freq?

"I know that guy who's on final," F. explains. "We goof on how some of the foreign pilots here can't say his name- Doug- properly... they just say 'Duh'!"

I smile and nod, awkwardly... then he does it again.

"Duh..."

Again...? Right there, holding short of Runway 01 at Teterboro Airport, with the cab controllers listening! Just like that, with his buddy coming over the fence, F. is trying to make him smile.
"Well, he must be busy; not answering..." F. says.

Good old "Duh" is dropping a 172 onto the pavement with full flaps.
"Let's see how he does," F. suggests, initiating that timeworn pilots' ritual: critiquing (and thus learning from) other pilots' landings.
"Duh", or perhaps his student, makes a good arrival.
"Not bad", F. comments. I agree.

Even more amazing than F.'s cavalier radio activities is that there has been no reprimand from the tower. I suppose because it was just two brief sounds...
But F. is getting a lot of mileage out of his little joke, laughing loudly as we watch his friend exit the runway.
I find myself laughing too, and a lot of the earlier tension is released.
Now I'm nice and relaxed; ready for my second unassisted takeoff.

Next: flight 7,part 2