Taming the Taildragger - Lesson 1
Why learn to fly tailwheel? With most modern aircraft built with safer tricycle gear, and the taildragger's fearsome reputation for swapping ends during takeoff and landing, why bother taking the risk? A lot had to do with the owner of a Cessna 170B that he's leasing to my flying club. He gave glowing descriptions of flying this "real airplane," while in the background, the 170 stood tall, tilting its nose at the sky. It looked more muscular than the 172s and Pipers around it; poised as if it was ready to leap off the ground at any moment. I'd heard all the "old pharts" around the hangars extolling the virtues of flying taildraggers--they'd teach real rudder skills, make you a better pilot, give you more respect for the winds... Once you learn to handle a crosswind in a taildragger, you can fly just about anything, they said. Plus, look at all the neat old aircraft that happen to be taildraggers.
So I figured it was worth a shot.
The weather for my first lesson was hot and hazy, with visibility about nine miles, sky clear, wind variable at about four knots. A good day to learn to fly tailwheel.
New checklist in hand, I began the preflight while my instructor pointed out the quirks. After two years with the comforting familiarity of Cessna 152s and 172s, this airplane, a 1958 Cessna 170-B, seemed intimidating. The throttle and mixture knobs had swapped positions--would I pull the mixture by mistake? Half the gauges I was accustomed to seeing didn't appear to be there, and some of them were designed to not work until the plane had gained sufficient airspeed. Flaps are engaged via a huge manual stick that looks like the parking brake on a car. With no ladder available and none of the convenient stepping-spots as on a 172, climbing up to inspect the fuel caps on top of the wings became more of a challenge. The cowl fasteners tend to pop loose without warning, snapping the fingers of the unwary and bringing to mind the possibility that they could come loose during flight--wouldn't that be fun if the cowl covers started flapping in the breeze? And the plane must stay chocked and tied during the whole preflight, since taildraggers have a tendency to "blow away" on windy days.
Starting the engine was an exercise in contortionism: First, try to pump the recalcitrant primer knob without ripping the panel loose. Then loop your left arm around the control yoke to keep it full back and the tail on the ground. Use your left hand to hold the throttle. With the right hand, turn on the master switch and the mags, then yank hard on a starter switch to get the engine to engage... And don't forget to stand on the brakes! Thank goodness this plane was in a Taxi In/Taxi Out space (the rest of the planes on the ramp must be physically pulled into the taxiway before engine start).
With the engine running and all gauges looking good, the next challenge lay in taxiing the beast. Imagine driving something the height and length of a large truck, tilted at a nose-high angle and controlled by a single tiny wheel that looks like it came off a hot-rodded shopping cart. Justifiably, I wanted to keep the beast at a crawl on the taxiway, but that's not always the best thing for building up momentum. I soon discovered the importance of keeping the plane rolling. The tiny control wheel also requires more authority on the pedals, and once into a turn, requires a bit of opposite force to get the turn to stop. Unlike many other taildraggers, you can see over the nose of a 170 while taxiing, so I didn't have to make S-turns to figure out where I was going.
Taildragger takeoffs are counterintuitive to nosewheel pilots. In a 172, you pull the yoke back to lift off. In a tailwheel, you shove the yoke forward to get the tailwheel off the ground, and let the aircraft fly itself off the runway. Once you're airborne, it's all familiar territory, though without a nosewheel to act as additional rudder, the plane is much more sensitive to crummy rudder input. This is why I wanted to learn tailwheel: to learn to finesse that rudder and develop that "seat of the pants" feel that I wasn't getting with the other Cessnas. At this point, I think my butt is dead--I don't really what the plane is doing unless there's quite a skid going. So I keep a watchful eye on the ball. The 170's six-cylinder engine has a nice, reassuring note to it, though it only puts out 160 horsepower, and with the oversized wings, flies at speeds similar to a 152. I had to be careful, though, to note that the airspeed was indicated in miles per hour, not knots--something crucial to remember during final approach. For my first lesson, I did steep turns, Dutch rolls (with and without rudder to demonstrate the difference), slow flight and a couple of stalls. I was flabbergasted at the view from the front window--I was expecting to be fighting to see over the cowl. Instead, I was treated to a vast, panoramic view across the front.
Then came the main event, the one that had my palms sweating: Landings. Approach the field, crank up on that huge stick to let down the flaps (Hey! How can you tell ten degrees from forty with this thing? Where are the notches?), let the airspeed settle to about seventy to seventy five knots, and point the nose at the runway. Slide your feet down to touch the bottoms of the pedals with your toes and stay the hell off the brakes. Check the wind, make those corrections, and begin the Rudder Dance--pop, pop, pop. Shove the yoke forward when all your senses scream to yank it back. Keep dancing. Then you're down with a chirp of tires. Keep on the pedals. Pull back on the yoke to keep the plane grounded. Then full-throttle for takeoff.
We did three landings for the first lesson. Then it was time for a wobbly taxi back to the ramp. This time, I overcorrected for each swerve and the plane, like a shopping cart with one wheel wobbling, zigzagged all over the taxiway. I bet that was good for a few snickers from passersby. When I was a brand new student pilot, I remember doing the same thing, taxiing a 152 up and down the taxiway at a tiny, nontowered airport. Also, I had to keep in consideration where the winds were, compensating with the ailerons to avoid any possible upsets. Taxiing a 172 doesn't require this kind of flying on the ground... most of the time. Parking is also a little intimidating, under the admonishment to "fly the airplane til it's tied and chocked." I was told the last guy who forgot to keep the plane held down and braked wound up doing doughnuts on the ramp during a windy day. So with the engine off, I bolted outside, to get the chocks and tiedowns on. I don't know what I'll be doing with the thing if I fly it alone--move fast?
Overall, the lesson went phenomenally well, which surprised both me and my instructor. He attributed it to the fact that he didn't prebrief me with all the scary stuff about flying a taildragger--we just went out and did it. For this lesson, he would try this little experiment and let me learn through experience. Those he did prebrief often froze on landing. I probably would have too. I attribute it to the fact that it was a nice, calm day and I know we have plenty of runway. Flying solo in a tailwheel still feels far away, but in any case, I'm looking forward to my next lesson!
(c) 2001, Wendy Dinsmore