I went flying today for the second time after taking a nine-month hiatus. After spending last summer working intensively on my private pilot's license, I had to take a break. Life got in the way, as it often does for student pilots. I had to go back to work full-time after a professor's summer off. Then I had to join in the planning of a destination wedding in Miami (I know, poor lil ol' me) and be one its stars (I was the bride). Then I had to write thank you notes for wedding presents and pay bills and return emails and just generally adjust to returning to real life.
Now that I have done all of that, it is time to get back to the business of learning to fly. A few days ago I returned to the left seat and the cockpit of a Cessna 172. Although last year I had reached the point of being able to preflight without my checklist (which I would consult after my airplane walkaround and confirm that I had indeed checked everything), on this day I needed to scrutinize it closely. Once my CFI (Certified Flight Instructor) and I had confirmed together that we could take the plane up, we got in, did another checklist, turned the key in the ignition, got the prop spinning, and began taxiing. Even calling on the radio had become unfamiliar to me so I rehearsed what I would say before pressing the button and taking up airtime.
Eventually I taxied to the runway and took off. Leaving the ground of my own volition felt amazing (as did keeping the nose of the plane at the correct angle while I did it). It was a shorter flight, sort of a review for me after my long absence from learning. Under the direction of my CFI, I did some lefthand, righthand, and 360 degree turns. I tried some different altitudes. I followed the Hudson River a bit. And before I knew it, it was time to turn back to the airport.
Today was lesson #2 in my journey back to being a conscientious student pilot. The checklist went a little faster and easier, the takeoff was even more exciting (especially because the commercial jet that needed our runway arrived and took off right before me, taking some of the pressure off), and we did some more maneuvers.
But here's the thing: Although it sounds so cool that I am learning to fly (really, I totally get that), and it is cool, it's also very challenging. I have more days than not that I think I will forever be the equivalent of a student driver with that big plastic triangle on my car that says so and someone sitting next to me helping out with every turn (which my CFI patiently does). One of my biggest challenges is that I get motion sickness - kind of a cruel joke, right? A wannabe pilot who can't keep her lunch down but wants to fly through the skies in a tiny airplane and be buffeted around now and then with no incident. I have tried everything: deep breathing, clenching my stomach, trying to relax my body, positioning the cool air vents on my face, taking Bonine (which apparently makes you drowsy, so I would not recommend...although I was so nervous about not throwing up that I did not get drowsy, so in that way I guess it worked), Sea Bands, ginger gum, and even actually vomiting in the airplane (while in the middle of attempting to fly it). Any new suggestions?
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Monday, May 5, 2014
The Wannabe Aviatrix - Inaugural Post
Welcome to my blog, including but not limited to my quest to become a private pilot, my adventures with my husband and our two sled dogs, my attempts at fitness and healthy eating, my uphill battle with organizing our apartment, and sage advice from the Little General (my mother).
Over the summer a few years ago, I had the opportunity to spend a little too long sitting in the open air on the roof of the White Plains airport, watching planes take off and land at this tiny time capsule which had been left behind by the wave of security that our post-9/11 world has provided. Watching the aircraft repeatedly ascend on that breezy, early July morning wearing my Ray-Ban aviators, I was able to escape from my somewhat troubling recent past and my uncertain future, and simply live in the moment. The feeling continued a bit through the weekend as we rose up in our own plane and touched down in the south, in another world. It was nice to get away for a little while, although my mind continued to race at its usual speed. A couple of days later, flying back to the little White Plains airport, our plane stayed low for about the last forty minutes or so and I mused about how nice that was, that now someone was watching me on my journey. Little did I know that several years later I would be learning to fly one of those little planes I was watching taking off and landing at that very airport. But that is a story for a few posts from now.
That same summer I was feeling sorry for myself because I was going through a divorce and living with my mother in Westchester. During this time, I bounced from home to home in the New York area while waiting to close on a tiny but perfect studio I had purchased. I stayed at my mother's house, at her boyfriend's apartment, and on numerous couches of friends and family. I stayed in a gorgeous modern upper west side apartment with a wall of glass windows, the softest sheets I ever had the privilege in which to slip my body, and walls without art or even a family photo. I stayed repeatedly on a pull-out couch in a good friend's welcoming apartment, made even more welcoming by her providing me candy, full-access to her high resolution flat screen TV and all the cable I could handle, and of course a sympathetic ear. I stayed in the height of summer on a comfy couch in Queens with a much-needed remote-controlled air conditioner and a wise, young married couple who gave me hope again. I was asked more times than I cared to count if I would also need a wash cloth with my bath towel, and this taught me that I am definitely not a person who ever needs a wash cloth (and in fact there are no washcloths to be found in the apartment my husband and I currently share - yes, I got remarried!). And eventually I made it home to my little apartment, which was only the beginning of my adventures.
Once I was settled back in the city and socializing did not require a Meto North ticket and schedule, I really got into online dating. More than one friend hazarded a guess that I went on an average of two dates per week. I always unwaveringly demured that they were wrong and it just seemed that way...but were are not wrong. There was an unending pool of men in the internet ether who, based on my profile, wanted to comment on my sexy black dress photo, wanted me to take them on a tour of MoMA related to my expressed love of art and an accompanying insider-y list of artists to prove it, and who asked if I was going to analyze them because I am a psychologist (a child psychologist who does research - thanks for weeding yourselves out, boys!). I received plenty of unsolicited correspondence that lowered my morale, including an email from a fat, balding 34-year-old lawyer who offered, "You're a bit old for my taste but I'll give you a shot." Including reconnecting with a man I had dated who was a bit old for me and didn't want anymore children: "You're very cute, despite not being a size 2." Including an email on Christmas day from a never-married 47-year-old man, claiming to have read my entire profile (which state clearly that I am Jewish): "so, did you go to midnight mass?" I also received a clearly-worded, coherent, sweet email from a man who I ended up meeting for a drink and then dinner and then another dinner and then a flight in a four-seater plane and then another date and another and now we are on a permanent date because he became my husband.
Over the summer a few years ago, I had the opportunity to spend a little too long sitting in the open air on the roof of the White Plains airport, watching planes take off and land at this tiny time capsule which had been left behind by the wave of security that our post-9/11 world has provided. Watching the aircraft repeatedly ascend on that breezy, early July morning wearing my Ray-Ban aviators, I was able to escape from my somewhat troubling recent past and my uncertain future, and simply live in the moment. The feeling continued a bit through the weekend as we rose up in our own plane and touched down in the south, in another world. It was nice to get away for a little while, although my mind continued to race at its usual speed. A couple of days later, flying back to the little White Plains airport, our plane stayed low for about the last forty minutes or so and I mused about how nice that was, that now someone was watching me on my journey. Little did I know that several years later I would be learning to fly one of those little planes I was watching taking off and landing at that very airport. But that is a story for a few posts from now.
That same summer I was feeling sorry for myself because I was going through a divorce and living with my mother in Westchester. During this time, I bounced from home to home in the New York area while waiting to close on a tiny but perfect studio I had purchased. I stayed at my mother's house, at her boyfriend's apartment, and on numerous couches of friends and family. I stayed in a gorgeous modern upper west side apartment with a wall of glass windows, the softest sheets I ever had the privilege in which to slip my body, and walls without art or even a family photo. I stayed repeatedly on a pull-out couch in a good friend's welcoming apartment, made even more welcoming by her providing me candy, full-access to her high resolution flat screen TV and all the cable I could handle, and of course a sympathetic ear. I stayed in the height of summer on a comfy couch in Queens with a much-needed remote-controlled air conditioner and a wise, young married couple who gave me hope again. I was asked more times than I cared to count if I would also need a wash cloth with my bath towel, and this taught me that I am definitely not a person who ever needs a wash cloth (and in fact there are no washcloths to be found in the apartment my husband and I currently share - yes, I got remarried!). And eventually I made it home to my little apartment, which was only the beginning of my adventures.
Once I was settled back in the city and socializing did not require a Meto North ticket and schedule, I really got into online dating. More than one friend hazarded a guess that I went on an average of two dates per week. I always unwaveringly demured that they were wrong and it just seemed that way...but were are not wrong. There was an unending pool of men in the internet ether who, based on my profile, wanted to comment on my sexy black dress photo, wanted me to take them on a tour of MoMA related to my expressed love of art and an accompanying insider-y list of artists to prove it, and who asked if I was going to analyze them because I am a psychologist (a child psychologist who does research - thanks for weeding yourselves out, boys!). I received plenty of unsolicited correspondence that lowered my morale, including an email from a fat, balding 34-year-old lawyer who offered, "You're a bit old for my taste but I'll give you a shot." Including reconnecting with a man I had dated who was a bit old for me and didn't want anymore children: "You're very cute, despite not being a size 2." Including an email on Christmas day from a never-married 47-year-old man, claiming to have read my entire profile (which state clearly that I am Jewish): "so, did you go to midnight mass?" I also received a clearly-worded, coherent, sweet email from a man who I ended up meeting for a drink and then dinner and then another dinner and then a flight in a four-seater plane and then another date and another and now we are on a permanent date because he became my husband.
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