Project Haruhi

xsirhc wrote:looks a pretty complex folding procedure...

QUESTION: What is a complex aircraft

ANSWER: A complex aircraft is one which has manually or automatically controllable pitch propeller, flaps, and retractable landing gear. To be legal to fly a "complex airplane" under FAR 61.31, you need a sign off by a flight instructor.

FAA Order 8710.3E defines a complex airplane for the airplane single-engine land or airplane multi engine land rating as one that has a retractable landing gear, flaps, and controllable propeller. A complex airplane for the airplane single-engine sea or airplane multi engine sea rating is one having flaps, floats, and a controllable propeller. A controllable propeller may be controlled manually by the pilot or automatically controlled by a full authority digital engine control (FADEC) system.

List of complex aircraft includes: PA28 R (Arrow), C172RG (Cutlass), C177RG (Cardinal RG), C210 (Centurion) and all twins such as PA 44 Seminole, BE95 (Dutchess), and Diamond Twinstar.

QUESTION: What is a high performance aircraft.

ANSWER: A high performance aircraft (according to FAR 61.31) is an aircraft with an engine of more than 200 horsepower. List of high performance aircraft includes: Cessna 182, Cirrus SR22. Note that these aircraft do not have retractable gear.

Complex AND High Performance examples include: Socata Trinidad, C182RG, C210, C310, Piper Seneca & Aztec.

You see them at airport terminals around the world.
You see them in the morning early, sometimes at night.
They come neatly uniformed; striped coats; wings over their left breast looking fresh.

There's a brisk, young-old look of efficiency about them.
They arrive fresh from home, from hotels, carrying suitcases and battered black cases bulging with a wealth of technical information, data, filled with regulations, rules and maps not even a seasoned sailor could read.

They know the new, harsh sheen of Chicago's O'Hare; the clustered approaches to Newark; the tricky shuttle that is Washington, D.C. They know, but do not relish, the intricate instrument arrivals and approaches to various foreign airports. They know of the volcanoes all around Guatemala and the unmerciful terrain of Mexico City.

They respect fog in San Francisco and Seattle. They know the up-and-down walk to the gates at Dallas, the vast, open Texas sparseness of Abilene; the very narrow Berlin Corridor and stay constantly aware of the 23 mile canyon-like path which guides them safely into Sondestromfiord in Greenland; New Orleans' sparking terminal, the milling crowds in Atlanta.
They know Birmingham, Boston and Butte; some even know Beirut.
They appreciate Miami's perfect weather and never forget the danger of an ice-slick runway at JFK.

They understand short runways, antiquated fire equipment, inadequate approach lighting, but there is one thing they will never comprehend: Complacency.

They marvel at the exquisite good taste of hot coffee in any airport anywhere and a cold beer when there’s time enough to actually have one…

They vaguely remember the workhorse efficiency of the Convair 440s, the reliability of the DC-6s, the trouble with the DC-7; the beauty of an old gal named Connie. They recognize the high shrill whine of something called a “Dart”; the rumbling thrust of a DC-8 or 707 on a clearway takeoff from St. Louis.

They remember the height of the 747 flight deck above the ground; the roominess of the DC10 and the snug fit of a 737.

They speak a language unknown to Webster. They discuss ALPA, EPRs, fans, mach, St. Elmo’s Fire and bogie swivels; and strange things such as bugs, thumpers, crickets and CATs.

But they are inclined to change the subject when the uninitiated approaches.

They have tasted the characteristic loneliness of the sky, and occasionally the adrenaline of danger; they respect that unseen and unpredictable thing called turbulence; they know what it means to fight for self-control; to discipline one's senses against what, to others, seems obvious.

They buy life insurance, but make no concession to the possibility of complete disaster, for they have uncommon faith in themselves and what they are doing.

They concede the glamour is gone from flying yet deny a pilot is through at sixty.
They know tomorrow, or soon, something will come along they have never met before.
They know flying requires perseverance and vigilance.
They know they must practice, lest they dull a skill which demands sharp and is, ultimately, very unforgiving.

They realize why some wit once quipped: "Flying is year after year of monotony punctuated by seconds of stark terror."

As a group they defy mortality tables, yet approach semi-annual physical examinations with trepidation.

They are individualistic, yet bonded together by some force unseen by outsiders. They are family people, yet poor in attendance; but they call more often than most just to hear the voice of someone loved.

They are reputedly overpaid, yet entrusted with equipment worth millions; and lives: countless lives.

At times they are reverent:
They have watched the sky turn purple at dusk and the stark beauty of sunrise over Ireland towards the end of a “pond” crossing. They know the twinkling, jeweled beauty of both Los Angeles and the midnight color splash of the Aurora Borealis at night; they have seen snow on the Rockies. They remember the vast unending mat of green jungle, the twisting silver road that is the “Father of Waters,” an ice cream cone called Mt. Shasta.

They: who can’t forget Las Vegas lights from 100 miles away, or the ice fog in Juneau in January; waking up every so often wondering exactly what city you’re in?

They have watched a satellite race them across a starry sky and win, swam in the clear, deep blue of the stratosphere and felt the incalculable grace of the heavens.

They have marveled at sun-streaked evenings, dappled earth, velvet night, spun silver stratus and sculpted cumulus anvils:
God's weather: power beyond anything the mind can imagine.

They have viewed the wilderness of sky, a pilot's halo, a bomber's moon, horizontal rain and contrails both above and below; and seen Chicago, St. Louis, Indianapolis and Louisville all at the same time through their window.

Only a pilot experiences all these things.

It is their world.

Pandemonium wrote:S' always bad when you're not in a position to do what you like most.

Luckily drawing is a much easier thing to do whenever you wish xD

xsirhc wrote:potentially dumb question here: WHY no fly zone?

...golf cart racing, lol

xsirhc wrote:this takes the cake as a situation that truly scares me. i agree, my hat goes off to Mr White. I think I will learn to fly one day.

Somebody wrote:Hope you don't mind me asking, but what do we talk about in this thread?