This man made his dream take flight
It’s never too late to take up a new hobby, especially in these times
I’m living proof that not only can you teach an old dog new tricks, you can even teach it to fly.
I learned to fly a glider during
COVID-19. And I can tell you, that’s about as far from being locked down as you can get.
It started innocently enough years ago. I was wasting a Saturday morning in my usual way: taking a motorcycle ride on the back roads north of Toronto. Near Orangeville, a glider passed into view a few hundred metres above me. It was beautiful. Just ahead, I saw the sign for the gliding club, including the words “Visitors Welcome.” I rolled in and got chatting with a club member. “You know,” he said, “we have introductory flights …”
After signing the waiver, I was strapped into a two-seater, with the pilot behind me offering instructions as we left Earth behind a clattering, ascending tow plane. “When the altimeter hits 2,000 feet, pull that yellow knob to disconnect us.” And just like that, we were soaring away like a3,000-pound seagull, rising effortlessly on a thermal of rising warm air. “This feels addictive,” I said to the pilot. “Oh, it is.”
Fast forward half a dozen busy years, filled with work, kids, all the other usual distractions. I contrived to visit another club. A member happened to live in my neighbourhood. I invited him out for a beer that winter to talk gliding. He brought along a heavy textbook for me to study. (One of the things they tell you is that the younger you are, the faster you learn and you probably shouldn’t even try after age
60. I was 59.)
I signed up for ground school the following spring, paid my membership fees and found myself walking up to the ancient school bus that serves as the mobile base of runway operations for the SOSA (Southern Ontario Soaring Association) Gliding Club at Rockton Aerodrome, southeast of Cambridge. I introduced myself to the first person I saw, who happened to be an instructor. He stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Chris. Nice to meet you, Jeff. Welcome to gliding!”
Since that moment, I’ve had the distinct feeling that this group believes they possess the best secret in the world and are delighted to share it with you.
Now, this was actually a couple of years ago; between then and the beginning of this season, my attendance record was spotty due to a still-busy life. The thing is, flying is like playing the piano. It’s a deteriorating skill: if you don’t practise frequently and continually, you not only don’t get better, you get worse.
This was going to be the year; I finally had a more open schedule and was eager to get going. Then the pandemic hit. At first, it looked like the club wouldn’t fly at all. Then the curve started to flatten. We had excellent protocols in place (the president of the club is a doctor) and instructors were able to form small bubbles with one or two students. The game was on.
At first, trying to fly a glider is mildly terrifying. With the instructor, you do a pre-flight checklist, ensuring controls and instruments are functioning properly, straps are tight and secure, and that you know what your options are in the event the tow-rope breaks. Then the all clear is given, the tow plane takes up the slack and you’re off, bumping down the grass runway, lifting off and, if all goes well, disconnecting at about 2,000 feet above ground. For the first while, you lack even the most remote feeling of being in control; quite the contrary, you feel like you’re barely hanging on for dear life. You develop a deep and grateful affection for your instructor, who keeps you out of trouble.
Gradually, your brain starts to sort out the sensory inputs of flight and you begin to learn the finer points of flying: how to go straight and level in turbulence and crosswinds, how to co-ordinate an aerodynamically efficient turn, how to recognize when you’re entering a “thermal” and how to stay in one.
You learn what zero and multiple “Gs” feel like, how fast is too fast and, critically, how slow is too slow. You learn how to recognize when you’re approaching a stall, entering a vertical spin or a spiral dive (all fast tracks to oblivion) and how to get out of them.
Slowly, gradually, you develop some competence and even a little confidence. And then you start to feel the otherworldly exhilaration of soaring, exchanging glances with a hawk or another glider as you’re riding the same thermal, or linking a series of thermals together to travel surprising distances. And, finally, the exquisite satisfaction of a landing, as you descend smoothly to the runway, flaring into a lazy horizontal final moment before settling down onto the grass and ruddering off to the side to await a ground tow back to the flight line for relaunch.
You need to get signed off by two instructors who independently evaluate your skills before you’re cleared for your first solo flight. I finally got the thumbs up and, after several days of lousy weather and a lot of pre-flight anxiety, found myself strapped in, feeling very much alone as the tow plane took up the slack and hauled us into the sky.
Once things get going, you don’t really have much time to be worried. I do recall the intense feeling, right after releasing the tow rope, that it was just me and the plane up there. And it was a pretty damned pleasant feeling. I made one of my better circuits and a nice landing. Back at the flight line, my instructor congratulated me, then asked if I wanted to go up again. Hell yes I did. The second one felt even better.
A nice coincidence as a postscript: The instructor who introduced himself to me that first day, welcoming me to gliding?
He also got me through that first flight. Thanks, Chris.