The World War II era was an interesting time to be an aircraft engineer. Piston-engine technology was reaching a pinnacle of power and complexity, huge design and production demands were incoming from the war effort, and the advent of jet power had just emerged. It was a time to push up sleeves, sharpen pencils, and push boundaries.

This was certainly the case at Douglas Aircraft Co. When approached by the military to develop a small bomber that prioritized speed, Douglas responded with the XB-42, nicknamed “Mixmaster”—a decidedly unconventional, piston-powered design that it promised would achieve nearly 500 mph. When the military gave the go-ahead to build and fly two prototypes, it was up to the engineers to deliver the extreme performance.

To accomplish this, they focused on eliminating as much extraneous drag from the wing and airframe as possible. Rather than installing the two 1,800 hp Allison V-1710s (as used in the Bell P-39 Airacobra, Lockheed P-38 Lightning, Curtiss P-40 Warhawk, and others) in individual, wing-mounted nacelles, both engines were entirely housed within the aft fuselage. This kept the wing completely clean, without any of the parasite or interference drag inherent in the traditional nacelle configuration.

The engineers then developed a system of six individual drive shafts to link the engines to an aft gearbox, which drove a pair of three-bladed pusher propellers. The propellers were electrically controlled and able to feather, and the aft propeller was capable of adjusting its pitch even farther, providing reverse thrust. The feathering capability would be used later in the test program when one of the two engines would fail in flight.

The configuration didn’t deliver quite as much speed as Douglas had hoped. At 23,440 feet, the XB-42 could only achieve a maximum speed of 410 mph, and its cruise speed settled at 312 mph. Admirable numbers for a piston-powered bomber, but still well short of the company’s targets.

As other aircraft designers would also learn, pusher propellers located at the extreme aft end of the airframe create new and unique problems. Rotating too sharply during takeoff and flaring hard during landing, for example, would result in prop strikes. Douglas solved this by adding a ventral vertical stabilizer with an integrated shock absorber to isolate the airframe from the blows of tail strikes.

Another concern was the well-being of the flight crew in the event it became necessary to bail out of the aircraft. To prevent it from the grisly fate of entering two counter-rotating prop arcs after jumping, Douglas made it possible for the crew to first jettison the propellers and aft gearbox with an explosive charge. Instantly dumping more than 1,000 pounds from the extreme aft end of the airframe would wreak havoc on the center of gravity and produce a violent, nose-down pitching tendency.

One crew would experience this firsthand when it was forced to bail out during a test flight in December 1944. This crash would result in the loss of one of the two XB-42s. The remaining example would go on to fly in its original form and was later modified with two underwing turbojet engines, becoming the XB-42A.

Ultimately, the design would shed its propellers entirely and evolve into a pure jet when the static test airframe was developed into the jet-powered XB-43 Jetmaster. The sole surviving XB-42 awaits restoration at the National Museum of the U.S. Air Force in Dayton, Ohio.

The post The Douglas XB-42 ‘Mixmaster’ Flew Almost as Fast as It Looked appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

When shopping for an airplane, it can be beneficial to have bizarre tastes. For example, few people are in the market for a tiny, wooden taildragger with retractable gear and a side-by-side cabin nearly 10 inches narrower than a Mooney. Accordingly, when a Culver Cadet pops up in the classified ads, the asking prices are almost as small as the pool of likely buyers.

Conversely, when searching for a four-place airplane with a decent cruise speed, good useful load, capable of getting into and out of a wide variety of strips, and straightforward ownership and maintenance, one must get in line and prepare for painful asking prices. This was the conundrum faced by my friend Matt recently. His mission was all too common— take one or two friends on one- to three-hour trips, occasionally to grass strips, without having to deal with overly burdensome searching for parts or qualified maintenance.

Such airplanes exist, but as Matt soon learned, the popularity of this recipe makes it a particularly valuable one. He naturally zeroed in on the Cessna 182, as it does just about everything pretty well, and came away stunned at the asking prices. Indeed, a quick survey of the many examples listed on Trade-A-Plane reveals a median asking price of $160,000—and that’s excluding the second-generation 182s produced from 1997 onward.

• READ MORE: Traveling on the Cheap: Older, Odd, and Unloved Aircraft Can Be Bargains

To help Matt with his conundrum, I turned to a recommendation I commonly make—the oft-forgotten Cessna 175 Skylark. With a short, five-year production run from 1958-62, just more than 2,100 examples were built. This compares to more than 44,000 172s and more than 23,000 182s. 

Essentially a 172 with a different engine, the 175 came in two varieties—the early version with a straight, vertical stabilizer and a later version with a swept one. All have the “fastback,” lacking rear windows, and all were built with fixed landing gear. On the ramp, the only visual difference between a 172 and 175 is a slightly different cowl or a visible gearbox nested inside the main air intake. 

The 175 hp Continental GO-300 engine is the key differentiator. At its core, it’s the same 300-cubic-inch, 6-cylinder as the basic 145 hp C-145 or O-300. But as the “G” suggests, it’s a geared version of those engines and makes the additional horsepower by turning at a higher rpm.

The general consensus is that the GO-300 is a decent engine but that it comes with some concerns. For example, those who don’t operate it by the book tend to experience maintenance issues. But even if you treat it properly, parts are increasingly difficult to source, and an ever-shrinking number of shops are even willing to overhaul it. The relatively low, 1,200-hour time before overhaul (TBO) is also a concern.

So what makes the Cessna 175 an airplane I recommend to my friends? Do I take joy in setting up my buddies with problematic engines that drain their bank accounts before my eyes? Is this the kind of friend I am?

Certainly not. While I have indeed been known to orchestrate some truly legendary pranks in my college days, I’d never knowingly set up anyone for failure. Here, then, are three reasons I commonly recommend the 175 to prospective, first-time airplane owners:

1) An upgraded engine transforms the 175 into a budget 182.

I once belonged to a flying club that had a 172M with a 180 hp Lycoming O-360, and it was an absolute beast. The additional horsepower resulted in shockingly short takeoff rolls, and the climb rates that followed transformed many departure-end obstacles into laughable curiosities. One summer, two friends and I loaded a week’s worth of camping gear into the back and set off for Oshkosh, filled to the brim and just below maximum takeoff weight. The Super 172 performed brilliantly, demonstrating that 180 hp is what the 172 airframe should have come with from the beginning.

Fortunately, multiple engine STCs exist for the 175, and the 180 hp Lycoming O-360 is one of them. Find one with this engine, and you’ll have a wonderfully capable airplane, simultaneously a high-performance 172 and budget 182. It will do everything reasonably well with none of the downsides of a 175 with the original GO-300 engine.

Alternatively, one can purchase a 175 with the stock engine, fly it for several years while putting money aside for a future engine upgrade, and then do that in lieu of an overhaul. The existing GO-300 and propeller won’t command much when sold second hand, but they will take a chunk out of the total upgrade cost. For those of us with modest cash flow, this option might be the best way to get into a decent airplane that has the option to be upgraded to a truly great one.

2) A 180 hp 175 is well-balanced in multiple ways.

Generally, bigger engines provide more power and higher performance. But beyond a certain point, any vehicle will be hindered by the larger engine in terms of overall balance. Like a Mazda Miata with a V-8 shoehorned into the engine compartment, an airplane with an overly large powerplant might lose some of its best handling qualities. 

Such is the case with the 175’s Continental O-470 STC. Sure, it provides 230 hp, but owners report a terribly nose-heavy aircraft with a CG right at the forward edge of the envelope and correspondingly heavy and difficult flare, particularly at higher flap settings. Additionally, the big engine has six cylinders to care for and comes with notably increased fuel burn. Like the tale of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, the middle, 180 hp mama bear provides an ideal balance of qualities beyond horsepower.

3) Nobody remembers to search for 175s.

With apologies for any added exposure this article might provide to the aircraft shopping community, one of the best things about the 175 is its obscurity and anonymity. When performing their daily (or hourly) sweep of listings at Aircraft For Sale, most shoppers navigate directly to the 172 or 182 listings without even thinking to search for 175s. To be fair, pickings are slim (though there are some to be found). As mentioned, only 2,100 were built, and 896 remain active on the FAA registry.

But an occasional browse through the listings sometimes reveals hidden treasures. Over the past year, I’ve spotted 180 hp 175s listed for well below the asking prices of 180 hp 172s and certainly 182s. Even if the Skylarks in hiding are presented with the same pricing, there’s a good chance you can find some outstanding, undiscovered examples. This can be your ticket to scoring a great airplane for a fair price in the cutthroat shopping environment.

The post The Advantages of Shopping for Unusual Aircraft appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Generally, the more unique and unconventional an aircraft’s design, the more extreme its strengths and weaknesses become. A canard configuration, a wing optimized for high lift, and an amphibious airframe each provide specialized capability, and each also introduces a corresponding penalty with regard to other factors. This give and take in aircraft design and engineering applies to all aircraft, from the largest transports to the smallest homebuilts. 

Among the most interesting case studies are those that start with a common mission and reimagine the ordinary, eschewing the tried and true in favor of exploring new concepts. The Anderson Greenwood AG-14 is one such example. Aiming to gain a foothold in the personal aircraft market during the postwar years, it incorporated a decidedly unconventional layout that featured a single pusher engine and a twin-boom tail.

The fundamentals of the aircraft were common to existing types, however. Like many Cessna 140s, Luscombes, and Ercoupes, the AG-14 was equipped with a run-of-the-mill Continental C90 engine and a fixed-pitch propeller and weighed less than 1,000 pounds (empty) with a two-person capacity. This commonality of these foundational elements effectively isolated the pros and cons of the unique airframe layout, enabling an interesting side-by-side comparison with conventional types.

The most significant benefit of the unorthodox design was the completely unrestricted visibility from the cockpit. With no wing creating a blind spot either upward or downward, no engine cowling limiting forward visibility, and no propeller arc through which to look, the occupants’ field of vision is not unlike that of some helicopters. Indeed, had the design been given the opportunity to evolve, some panel reconfiguration could have enabled the introduction of a fully glazed forward cockpit like the Partenavia Observer. Such a modification might have appealed to the market as a low-cost helicopter alternative for duties such as pipeline inspection, law enforcement, and aerial survey missions.

A secondary benefit to the design is the configuration of the propeller and tail. Completely nested within the tail booms, the pusher propeller is shielded from wayward pedestrians who might carelessly wander around the airplane. Although the pilot cannot visually confirm the prop is indeed clear before engine start, the safety benefit of its position within the tail booms is legitimate.

Chief among the disadvantages of the AG-14’s layout is weight and balance. When it comes to aircraft design, it’s preferable to position the location with variable weight (such as fuel tanks and the passenger cabin) as close to the center of gravity (CG) as possible. This minimizes the effect varying weights will have on the CG, simplifying the concern of staying within that envelope. 

By positioning the passenger cabin well forward of the wing (and CG), the AG-14’s design introduces some unique characteristics. With little effort, one person can lift the nose wheel up and tip the airplane back onto its tail. Pilots report that the nose wheel can be held off the ground indefinitely while taxiing, even at low speeds. While Anderson Greenwood sufficiently addressed any issues related to this aft CG to achieve type certification, it was undoubtedly a major concern during the design and certification phase. It’s possible the decision to limit pitch authority and make the airplane stall and spin resistant was a decision driven by the negative effects of a particularly aft CG in stalls and spins.

The additional structure and complexity of the twin-boom tail inevitably add additional weight compared to conventional tails. This naturally limits useful load, adds drag, and makes inspections and maintenance more complex. Nevertheless, Anderson Greenwood managed to achieve performance comparable to the Cessna 150, with a cruise speed of 110 mph and a climb rate of 630 feet per minute. One minor downside with which the Cessna doesn’t contend is related to the pusher configuration—positioned directly behind the nose wheel, the propeller is susceptible to damage and wear from foreign object debris.

The AG-14’s design was intriguing enough to inspire a derivation in the form of the Cessna XMC research aircraft. First flown in 1971, Cessna studied the nearly identical side and configuration in pursuit of noise reduction and improved visibility for personal flying and training purposes. Ultimately, only one example was built, and Cessna did not pursue the concept any further.

After being introduced in 1950, only five AG-14s were produced. Today, four remain on the U.S. registry, and at least one or two are maintained in flying condition. Occasionally, one of the owners attends fly-ins like EAA AirVenture in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, where one can see and admire the unique little airplane in person. While it is unlikely the design will reemerge in the form of a modernized version, advanced materials such as carbon fiber could enable further evolution of the concept.

The post Anderson Greenwood AG-14 a Rare Breed, Indeed appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

When I first entered the world of aircraft ownership, I understood there exists a hierarchy of hangar options. The clear and undisputed pinnacle is, of course, a hangar home. In addition to not having to pay monthly hangar rent, this option enables one to wake up on a Saturday morning, brew a cup of coffee, and shuffle out to check on their airplane without even having to put on pants—the stuff of dreams.

On the other end of the hangar spectrum lies open hangars. These provide a roof but lack complete doors or walls, leaving your airplane exposed to wind, snow drifts, and bird droppings. They’re certainly a better option than an outdoor tiedown, but only marginally. This was the first option I could find after buying my airplane, and it sufficed for the first several months.

Somewhere in the middle are shared hangars, and they introduce an entirely new element to consider—the prospect of a hangar mate. It can be a rather unsettling thought. Given the overall scarcity of hangars across much of the U.S., we rarely have the luxury of choosing our hangar mates, and the possibility of providing the general aviation equivalent of Cousin Eddie with access to our beloved airplanes is a chilling thought indeed.

• READ MORE: Finding the Perfect Hangar Isn’t So Easy

I have, over the past couple of years, utilized two forms of shared hangars—community hangars in which one’s airplane is moved and shuffled around with multiple others in a manner not unlike musical chairs. It’s anyone’s guess who might be moving your airplane around, and it’s anyone’s guess whether that individual might be preoccupied with texting their friends when they should be monitoring wingtip clearance. You never know what surprises might await on your next preflight, and it’s not comforting.

Fortunately, I was only stuck in a community hangar for a short time. Since then, I’ve been based at an airfield with hangars that each hold two airplanes, parked tail-to-tail. Each hangar has doors on each side and is completely open inside, with no separation between the two airplanes. This arrangement has been far superior to any community hangar, but it’s still luck of the draw when it comes to with whom you will have to share the hangar.

Going into it, therefore, was a leap of faith. Would I wind up with a pleasant, responsible individual I wouldn’t have to worry about? Or would I be paired with an unstable individual who has filled their side of the hangar with obnoxious political flags and broken-down boats—and has multiple felony warrants?

I was concerned about this. As the space is shared, you can expect to interact with your hangar mate regularly, and as I’ve come to learn, winding up with a good one improves the overall ownership experience immensely. Heading out to your hangar should be something you eagerly anticipate, not something you dread.

I met my first hangar mate, Dave, through a mutual friend. I was searching for a home for my airplane and a temporary home for myself. He explained that he and his wife were renting both spots in their hangar, but they were about to sell one of the airplanes, and one spot would soon become available. He also mentioned in passing that he and his wife were planning to live out of state for the summer.

When this kind of opportunity knocks, you answer. Before I knew it, I’d agreed to rent both their second hangar spot and their nearby condo in a package deal. And while I grew very fond of and became friends with Dave, his near-total absence made it seem like I had the hangar to myself. It was a pretty sweet setup; I didn’t take it for granted.

The arrangement offered another benefit. Having been an aircraft owner for decades, Dave had, over the years, collected just about everything one might need in the way of supplies and equipment, from an air compressor and a nice ladder to a refrigerator and comfy chairs. I, on the other hand, offered absolutely nothing of benefit to Dave except for a trustworthy set of eyes and a willingness to help keep watch over his airplane. But, the partnership worked well for both parties.

A phone call from Dave on one random Saturday shook me out of my hangar Shangri-la. He decided to sell his remaining airplane, and I’d soon be reentering the frightening world of hangar mate roulette. It was a chilling notion, and once again, visions of Cousin Eddie filled my head, my airplane surrounded by chickens and stray dogs.

I called our mutual friend, Dan, and asked for his advice. As it happened, Dan was looking to sell one of his two airplanes, which would open up half of his hangar. Like me, he had been wondering with whom he’d soon be paired and was fearing the worst. When we learned we needed a good, responsible hangar mate, we decided I’d move into his soon-to-be-vacant spot.

Since then, it’s been an absolute pleasure. Dan’s hangar is filled with random clutter, including an old pop-up camper, a utility trailer, and parts from airplanes neither of us own. But it’s also filled with immensely useful items. Multiple workbenches, for example. A pressure washer. An old garden tractor that’s been converted to a tug. And a truly intimidating walk-behind snowblower that appears to be equipped with a big-block Chevy engine. All nice things to have in rural Wisconsin.

Most importantly, the hangar comes with Dan himself. He’s proven to be a true friend, and we have, on multiple occasions, jumped at the chance to shuttle each other to and from our respective airplanes when faraway maintenance becomes necessary. If I received a call from him at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday, explaining that he’s stranded three states away and needs help, I guess I’d be calling in sick and heading out. The laughs and great conversation on the way back would make it all worthwhile.

• READ MORE: Scarce Hangar Space Spurs Arizona Development

I wish there were a way to connect similarly like-minded airplane owners when it becomes necessary to share hangars. Unfortunately, hangars tend to be difficult to come by, and virtually no airports have a web-based system to view and select available hangars, let alone hangar mates. Ultimately, word-of-mouth tends to be the method most commonly used.

The key is to get out there and mingle. Show up to Saturday morning hangar-flying sessions with a box of donuts, immerse yourself in the conversation and culture, and put some feelers out to locate the best options. This way, you can get a read on the vibe of the airport while watching for red flags and people to avoid.

With any luck, you’ll find a like-minded, responsible friend with whom to share a hangar as well as some good conversation and flying experiences. And until you manage to find your dream hangar home, you really can’t ask for much more than that.

The post The Risks and Rewards of a Shared Hangar appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Readers contact me pretty regularly for advice regarding airplane shopping, purchasing, and maintenance. I can only assume they’re inspired by the notion that an individual lacking flying skills, business acumen, and finances can successfully navigate aircraft ownership. I’ll admit I myself am often amused that I’ve made it this far.

It’s enjoyable to help, though. Whether it’s a new pilot exploring ownership for the first time or a seasoned expert weighing upgrade options, I find it rewarding to help others avoid some of the hard lessons with which I’ve had to contend thus far on my own journey.

• READ MORE: The Fizzled-Out Promise of the Lockheed ‘Flatbed’

I recently spoke at length with two individuals asking for ownership advice. One was considering a panel upgrade, weighing the pros and cons of a few options that ranged from some minor modifications to a complete overhaul. The other was torn between upgrading the engine and propeller on his Cessna 170 versus selling it and buying a larger Cessna 180.

In each case, the most attractive option was to invest a fairly substantial amount of money into the existing airplane. Panel guy knew he wanted full IFR capability, and he knew he liked Garmin’s latest avionics. And 170 guy loved almost everything about his airplane except for the modest power. Each recognized that a big upgrade would result in their perfect airplane…but each shared the same reservation—losing money on the airplane upgrade and reasoning they’ll never get it back through resale.

• READ MORE: Golden-Hued Memories of a Late Summer Fly-In

They’re not wrong. In most cases involving major upgrades, the money spent on parts and labor will exceed the additional amount you can command when reselling the airplane. The majority of the upgrade cost becomes sunk, and this was the hangup I kept hearing.

In the case of the full panel overhaul, the entire panel plus labor was forecast at around $60,000—nearly the value of the airplane itself. The resale value of the unmodified plane was around $80,000. Based on what I’ve seen in the classified listings, this would rise to perhaps $100,000 to $110,000 with the new panel installed. So about half of the panel cost would be money spent and never seen again.

It was the same story with the Cessna 170 owner looking for more power. Yes, he could upgrade the engine and propeller, but he’d never get that money back out of the airplane when the time came to sell it. This is why he was considering selling the 170 and upgrading to the 180. He loved his 170, but the spreadsheet said the 180 would be the wiser investment.

• READ MORE: Sizing Up Your New Aircraft

I asked both owners a few key questions, including how long each expected to own their airplane and what they enjoyed most about it. Their replies were predictable. They loved their airplanes and expected to continue flying them for another 20 years or so. Each had already spent significant time and effort to get them sorted and set up to their liking, and in each case, the upgrade they were considering would eliminate their least favorite aspect of the airplane.

It ultimately came down to the question of whether each upgrade must earn its place and someday recoup its entire cost. I advised the owners to pay attention to this factor but not live by it. In other words, try to avoid becoming upside down on each upgrade, but not at the expense of years of enjoying your perfect airplane.

In the case of the panel upgrade, I offered a scenario. Suppose the complete new panel ultimately “loses” half its value when the airplane sells. Over the course of 20 years, this amounts to little more than a cell phone bill every month. And chances are the appreciating value of the airplane itself will absorb that amount and then some. 

The flip side is to live with an airplane that’s almost perfect but annoys you in the same persistent manner throughout every flight. For panel guy, this would mean living with a panel that’s VFR-only or IFR-capable but imperfect. Personally, I’d almost rather have the option that’s far from perfect because I find almost perfect to be maddening. 

• READ MORE: Registering a Custom N-Number for Your New Airplane

For engine upgrade guy, this would mean one of two things. He could live with the relatively anemic thrust, takeoff, and climb ability of the stock 170. Alternatively, he could sell it and upgrade to the 180—but that would introduce higher fuel burn, higher insurance rates, and years of finding, buying, and sorting an airplane to get him back into the groove of stable, predictable ownership. For him, putting the finishing touches on an almost perfect airplane seemed to make the most sense.

Ultimately, I provided both owners with the same advice. Look at the cost of a major upgrade over the entire length of time you expect to own the airplane and take the appreciating value of the airplane itself into account. Twenty years from now, it’s unlikely any of us will look back and lament missing out on an additional $125 per month on an individual upgrade. But it’s entirely likely we’ll look back on a couple of decades of flying adventures made that much safer and more epic by taking place in the perfect airplane.

The post Airplane Math: When Do Upgrades Make Economic Sense? appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

In 1980, a small team of engineers from Lockheed explored a bizarre concept, the likes of which had never been studied before.

The group recognized that the transport aircraft category traditionally comprised three separate subcategories—passenger, cargo, and outsized cargo. It then created a concept that would combine all three. Aptly called the “Flatbed,” the concept aircraft would utilize an open platform and various modules to carry a wide variety of loads ranging from military equipment to passengers.

• READ MORE: The Unconventional, Bizarre Bell Airacuda

The most unconventional aspect of the Flatbed was the proposal that large pieces of military equipment be carried out in the open, completely unsheltered from the wind and elements. The team selected two sample military vehicles for the initial study, an XM-1 tank and an M60 bridge launcher, weighing 115,000 and 120,000 pounds, respectively. The big question was could this sort of outsized cargo effectively be carried out in the open at hundreds of miles per hour?

The group got to work on the drawing board and in the wind tunnel to answer that and explore how the Flatbed might serve as a multifunctional, “do-it-all” transport solution. The baseline Flatbed aircraft was a low-wing, turbofan-powered aircraft approximately the same size and weight as an Airbus A300. It utilized four CFM-56 engines, as found on the Airbus A320, Boeing 737, and Boeing KC-135R Stratotanker, and was optimized for a 2,600 nm range.

• READ MORE: That Time Cessna Made a Helicopter

Recognizing that carrying outsize cargo such as tanks out in the open would present serious drag and fuel-burn penalties, the team did not hedge its bets on this configuration alone. Instead, it designed the Flatbed to accept a variety of pressurized and unpressurized containers as well as a passenger module. The entire nose section of the aircraft was hinged, capable of being swung to the side to enable modules and vehicles to be quickly and easily loaded and unloaded using a variety of ramps, rollers, and latches. Raised engine pylons extending above the wing rather than below enabled shorter landing gear and a low, 7-foot cargo bed height.

With the cargo and passenger modules, the Flatbed was shown to be “generally fuel efficient in comparison with reference airplanes,” burning approximately 11 percent more fuel than a conventional design and targeting a 0.82 Mach cruise speed in these configurations. The primary benefit was presented as efficiency with regard to loading and unloading, particularly in the passenger configuration. In this role, the team proposed an entire restructuring of point-to-point travel.

• READ MORE: The Close Call of the Northrop YA-9A Prototype

By utilizing a large number of removable 180-seat modules, the passengers could board their module in a city center some distance away from their departure airport. Like multimodal containers, the module could be loaded onto a short-distance commuter train for transport to the airport, where it would be expeditiously loaded onto the waiting aircraft. The team proposed that this speedy loading and unloading of passengers would enable quick turns and high aircraft utilization. Similarly, it touted the ability of multimodal containers and even train cars to be quickly rolled onto and off the Flatbed.

But from the perspective of aircraft design in general and aerodynamics in particular, the most intriguing aspect of the Flatbed concept was the carrying of outsize cargo out in the open. Using scale models of both the Flatbed and tank and bridge launcher, aerodynamicists studied drag figures and later translated the data into speed and fuel-burn figures. The resulting performance numbers indicated the concept was surprisingly plausible.

Naturally, carrying external cargo was found to drastically increase drag compared to carrying the aerodynamically slick cargo and passenger modules. At higher altitudes, carrying the tank or bridge launcher would result in a 20 percent increase in fuel burn. At a lower 18,000 feet cruising altitude, this increased to approximately 55 percent. The external cargo also lowered the cruise speed to 0.5-0.6 Mach.

The team proposed multiple solutions to address the increased fuel burn. At the time of the study, engine manufacturers were looking at unducted “propfan” engines to improve fuel efficiency, and the team suggested exploring these new engines for the Flatbed. It also explored the possibility of “vortex control,” a system that introduced suction at the forward end of the cargo bed to smooth the air flowing around the back of the cockpit section, thus reducing drag. 

Ice accumulation on external cargo was identified as one potential challenge worthy of additional study. Engineers did observe that in-flight icing “does not appear to present a major problem,” however, as ice formation occurs only on the front part of the aircraft components. By tucking in the external cargo behind the cockpit section, it appeared to be sufficiently shielded from ice. 

While the Flatbed concept would never materialize beyond static and wind-tunnel models, the team partnered with NASA to publish a detailed initial study that evaluated the feasibility of the unconventional concept. The study ultimately concluded that the concept was both technically and economically feasible. They reasoned that the smaller size and increased versatility of such an aircraft would make it inherently more efficient to operate compared to existing military cargo aircraft.

Despite the overall finding that the Flatbed concept was worthy of additional examination, however, no such study ever occurred. The Lockheed Flatbed concept fizzled out after the publication of the NASA report.

The post The Fizzled-Out Promise of the Lockheed ‘Flatbed’ appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Living in Wisconsin has pros and cons. My dad, a resident of sunny San Diego, enjoys reminding me of the con that is long, harsh winters. Without fail, I can expect to receive a video clip from him in the frigid depths of January or February showing him splashing barefoot through the warm surf and mocking me for the sub-zero maelstrom of snow and ice with which I’m inevitably contending. 

I’ve since learned that a quick screen capture of Midwestern real estate listings can effectively shut him up for the season. But this year some of the beautiful summertime scenes I’ve enjoyed from aloft may prove even more effective. This is what I was thinking about on a recent picture-perfect Saturday filled with antique aircraft, good friends, and sweeping rural vistas in the waning, golden sunlight.

Having been without an airworthy airplane for several months this year, I’m just now getting back into the swing of things. I’m beginning to rediscover how a perfect weekend can be made even more so as an airplane owner. With muddy winters, lengthy annual inspections, and massive panel upgrades behind me, the airplane is running great, and I’m finally free to actually use it to seize the day.

The most recent Saturday adventure began with a generous invitation from my friend Luke. Luke is a very active volunteer with the EAA Vintage Aircraft Association, and it was with his invite that I was able to attend their annual fly-in at Brodhead, Wisconsin. Conveniently, Brodhead is only about 20 miles south of me, and while I frequently pop down there for pattern work on the three beautifully maintained grass runways, this was the first time I’d flown into one of its organized events.

I wasn’t sure what to expect. In terms of fly-ins, I’ve only ever flown into EAA AirVenture in Oshkosh. This frame of reference is a bit nonstandard, not unlike someone who has only ever attended the Super Bowl and is wondering how local high school games must compare. It would be a new experience, and I was looking forward to it.

As it turns out, smaller countryside fly-ins—even the more sizable ones—have a wonderful vibe and are a true pleasure to attend, especially in your own airplane. Like sampling a fine wine, one can slowly mosey around the airport, have relaxed conversations, take in the vintage airplanes, and lazily discuss plans for the on-site barbecue and evening campfire. This is a stark contrast to trying to take in AirVenture, which I’ve found to be less like sampling fine wine and perhaps more like shotgunning several dozen consecutive cans of Miller Lite in one frenzied sitting.

The staccato bark of 1920s- and 1930s-era radial engines above punctuated the relaxed countryside ambiance as various achingly beautiful antique aircraft took people for rides and regularly passed overhead. An attendee showed off his 1950s-era BMW motorcycle alongside an old biplane, the stately rumble of the opposed twin blending in nicely with the vintage aircraft engines surrounding us. There was an idyllic balance of laziness and activity that allowed conversations to flow and prevented boredom from ever materializing. 

Hang out at your own airplane, and the conversations are similarly relaxed and enjoyable. Nobody is in a hurry, trying to scurry off to a forum, press briefing, or airshow display like at Oshkosh. Topics of conversation meander like lazy creeks, with aviation newcomers presenting fun, elementary questions about your machine and fellow owners swapping tips and lore learned from ownership. 

As the sun sank lower and the shadows grew long, I preflighted my plane and took off behind a beautiful Stinson Gullwing. Happy to have a full complement of LED lighting to help me stand out, I carefully negotiated the radio-free antique biplanes in the pattern and set off for the 20-minute flight home. Along the way, golden sunlight illuminated the cabin and brought the hayfields below to life in a way the midday sun never can. The atmosphere was as warm as the filtered light, and my leisurely 90 mph cruise speed became more of a luxury than a hindrance.

Evenings like this bring out the paramotor training at my home airfield, and I’m fortunate the instructors and students monitor the frequency with vigilance. Upon hearing me report my position inbound, they requested a few minutes to clear the runway for my arrival. I was happy to orbit the picturesque fields for a bit and comply. 

Still a relative newcomer to the world of tailwheels, I’d just assume not have a live audience lining the runway edges while I land. While I was confident I could land safely and without placing the crowd in danger, I also knew chances were good that I’d resemble an injured wildebeest staggering across the runway while doing so. Fortunately, the tailwheel gods smiled upon me. With the help of my squishy Alaskan Bushwheels and the 8 psi of pressure within, I believe I fooled my audience into thinking I possess something resembling proficiency and skill.

It was a perfect end to a perfect day of airplane ownership, and I’ve come to learn how important it is to deposit these kinds of memories into the vault for safekeeping. Snow, ice, and future setbacks are certain to arrive, after all…and like a big stack of nicely seasoned firewood, reflections upon days like this help to ensure you stay warm and happy in the inevitably challenging times ahead.

The post Golden-Hued Memories of a Late Summer Fly-In appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Larry Bell, founder of the Bell Aircraft Corp., now known as Bell Helicopter, entered the aircraft manufacturing industry with a unique bang. After dropping out of high school in 1912, Bell worked for various aircraft companies, including Martin and Consolidated, before starting his own company in 1935. Rather than beginning with a conservative, basic aircraft type, he opted to respond to a military contract by proposing one that was so unconventional it bordered on bizarre.

That aircraft was the Bell YFM-1 Airacuda, a long-range and heavily armed escort fighter designed as an interceptor and bomber escort. It was part of a newly emerging category of aircraft containing models described by FLYING in 1941 as “virtually impregnable fortresses of themselves, yet maintaining considerable maneuverability and striking prowess which the big bombers lack.”

The design and configuration of the Airacuda was like nothing the industry had ever seen. The twin pusher engines were housed in glazed nacelles, each of which contained a crewmember, for a total of five. And while most of the 15 examples built were taildraggers, three incorporated tricycle gear—a cutting-edge aircraft development at the time.

In the fuselage, the pilot was accompanied by two other crewmembers. Seated in close proximity was an individual who handled three duties—copilot, navigator, and fire control officer. This multitasking expert was provided with a stowable control column and pedals to help fly the aircraft and was typically the one in charge of aiming and firing the various gyro-stabilized cannons and machine guns bristling from the airplane. In the back, a third crewmember handled radio communications and manned .50-caliber machine guns mounted in side pods to protect the aircraft from aggressors approaching from the rear.

Out in the engine nacelles, the remaining two crewmembers had somewhat simpler tasks. While they had the ability to aim and fire the .30-caliber machine guns in their respective nacelles, their usual duty was simply to reload them. Of somewhat more significant concern was what they would do in the event they had to bail out and fall through the path of the propellers churning the air immediately behind. While various sources refer to explosive bolts intended to jettison the propeller blades prior to bailout, the flight manual only refers to an emergency feathering procedure in which the electric props would feather and stop in six to eight potentially very long seconds.

Almost immediately upon making its first flight in September 1939, it became clear the Airacuda engineers had perhaps bitten off a bit more than they—and the flight crews—could chew. With 1,150 hp Allison V-1710 V-12 engines, the 21,625-pound aircraft could achieve 268 mph in high-speed cruise and reach a service ceiling of 29,900 feet. However, the flight control characteristics and single-engine handling were atrocious and would now be considered far too dangerous to approve for production.

The flight manual made no attempt to hide the unforgiving handling characteristics from pilots, warning that “due to close proximity of propeller to tall surfaces, a sudden reduction of power of one engine either through an engine failure or excessive movement of one throttle will result in a much more violent and immediate control reaction than on multiengine, tractor-type airplanes. Failure of one engine may result in a spin unless the other engine is retarded or trim tab control adjusted immediately.”

It went on to include some concerning limitations: “In case of failure of one engine the other engine should be retarded immediately and the throttle of [the] good engine advanced gradually as trim tab control is adjusted to counteract turning moment. With proper adjustment of [the] trim tab, airplanes can be safely flown on one engine. Single-engine practice flights will not be engaged in below [10,000] feet. This airplane should be flown only by experienced multiengine pilots.”

To provide sufficient electrical power for the various power-hungry systems, such as the targeting gyros, Bell designed the airplane around a 13.5 hp, 2-cylinder, four-cycle piston auxiliary power unit (APU) mounted in its forward belly. It ran at a constant speed of 4,000 rpm and powered the majority of systems, including the aforementioned propellers. Contrary to many reports, the APU was, in fact, not the sole source of electrical power—the right side engine was fitted with a backup generator to provide emergency electrical power to the aircraft in the event the APU failed.

Compounding the challenges of the Airacuda’s unconventional design was insufficient engine cooling. When idling on the ground for extended periods, the aircraft required special fan units with custom ducts that fed into the wing leading-edge intakes to prevent the engines from overheating. This also led to some operational difficulties in flight. 

Ultimately, no further examples of the Airacuda would be manufactured, as the combination of long-range bombers, such as the B-17, and traditional fighter escorts, such as the P-51, proved effective in the war. Two Airacudas were lost in accidents, and unfortunately, all remaining examples were scrapped by 1942.

While the small fleet never directly contributed to the war effort, Bell learned valuable lessons from its design, testing, and production. To keep the engines positioned forward, for example, and thus maintaining a proper center of gravity, each Airacuda engine incorporated a 64-inch driveshaft extension. The vibration and harmonics involved in such an extension are not trivial, and this experience likely helped refine similar extensions utilized in the later P-39 Airacobra and P-63 Kingcobra, both of which were manufactured in the thousands.

The post The Unconventional, Bizarre Bell Airacuda appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

When evaluating the many concerns involved with selecting an aircraft type to purchase, most people cover all the bases. Engine time and health, hangar availability, insurance cost, training requirements, and similar issues generally play a part in the decision—and for good reason. They’re all important elements that can significantly affect the ownership experience.

One aspect that few people take into consideration—early in the process, anyway—is ergonomics. This is primarily only a concern with particularly large and small pilots, but it’s an important one nonetheless. Certain aircraft types are simply incompatible with people of certain sizes, and these are pilot/machine combinations to avoid. 

As a larger person who tends to require more shoulder room than most, I learned early on that I’m not suited to certain types. Paired with an instructor of similar size during my primary training in a Cessna 152, I assumed it was customary for both occupants to have to inhale deeply to enable both doors to close. And I assumed it was normal to then have very little (comfortable) range of motion after being squished inside. 

While these uncomfortable realities are perhaps not terribly uncommon, they’re not entirely necessary, especially when buying your own airplane. So, when I fell in love with the flying characteristics of the Cessna 140, I ultimately decided to save my money for another couple of years so I could afford the larger and decidedly less cramped Cessna 170. It was money well spent. Although I would never describe the 170 as a roomy airplane, it improves greatly upon the discomfort of the 140.

But a more interesting question is what types are especially well suited to particularly large or small pilots. Some dedicated investigation can reveal some compelling types that your size, large or small, can unlock. These might be types that you’d never have otherwise considered.

The North American/Ryan Navion was a pleasant surprise when I reviewed it for an upcoming installment of FLYING’s “Air Compare” feature in the print edition. With a cabin that’s spacious enough to enable passengers to move between the front and back seats and a number of controls that require a good reach to access, larger pilots will feel as though the airplane was made just for them.

Similarly, the Cessna 180, 182, and 185 all have quite tall instrument panels and heavy controls, particularly the elevator in the flare with full flaps. They have ample cabin space and enough useful load that baggage and a second sizable occupant is rarely a factor. Like the Navion, these airplanes are entirely flyable by people of all sizes, but larger pilots will likely find them a comfortable, natural fit.

Most large pilots don’t even consider smaller machines like the Luscombe for good reason. The tiny side-by-side cabin is only 39 inches wide. But there’s a sneaky way into Luscombe ownership for larger folks, and it comes in the form of the rare T8F “Observer.” Equipped with tandem (one seat in front of the other) seating, this placement provides twice the shoulder room as a standard Luscombe. A relatively limited useful load remains a restriction, however, and larger pilots generally have it worse than smaller ones because of this.

Speaking from experience, larger pilots look at our bantamweight colleagues with a healthy dose of envy. How nice it would be to instantly have an extra hundred pounds of useful load, or alternatively, less weight with correspondingly better performance. Our abilities to manage heavy control forces and move airplanes around on the ramp with ease are quickly forgotten as we observe departure-end obstacles looming ever closer during one of our luxuriously ponderous climbs.

In addition to enjoying better performance and load-carrying ability, smaller pilots enjoy a backstage pass into a number of correspondingly small aircraft types. The achingly cool Culver Cadet, for example, with its beautiful elliptical wing and retractable gear, offers only about 35 inches of cabin width to its two occupants seated side by side. Even average-sized pilots find this to be cramped, so to be able to fly one around comfortably is a privilege indeed.

The single-seat Mooney M-18 Mite is a type that similarly only accommodates smaller people. An extreme example is the Quickie, an even tinier single-seat—and experimental—aircraft that, with an 18 hp engine, boasts a max cruise speed of 115 mph (100 knots) and can achieve 100 miles per gallon. While either of these can carry a slightly heavier pilot, the cramped cabin limits access to smaller ones.

Not all is fun and games for our smaller friends, however. Fighting an old, stiff fuel hose while climbing up onto a high-wing aircraft isn’t fun for anyone and may be nearly impossible. Getting into and out of a taildragger with big Alaskan Bushwheels can feel like it requires crampons and a rope. And simply moving an airplane around on the ramp or into and out of a hangar, particularly in slippery winter conditions, can become futile. 

The biggest opportunity for the prospective airplane buyer is to take these sorts of concerns into account early in the shopping process. Talk to others of similar size in online forums. Better yet, attend as many fly-ins as possible. There, you can try airplanes on for size and chat with owners of similar size to make a decision you’ll be happy with for the long term.

The post Sizing Up Your New Aircraft appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

During the 1960s and 1970s, general aviation was bustling. Fuel was inexpensive, disposable income was relatively plentiful, and airplanes were selling well. Bolstered by various wartime production surges, manufacturers were well-equipped to satisfy the market’s demand, and competition among general aviation aircraft manufacturers was intense.

This Article First Appeared in FLYING Magazine

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Customers in every segment were welcomed with an array of options. A shopper interested in a two-seat trainer would have a variety of choices ranging from fabric taildraggers to brand-spanking-new concepts like the Piper Tomahawk and Beechcraft Skipper. Similarly, a shopper looking for four seats and good cross-country capability had a fascinating variety of models from which to choose.

This four-place cross-country category was particularly competitive. With offerings from Cessna, Beechcraft, Piper, Ryan, Aero Commander, Bellanca, Mooney, Grumman, and others, manufacturers found novel ways to provide solutions to a common mission—moving four seats from point A to point B as quickly and as efficiently as possible.

While many utilized similar designs from similar playbooks, a few took their own paths. Among the more interesting alternatives were Mooney with their M20 series, and Grumman with their AA-5 models. These two families of aircraft utilized completely different airframe construction techniques, vastly different cabin designs, and even differed with regard to fixed vs. retractable landing gear. Yet their missions were essentially the same. Here we explore why one might choose a Grumman AA-5 over a Mooney M20 and vice versa. 

Design and Evolution

Looking at the Grumman AA-5 and the four-cylinder Mooney M20 models, one might infer that the chief designers from each company agreed on very little.The low-slung M20 is equipped with retractable gear, while all AA-5 models utilize fixed gear. The Mooney sported the characteristic forward-swept tail that pivots in its entirety to provide pitch trim. Conversely, Grumman’s tail is traditional in both function and appearance. Even access to the cabins is vastly different, with Mooney utilizing a single right-side door while Grumman opted for a large canopy that slides back on rails to provide access from both sides.

Despite the differences, there are some fundamental similarities. The low-wing configuration, for example, four seats, and four-cylinder engines that produce from 150 to 220 horsepower.

To dig down into specifics and conduct a true apples-to-apples comparison with the AA-5, the wide array of Mooney M20 models offered over the years must be narrowed down. Produced from 1955 into the 2000s, more than 11,000 examples have been delivered, and the wide range of subtypes can be divided into groups based on cabin length.

The M20, M20A, M20B, M20C, M20D, and M20E are the “short-body” Mooneys. The M20F, M20G, M20J, and M20K had an additional foot of fuselage length added ahead of the back seats and are thus known as the “medium-body” Mooneys. “Long-body” Mooney production began in 1988. As the long bodies utilize larger, six-cylinder engines, they are less comparable to the Grumman AA-5 series, and we’ll exclude them from this review.

Short- and medium-body Mooney production took place from 1955 through 1998. With a handful of exceptions, the vast majority utilized the Lycoming O-360 and IO-360 engines, ranging from 180 to 200 horsepower. The M20K was the only turbocharged variant among the short and medium bodies and offered 210 to 220 horsepower.

The relative consistency among short- and medium-body Mooneys makes the shopping process fairly straightforward. Many shoppers exclude the M20and M20A from contention, as these early subtypes incorporated wood construction in the wing and tail. The criteria among the remaining models mostly come down to engines, which typically becomes a choice between 180 and 200 horsepower. Besides cabin length and the presence of an additional cabin window in the medium-body airplanes, other differences include manual vs. powered flaps and landing gear, and throttle quadrants vs. push/pull knobs.

One notable development was the M20D Master, which came from the factory with fixed, non-retractable landing gear. It was marketed as “convertible” and one could upgrade it to retractable gear. Virtually all have been converted, and only a few remain in their original fixed-gear configuration. While the fixed gear reportedly reduces cruise speed by approximately 25 knots, it would also presumably reduce insurance premiums appreciably.

The Grumman AA-5 Traveler has had a considerably less complex array of subtypes, but was produced under a variety of manufacturer names as ownership of the company changed over the years. Production began in 1971 with the 150 hp AA-5 Traveler. This initial type was produced by American Aviation and later, by Grumman Aviation.

The AA-5A Cheetah was introduced as a 1976 model. Produced by Grumman American and then Gulfstream American, it had the same horsepower but was faster, thanks to drag reduction modifications. Along with all subsequent AA-5 subtypes, it incorporated a larger horizontal stabilizer that expanded the CG range, and fuel capacity increased from 37 to 52 gallons.

For the 1975 model year, the 180 hp Grumman American/Gulfstream American AA-5B Tiger was introduced. In addition to the greater speed and power provided by the more powerful engine, it also introduced a slightly thicker wing spar and a 200-pound gross-weight increase.

Production of all AA-5 subtypes ended in 1979, but between 1990 and 1993, a newly-formed company, American General Aviation Corporation, resumed production of the Tiger as the AG-5B. AGAC modified it with various minor aerodynamic and systems improvements, and built a total of 181. The Tiger was resurrected yet again when Tiger Aircraft produced an additional 51 AG-5Bs between 2001 and 2006.

Market Snapshot

A recent survey of M20 and AA-5 variants listed for sale on six of the most popular online classified sites at the time of this writing provides a breakdown of the median asking prices.

One of the most notable takeaways is the consistency in asking prices of the two types. For all of their differences, they still utilize nearly-identical engines to move four seats a similar distance at a similar economy. The market appears to place similar values on this level of functionality.

Predictably, newer models command higher prices and vice-versa. And not surprisingly, the older airplanes generally have a higher number of airframe hours than the newer ones. One anomaly is apparent in the median price of the newer Tigers, although the limited sample size likely plays a role. Also apparent is the massive increase in asking prices post-pandemic. While we did not conduct a comprehensive pricing survey of the M20 family prior to or in the early days of the pandemic, a FLYING evaluation of the AA-5 in mid-2020 revealed a median asking price of $48,500 across all subtypes. Today, that figure has increased to $122,500—a 153 percent increase.

The number of active listings for each type reflects production numbers and fleet sizes. With such a lengthy production run, just over 9,000 short- and medium-body M20s have been produced to date. In contrast, only 3,282 AA-5s have been produced in total.

Today, 5,231 short- and medium-body M20s remain active on the FAA registry, compared to 1,839 Grumman AA-5s. This reflects 58 and 56 percent of the original fleet sizes, respectively. This illustrates the greater selection that prospective Mooney owners have compared with those shopping for a Grumman.

Flight Characteristics

The different design philosophies between the Grumman and the Mooney become evident the moment one steps onto the wing to board. Like many low-wing aircraft, admittance to the Mooney is provided via a single door on the right side of the fuselage. Comparatively, the Grumman incorporates a canopy that slides back on rails, allowing occupants to board from either side. When it comes to ease of access, Grumman has the advantage here. If there’s a downside, it’s that opening the canopy in the rain will expose far more of the cabin to the elements.

Once settled inside, the expansive windows that make up the Grumman’s canopy and low sill height provide a spacious feel with a panoramic view. But while the Grumman has an inch and a half more headroom than the Mooney, the Mooney is approximately 1 to 3 inches wider, depending on the specific model and which interior door and wall panels are installed.

The Mooney’s slight lack of headroom can create a marginally more restrictive feeling. Similarly, the Mooney’s panel and window sills are higher than the Grumman’s, adding to the closed-in effect. Talk to Mooney owners, though, and even those on the taller side report having sufficient space to stretch their legs and get comfortable.

The back seats differ more than the front. Grummans provide backseat occupants with a more roomy environment, and Grumman owners love how easy it is to fold the back seats forward to create a spacious cargo area. With the removal of their front wheels, two full-sized adult bicycles can easily be carried in the back.

The rear seating area in short-body Mooneys is notoriously cramped. Anyone planning to invite an adult to ride there with any regularity would be well-advised to opt for a medium-body Mooney, as the additional foot of fuselage length is placed between the front and rear seats. Mooney owners report no perceptible difference in front-seat comfort between short- and medium-body models.

Another difference arises while taxiing. While the Mooney’s rudder pedals are linked directly to nosewheel steering in the traditional manner, the Grumman utilizes a free-castering nosewheel and, thus, requires differential braking to steer and maintain directional control. Critics of this design are quick to mention the increased brake wear that comes from frequent steering inputs and brake applications, but fans counter by touting the ability to deftly pivot into and out of tight parking spaces with little effort.

Takeoff, climb, and cruise performance vary substantially based on specific subtypes. Grumman owners report that the 180-hp Tiger, despite having only 30 more horsepower than the Traveler and Cheetah, exhibits vastly better takeoff and climb performance than the lower-powered versions. Similarly, the performance difference between a 180 hp Mooney with no aerodynamic mods and a 200-plus horsepower Mooney with those mods is substantial.

A Lot of Speed in an Economical Package

FLYING has flown the Mooney M20s and Grumman AA-5s since each model was born. And since that time, we’ve remarked on how they deliver honest cross- country speed at a price that was relatively easy to accept.

In a March 1997 used airplane report on the M20 series, Richard L. Collins wrote, “In 1963, Mooney tweaked the M20C Mark 21 and added the M20D to the line. Dubbed the Master, it is a fixed-gear airplane with the option to convert it to a retractable. The Master’s standard price new was $13,995, and when you got tired of cruising at 140 mph, Mooney would convert the airplane to a retractable for $1,600. Most have been converted…Mooney was selling a lot of airplanes in those days simply because they delivered a lot of speed in an economical package.”

The same words echoed in FLYING’s report on the new Tiger in February 1975. Collins wrote, “If the next era is to be one of efficient simplicity, Grumman American is right on target. The four GA lightplanes…are as basic as they come…[and the Tiger’s] 139-knot cruising speed, healthy rate of climb, and good useful load make it a contender in the marketplace…”

We can, however, make a direct comparison by reviewing the published performance data of a 180 hp Tiger and a 180 hp M20C. At maximum takeoff weight and similar environmental conditions, some differences become apparent. The Mooney, for example, provides better takeoff performance, with a ground roll of 815 feet, and 1,395 feet required to clear a 50-foot obstacle. This compares to 909 feet and 1,628 feet for the Grumman, respectively.

Once in the air, the two airplanes return nearly identical rates of climb at sea level—800 fpm for the Mooney and 808 fpm for the Grumman. In cruise, the Mooney’s retractable gear provides an advantage in cruise speed, but not as large as one might expect. At 7,000 to 7,500 feet, 32 to 34 degrees Fahrenheit, and 2,700 rpm, the Mooney will reach 146 knots—only slightly faster than the 139-knot Grumman.

In real-world conditions with decades-old airplanes, M20C owners report 140- to 145-knot cruise speeds, and Tiger owners report a range of 125 to 135 knots. Cheetahs are typically about 10 knots slower. On the other end of the spectrum, one M20E owner reports his 200-hp machine with extensive speed mods reaches 155 to 160 knots while burning 10 gallons per hour.

In terms of knots per gallon, both airplanes perform admirably, especially compared to competing types. At the commonly-reported figures of roughly 135 knots and 9 gallons per hour, the Grumman Tiger boasts 15 knots per gallon of fuel burn. At an additional 10 knots with the same fuel burn, many M20C owners see that figure rise to 16.

While a new owner of either airplane would be wise to obtain flight instruction from an instructor intimately familiar with the type, Mooney owners are quicker to warn newcomers to the peculiarities of the M20, emphasizing precise airspeed control on final.The airplane is particularly unforgiving of being forced onto the runway before the wing is finished flying. In an attempt to avoid pilot-induced oscillations, one Mooney training curriculum strongly warns against attempting to salvage a bounced landing, and recommends initiating a go-around on the first bounce.

The Mooney requires more runway distance for landing than the Grumman, with a 595-foot ground roll and a 1,550-foot distance over a 50-foot obstacle listed in the book. This compares with 415 feet and 1,135 feet for the Grumman. This may be partially because of the Mooney’s 69-knot approach speed, which is 6 knots faster than the Grumman.

Valuable as raw numbers may be, Grumman fans tout some of the less-quantifiable characteristics and features of their beloved airplanes. All AA-5s, for example, can be flown with the canopy slightly open. On the ground, it may be opened up completely for a refreshing blast of cool air on hot summer days.

Grumman owners also rave about their airplane’s handling characteristics. Control forces are notably light, requiring only slight fingertip pressures to maneuver as desired. The M20 series provides accurate, predictable handling as well but is noticeably heavier on the controls. This may appeal to instrument pilots with a preference for hand flying. Both airplanes utilize torque tubes and push/pull rods, providing a more precise connection to the ailerons than traditional cables.

According to the books, the M20C has a useful load of 1,050 pounds, slightly more than the Tiger’s.

Ownership

A thorough pre-purchase inspection by an experienced A&P is critical for both the AA-5 and M20 series. In addition to the usual threat of corrosion in aging aircraft, attention is prudent in areas unique to these types.

Although the Mooney is traditional in many respects, there are a few concerns. Mooney service bulletin M20-208B, for example, recommends a thorough annual inspection of the steel frame surrounding the cabin to determine whether any corrosion is present. As this check is not mandated, some owners might not perform it annually as recommended.

The nose gear is another critical check for the Mooney. The structure has strict tow limits, and if an unaware line worker attempts to turn the nose gear too sharply in either direction while towing, structural damage can occur that requires a rebuild to the tune of several thousand dollars. A careful visual inspection determines whether this damage is present.

Mooney fuel tanks are known to develop leaks. While they can be resealed, fuel bladders are a popular modification providing a more permanent solution. And although the Mooney’s landing gear lacks more complex air shocks or oil damping, the manufacturer does recommend replacement of the rubber shock absorber pucks every 8 to 10 years at a current cost of approximately $2,000 for the pucks themselves, before labor.

The Grumman has its unique pre-purchase and ongoing maintenance considerations. Early AA-5s developed problems with airframe bonding failing and resulting in delamination. Fortunately, most that have experienced the problem are thought to have been identified and permanently fixed. It remains important to have this confirmed by an A&P familiar with the issue.

Simple as the Grumman’s landing gear is, particularly compared to a retract, it has unique maintenance needs. The nose gear utilizes a design that should be thoroughly inspected prior to purchase and then at every annual. Grumman maintainers report that this item may be skipped or completed in an insufficient manner, resulting in pricey repairs down the road.

AA-5 wing spars are life-limited to 12,000 to 12,500 hours. Few AA-5s are approaching this amount of use, and the median airframe hours among the examples listed for sale at the time of this writing were less than 3,000. Anyone considering a particularly high-time AA-5 would be wise to take it into consideration.

The Grumman is otherwise a straight forward airframe design. Unlike most comparable aircraft, there are no moving parts inside an AA-5’s wing—all flap and aileron actuation is achieved via easily accessible torque tubes, upon which each control surface pivots. One maintainer points out there are fewer moving parts in an AA-5 than in a Cessna 150, and another enjoys how all flight control cables are neatly located in the center of the aircraft and are rather short.

Otherwise, no airworthiness directives (ADs) make ownership burdensome for either airplane. All tend to be one-time or recurring ADs that are straightforward to address. The Mooney owners we surveyed report uneventful annuals at $2,500 to $3,000. Grumman owners report a range of $1,500 to $2,500.

Insurance cost is one element of ownership in which the two types differ substantially. To compare the two types, we asked an insurance broker to create quotes for a 40-year-old private pilot with no instrument rating, 250 hours total time, and 5 hours in type. For a 1977 Grumman Tiger valued at $110,000 and liability limits of $1,000,000/$100,000, this theoretical pilot could expect to pay roughly $1,900 per year. For a 1969 Mooney M20C with the same hull value and liability limits, they could expect to pay roughly $6,000 per year.

If this pilot obtained an instrument rating and 1,500 hours total time with 25 hours in type, they could expect to pay roughly $1,500 per year for the Grumman and $4,000 per year for the Mooney. That makes the Mooney nearly three times as expensive to insure—an added $208 to $341 per month over a year in this case. Both models are well supported by active and bustling owners’ groups. The Grumman Owners and Pilots Association is the original type club for the Grumman. It holds regular events including an annual convention, and offers a pilot familiarization program for new Grumman pilots.

The Mooney Aircraft Pilots Association, or MAPA, is a valuable resource for Mooney ownership information. Additionally, Mooneyspace.com is an active forum, and Mooneysafety.com offers training resources and proficiency programs.

Our Take

In aviation, speed costs money, and diminishing returns approach quickly. When operating with a modest budget, the M20 and AA-5 series provide what might be the greatest-knot-per-dollar among four-place certified aircraft. Other types might offer more speed, but at the cost of six-cylinder fuel burn. Others might be less expensive to purchase and operate but will likely fall short in cross-country traveling ability.

Both the Mooney and Grumman seem to provide a nice balance of speed, operating economy, and ease of ownership. Without any overly difficult-to-source airframe parts, massive ADs, or orphaned engines in the equation, both types offer a compelling solution for longer-distance travel without an overly-burdensome ownership experience. 

Perhaps best of all, both types are enthusiastically supported by vibrant owners’ groups. For a nominal annual fee, a new owner can unlock a level of support, expertise, and camaraderie that owners of less-common types can only dream of. Whether a buyer opts for the M20 or the AA-5, it’s a safe bet they’ll enjoy their purchase for many years.

This article was originally published in the April 2023, Issue 936 of  FLYING.

The post Air Compare: Grumman AA-5 vs. Mooney M20 Series appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

If you’d like to stump everyone at aviation trivia, simply ask them to name the Cessna with the shortest takeoff-and-landing distances. More than likely, guesses would include the O-1 Birddog and possibly the 180 and 182. However, digging into the dustier corners of Cessna’s history reveals the true winner—its one and only helicopter the company ever produced, the CH-1 Skyhook.

The idea of introducing a helicopter to the Cessna product line began to gain traction in the early 1950s. This was a time when the company’s fixed-wing offerings were relatively modest but were on the brink of massive expansion. The lineup in the early part of the decade consisted of the 120/140, 170, 180, 190/195, O-1, and the 310/320 twins but by the following decade would more than double in size and encompass entirely new categories. A helicopter, Cessna thought, would be one more way to gain market share.

Rather than designing a helicopter from the ground up, Cessna went shopping for existing options. Its search eventually took it to the Seibel Helicopter Co., conveniently located on the other side of Wichita, Kansas. In 1952, Cessna acquired Seibel and its S-4B helicopter design, and founder Charles Seibel was retained to lead the engineering team.

The S-4B, while functional, utilized an entirely utilitarian design devoid of any niceties, such as an enclosed fuselage, soundproofing, or a finished interior. Cessna wasted no time replacing the skeletal design with an aluminum monocoque fuselage and cabin that utilized many of the same design principles as its fixed-wing aircraft. Before long, the first CH-1 emerged from the factory and made its first flight in July 1953.

Equipped with its new fuselage that later expanded to incorporate four seats, the CH-1 was sleeker and more modern looking than existing designs, and it was updated beneath the skin, as well. The Siebel’s original 125 hp piston engine was gone and in its place was a far more powerful alternative, ultimately a supercharged 6-cylinder Continental that produced 270 hp. This provided outstanding high-altitude performance, and the CH-1 went on to set several records. In addition to becoming the first helicopter to land on 14,000-foot Pikes Peak in Colorado, it set multiple altitude records by climbing to nearly 30,000 feet.

Cessna’s marketing team pursued both the civilian and military markets, securing a U.S. Army contract for 10 examples that would become known as the YH-41 Seneca. The Army was ultimately unimpressed with the helicopter’s performance, and Cessna bought back six, modifying some systems and converting them to civilian models. 

The company had better luck with the civil model, pursuing the short-range executive market as well as the utility helicopter market. In many respects, the CH-1 was impressive. The cabin was massive, enabling passengers to easily move from one seat to another in flight. At 64 inches wide, it was within 2 inches of a Citation Excel business jet and incorporated 360-degree panoramic visibility.

Unfortunately, the CH-1 was hobbled by several issues that ultimately proved insurmountable. Engine and transmission reliability reportedly was well below par for the market, reflected by the woefully short engine TBO of only 600 hours. This was a fraction of comparable helicopter engines and would have increased hourly operating costs noticeably.

Additionally, the CH-1 was quite expensive to purchase. In 1960, the CH-1C was offered for $79,960. The 1965 pricing for the Bell 47J and Brantley 305 was $67,000 and $54,000, respectively. While Cessna could justify a higher price for the nicer cabin and better high-altitude performance, it perhaps realized it would struggle to make a case against small turbine helicopters that would soon enter the market. Indeed, Hughes priced the 500 at $95,000 nine years later. 

Faced with reliability concerns and diminishing marketability, Cessna ended the CH-1 program and bought back nearly every example for scrapping, presumably to eliminate any product liability concerns. Today, of the 50 examples built, only one survives—a lone YH-41A Seneca in storage and awaiting restoration at the United States Army Aviation Museum at Fort Rucker, Alabama.

The post That Time Cessna Made a Helicopter appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

The hierarchy of concerns when buying an airplane is a predictable one. Airframe corrosion, engine condition, airworthiness directive compliance, damage history, and other such items easily top the list—and for good reason. Should any of these issues become a concern during a prepurchase inspection, massive amounts of time and money could become involved, and any of them could make the airplane one to avoid altogether.

At the very bottom of this list of concerns is the selection of a custom registration number. The airplane you’re purchasing almost certainly has one already, and unless it is difficult to enunciate with several “niners” in a row, it probably works just fine. Some argue that changing it to one of your own choosing is a trivial endeavor not worthy of the required time or effort.

But we pilots are nothing if not fussy, and we work with trivial details with the same passion and dedication as artists with clays or oils. To us, there’s some benefit to having a tail number that easily rolls off the tongue and is easy to pick out from a busy, garbled frequency. And if we can choose one that adds some personal meaning to our pride and joy, why not reserve and register a custom tail number?

I asked a number of friends about this, and the No. 1 argument they provided against changing a tail number is, by far, the desire to keep an airplane paired with the number it was originally assigned. Their reasoning is mostly sentimental and partially rooted in preserving historical authenticity. Production runs of the Cessna 170, for example, used registrations ordered numerically along the production line, corresponding in order with the serial numbers. 

My own 170 was originally assigned N1908C, serial number 26053. My friend’s 170 was assigned N1963C, serial number 26108. Both numbers are 55 apart, and there’s a certain satisfaction in keeping things as neat and tidy as they were when our machines emerged from the factory.

Beyond historical accuracy, the only reason I’ve heard against changing a tail number is the cost. This is a legitimate argument, as altering a paint scheme to display the new number can reach thousands of dollars. It’s certainly not as straightforward or cheap as replacing the license plate on a car.

However, those two reasons might be outweighed by those in favor of selecting a new number. Having personally flown a Beechcraft Debonair with the truly unfortunate registration of N8999M, the aforementioned ease of enunciation comes to mind. A shorter tail number can be both quick to convey and easy to remember.

Additionally, provided the selection of letters and numbers complies with the FAA’s formatting rules, we can select tail numbers that appear to spell out a word of our choosing. Most famously, Nike Inc. uses N1KE on its Gulfstream, making it appear as though the jet is simply adorned with the company name. Similarly, N155AN appears to belong to the Nissan Motor Co.

Many owners select tail numbers with personal meaning. The individual from whom I bought my 170 had the registration changed to N170RK, the letters symbolizing Richard and Kara—he and his daughter. A friend of mine just registered N170H in preparation for an extended, multiyear adventure he has planned in which he will fly his 170 around the country and live out of it like a mobile flying hotel.  

Some tail numbers are appropriately assigned to the aircraft types they display. N8RV belongs to a Van’s RV-8, and N172H is fittingly assigned to a Cessna 172H. But frustratingly, N182Q is assigned not to a 1977-1980 Cessna Skylane but to a Beechcraft Bonanza. This is simply wrong, and should the FAA ever form a tail number police force, I’ll inform it of the flagrant violation immediately.

So desirable are certain N-numbers, people have formed businesses that reserve all the most desirable examples immediately upon release and then offer them for resale at a profit. A quick search reveals several such companies, and the pricing reflects just how enticing certain tail numbers can be. Prices range from around $8,000 for registrations with only three digits up to a staggering $100,000 or more for ultra-rare, two-digit registrations like N3M—which, appropriately, belongs to the 3M corporation. 

Clearly, the target customers for such numbers are the owners and operators of private jets with correspondingly deep pockets. Aircraft owners of more modest means are therefore excluded, and many have expressed their frustration to the FAA. It appears their complaining has not been in vain.

Just a few months ago, the agency responded to these complaints by including a provision in its 2023 House reauthorization bill (Section 206: Prohibition on N–Number Profiteering) forbidding the reservation and sale of N-numbers for profit. If the Senate passes the bill and keeps this section intact, aircraft owners of all income levels will have access to the most desirable N-numbers. An owner of a modest Luscombe 8C could finally be able to obtain and use N8C.

For now, new owners wishing to add some fun personalization to their airplanes just have to get creative with the FAA’s formatting rules. For example, I learned that as long as an airplane is at least 30 years old and flying under a standard airworthiness certificate, it may display an “NC” number. Accordingly, I’ve reserved 355NA in anticipation of someday using it for my vintage Cessna.

The post Registering a Custom N-Number for Your New Airplane appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Historically, some of the most compelling aircraft prototypes have served as launching pads for new and emerging technologies. From clean-sheet engine designs to new aerodynamic concepts to unusual airframe layouts, X-planes from all eras were smorgasbords of cutting-edge engineering. And in the early 1940s, McDonnell combined a multitude of new ideas into its XP-67 in the hopes its performance would eclipse existing interceptors.

A safe, conservative method of introducing a new aircraft design might be to incorporate only a few completely new and unproven concepts at a time. This philosophy enables engineers to isolate the concepts and evaluate them for more widespread use. But in the case of the unique McDonnell XP-67, nicknamed the “Moonbat,” it seems airframe and powerplant engineers alike were given carte blanche to reimagine every component and integrate all the resulting ideas into a single aircraft.

At first glance, the XP-67 has the appearance of an aerodynamic study. With a semi-blended-wing body, a laminar-flow airfoil, and rounded, filleted junctions where different surfaces met, the airframe took on a one-piece, organic appearance. The effort spent on sculpting the airframe in such a manner was motivated by a blistering top speed target of 472 mph—a number McDonnell promised to the military in an effort to win a lucrative production contract.

However unconventional the aerodynamic aspects of the airframe may have been, additional complexities lurked beneath the skin. These came in the form of new and unproven Continental XL-1430 inverted V-12 engines. Liquid-cooled and rated at 1,350 hp each, these engines held much promise when they were developed in the 1930s.

They delivered roughly 1 hp per cubic inch of displacement, making them both smaller and more powerful than the Rolls-Royce Merlins of the same era. Unfortunately, this came at the cost of an inferior power-to-weight ratio. Together with various airframe modifications, the engines contributed to a massive increase in the XP-67’s weight as the development of the aircraft progressed—from an initial target weight of 18,600 pounds to an ultimate weight of more than 25,000.

While weight climbed, aerodynamic challenges emerged. The uniquely sculpted airframe, optimized for efficiency at high speeds, presented severe downsides in other aspects. Despite creative leading-edge intakes to feed cooling air to the radiators, the engines overheated and even caught fire during initial taxi tests and ground run-ups. This was likely attributable to the extremely tight cowlings and ductwork that favored low drag above all else as opposed to fundamental issues with the engines themselves. But it was nevertheless a problem, and when the first flight took place in January 1944, it had to be cut short after several minutes due to overheating in flight.

Engineers quickly revised the engine cooling to address these issues. Less easily solvable, however, were the aerodynamic and handling problems pilots discovered on subsequent test flights. The XP-67 exhibited concerning instability, leading to doubts it would be able to recover from a spin. Additionally, the climb performance fell short of expectations, the approach speed increased from 76 to 93 mph, and the aircraft only ever reached a maximum speed of 405 mph—67 mph lower than the target.

To solve some of these issues, the design team explored alternative engine and propeller options. While the unproven Continental had shown promise and was competitive in the preceding decade, newer developments of the Rolls-Royce Merlin had surpassed its specifications, and jet engines were beginning to emerge as the way forward. The XP-67 and its multitude of concerns appeared to be on borrowed time.

In September 1944, time ran out. During a test flight over St. Louis, an engine caught fire in flight. Although the pilot made a successful emergency landing at Lambert Field (KSTL), the flames spread to the rest of the airframe before emergency equipment could extinguish them, and the aircraft was destroyed. Faced with mounting challenges and a second prototype that was far from completion, the program was canceled and both examples were discarded.

The post McDonnell’s ‘Moonbat’ Definitely Stood Out in the Early 1940s appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

I’m aware the outside of my airplane appears to have been flown through clouds of German flak. I’m aware the interior bears more resemblance to a clapped-out 1973 Chevy El Camino than to any modern or properly-restored Cessna. And I’m aware there are many simpler and more affordable ways to improve my airplane.

But when opportunity knocks, you take notice. And when that knocking comes in the form of an ambassador partnership with Garmin, you answer the door. This opportunity (separate from my work with FLYING) is what motivated me to take the plunge and spend tens of thousands of dollars on a full instrument panel upgrade on my 1953 Cessna 170B, and it is finally complete.

The project began back in May, and my friend Jessica Voruda at NewView Technologies in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, began teaching me the intricacies of instrument panels right away. I dove into the project bursting with enthusiasm but ready and willing to face complex, unforeseen, and expensive challenges. Fortunately, Jessica’s expertise and patience kept these to a minimum, and we were able to focus on some of the more fun and less easily anticipated aspects of the panel redesign.

After addressing a few of those items, we were able to dig into the part I was most looking forward to—the aesthetics and visual design. Although my plane has seen various updates over the years, some authentic 1950s-era visual elements remain. For example, it had an extraordinarily cool vintage blue diamond pattern surrounding the throttle quadrant, and I decided early on that I wanted to retain that element at all costs.

Similarly, I’ve always appreciated the retro look of the panel itself. Unlike modern panels that tend to be squared off on top with a horizontal glareshield, mine is curved on top. It looks cool and opens up some decent-sized peripheral vision chunks that might otherwise be blocked by a larger, squared-off design.

• READ MORE: Making an Old Panel New Again

So I knew I liked the original, vintage aesthetic. But looking at modern avionics, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of installing what amounts to big rectangular computer monitors smack dab in the middle of my panel. This is a 1953 Cessna, after all—not a Tesla Model S. I may be upgrading to modern avionics, but I still wanted it to look like a cool vintage airplane.  

Looking around at other modernized panels, I spotted another popular trend—emptying a panel of every extraneous gauge and installing just one or two modern digital screens in their place. While this is beneficial in terms of weight savings and simplicity, I just couldn’t get behind the look of a massive, blank wall in front of me punctuated by just two or three small screens. To me, it looks incomplete. It felt akin to hopping into a base-model rental car and spotting all the blank spots reserved for options that were left behind at the factory.

Salvation came in the form of two things—Garmin’s GI 275 flight instruments and Jessica’s Tetris-like skill at shoehorning a large volume of avionics into a tiny, irregularly shaped space.

• READ MORE: The Adventures of a Panel Redesign

The GI 275 instruments were new to me. I was familiar with and had, in other aircraft, used Garmin’s square-screened G5 instruments in the form of an attitude indicator and DG/HSI. But for a 1950s-inspired retromod panel, the television screen looked out of place. 

The beauty of the GI 275s is that they’re round and, thus, closely resemble vintage gauges. When in operation, they illuminate brightly and display everything from an attitude indicator to an engine indication system…but even when displaying moving maps and colorful bar graphs, they still blend in with old gauges. I decided they’d be the perfect solution for blending modern capability with a vintage aesthetic.

To avoid the aforementioned “empty panel” look, I opted to retain a few legacy analog gauges, namely the turn indicator, airspeed indicator, and altimeter. I did this for two reasons. First, because I appreciate having a physical ball and needles that sweep across part of my field of vision. But also to create a curved line of gauges that follows the curve of the glareshield like the panels of earlier 140s and 170s. With Voruda’s help, I arranged and rearranged the gauges into my desired positions.

From there, Voruda and the team at NewView got to work fitting everything into the panel and design. It turned out to be a tight balancing game, keeping the radios and GI 275s clear of the large T-shaped bar behind the panel that required ample internal space for elevator control. But she managed to do so, and the radios and GPS/transponder slotted nicely into the left side of the panel, leaving space elsewhere for an iPad and autopilot controls. While an autopilot isn’t in the cards just yet, I had Voruda prepare everything for easy and efficient installation in the future.

With the mechanical layout locked in, we focused on the visual design. Taking her advice, I opted for a cream-colored panel that matched my yokes and switchgear. This was true to the original interior colors, and it would be warmer, with more personality than black or gray. 

When I explained how much I liked the blue diamond pattern, Jessica pointed out that her panel fabrication partner, Superior Aircraft Components, could digitize the original design and extend it to the new overlays that cover most of the lower section of the panel. I loved the idea, so they got to work creating matching surrounds for the radios and circuit breakers. Because we were pressed for time, they also fabricated a separate, removable section of the sub-panel on the lower right, reserved for a future custom glove box. 

As of this writing, the panel is complete, but I have yet to see it in person. My airplane sits up at Oshkosh, awaiting my arrival for AirVenture several days from now. Once there, I’ll be able to take it all in, begin learning how to use it, and then taxi from NewView Technologies on the north side of the field down to the Garmin booth at Boeing Plaza, where it will be on display for all to see. 

On one hand, it has been a leap of faith to spend such a sum of money on something when I am only able to observe the progress through photos. Part of me has wanted to make the 90-minute drive every weekend to check up on things. But from the beginning, I decided to place my trust in Voruda and her team of actual professionals; throughout the process, when she would ask me to make a decision, I would usually ask what she would do if it was her panel and then go with that.

This dedication to trust was partially inspired by some of the more questionable paint schemes I see on privately owned aircraft from time to time. In each case, the owners spent upward of $20,000 for new paint jobs but clearly opted to avoid hiring or trusting a professional to help create a visually pleasing design. Instead, their freshly painted airplanes are visually misshapen and unbalanced, resembling crude renditions of travel trailers from the late 1990s. The paint application and workmanship are impeccable, but less-qualified, amateur decisions hamper the end result.

For my panel, I decided early on not to go it alone. I’m not a professional avionics technician, and while I have some general goals and ideas, I’ve never designed or built an instrument panel. I was hiring a team of professionals to do that, so it only made sense to know my limits and defer to its expertise while providing general overlying goals. 

The end result appears to be perfect. I’ll have an airplane far more IFR capable than me and my instrument skills that lapsed during the Bush administration. I’ll have a lighter, more reliable airplane with avionics that enable me to extend the life of my engine through precise control and temperature management. And multiple moving maps, ADS-B traffic data, weather data, and sophisticated flight instruments, including an angle of attack indicator, will make me safer.

On top of it all, the unique restomod aesthetic will create an entirely new flying experience that gives me yet another reason to look back over my shoulder as I walk away after a flight.

Author’s note:

If you plan to attend EAA AirVenture (Monday through July 30), please stop by the Garmin display to check out the new panel for yourself. Let me know what you think at the FLYING Magazine booth  located in exhibitor spaces 439 and 440, just east of the control tower. I’ll be there from 1-2 pm CDT on Tuesday and July 28 for meet and greets and would love to hear your impressions.

The post Keeping the Vintage Cool During a Panel Upgrade appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

In the mid-1960s, the U.S. Air Force presented aircraft manufacturers with an interesting challenge—design a clean-sheet close air support (CAS) aircraft to replace the aging Douglas A-1 Skyraider. Accustomed to developing sleek fighters and bombers that ventured into supersonic speeds, this new request challenged them to instead prioritize cost, survivability, and low-speed maneuverability. It was a new set of requirements that required new thinking.

Just as the design requirements were unconventional for the time, so too was the appearance of each proposed contender. A total of six manufacturers submitted a wide variety of proposals, ranging from multiengine jets to a single-engine V-tail pusher turboprop. In each case, the manufacturers prioritized function over form, with most concepts utilizing straight wings, bulbous canopies, and a multitude of external hard points on their wings.

The Air Force selected two designs to progress to the final stage, in which the finalists would build flying prototypes. The unconventional-looking Fairchild-Republic A-10 Thunderbolt II, better known as the “Warthog” would ultimately win the contract for this role. But its competitor, the Northrop YA-9A, provided some intriguing design features despite losing the contract.

At a glance, some similarities between the two finalists are evident. Both sport the aforementioned straight wings with many hardpoints, and the external dimensions are nearly identical. Both also utilize twin turbofan engines. But a handful of key differences stand out.

Chief among them, the YA-9A was designed with a high wing, as opposed to the low wing on the A-10. While the specific reasoning for this is unclear, the high wing enables the use of shorter, lighter landing gear. Additionally, a side profile diagram depicts workers standing alongside the aircraft, eye level with the engine, suggesting Northrop touted the design as providing mechanics with easy engine access during maintenance.

The YA-9 also uses a conventional cruciform tail—significantly different from the A-10’s low tail with twin vertical stabilizers. While this design was less complex and presumably lighter than that of the A-10, it provided less redundancy. In practice, A-10s have successfully demonstrated their ability to fly with a single vertical stabilizer.

Like the A-10, the YA-9A utilized turbofan engines, but the engine similarities stopped there. Rather than using a common, simple design like the A-10, the YA-9A was fitted with a less common and more complex geared turbofan called the Lycoming ALF 502. These would ultimately prove less reliable than similar engines, and NASA later salvaged and used them for their QSRA experimental short takeoff and landing jet.

While both contenders employed large Gatling-style rotary cannons buried in their noses, these also differed. While the YA-9A used a six-barrel, 20mm M61 Vulcan, the A-10 used a larger seven-barrel, 30mm General Electric GAU-8/A Avenger. As the latter uses heavier ammunition and the Air Force claimed it has superior ballistics, it would help make the A-10 the more effective combat aircraft.

A deeper dive into the YA-9A’s flight manual reveals additional insight into the overall design. It states that Northrop engineered the aircraft with two primary goals in mind—to provide an extremely stable platform for on-target accuracy during weapons delivery and to provide a high degree of survivability for both aircraft and pilot. The latter was achieved in a similar manner to the A-10, with strategically-located armor.

The on-target accuracy during weapons delivery, however, was achieved through the use of some flight control trickery. Northrop engineers wanted to enable quick steering corrections during weapons targeting, and they wanted to do so without creating any bank or sideslip. Their solution was called SFC, or side force control.

SFC blended the control inputs of the rudder with that of the speed brakes, which, like the A-10, were provided in the form of split ailerons. As the pilot introduces rudder input, simultaneous asymmetric speed brake deployment negates the rudder’s yawing moment. This control and coordination occurred automatically when in SFC mode simply through rudder inputs by the pilot. 

Asked whether such a system would benefit the A-10, an A-10 pilot replied, “I mean…the rudders work just fine.” This underscores the philosophy of simplicity behind the A-10 and suggests complex systems like SFC might have hindered the YA-9A more than they helped.

In terms of flying performance, the YA-9A seemed quite competitive. Takeoff distance at a 2,300-feet pressure altitude (the elevation of Edwards Air Force Base) ranged from 3,800 feet at the maximum takeoff weight of 42,000 pounds down to only 640 feet at 23,000 pounds with full flaps. 

In the air, the YA-9A’s maximum speed was approximately 450 knots. Perhaps more impressive was its ability to maintain single-engine directional control down to only 75 knots. The control effectiveness necessary for this was likely a byproduct of the engineers’ emphasis on low-speed maneuverability in the intended CAS role.

Published landing distances were similarly impressive, with ground rolls ranging from 875 to 1,100 feet. This was helped in part by the massive ground spoilers that deployed to 60 degrees when the system sensed weight on wheels. Among the various performance objectives, this is one in which the YA-9A likely outscored the A-10 during the evaluation.

Ultimately, the A-10 would go on to win the competition, and Fairchild-Republic would go on to manufacture a total of 716 examples between 1972 and 1984. The Air Force mothballed the two YA-9As after the evaluation period but fortunately spared them from the fate of the scrapper. Today, both can be found at museums— one in storage at Edwards Air Force Base awaiting restoration and the other on display at the March Field Air Museum in California.

The post The Close Call of the Northrop YA-9A Prototype appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

he other day, I received an email from a new owner who had just purchased his first airplane, a 1964 Cessna 172E. He planned to fly with his 9-year-old son to EAA AirVenture 2023 in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. It would be their first voyage to the big fly-in, and he had several questions about the ins and outs of experiencing Oshkosh as a new airplane owner.

Presented with such a noble mission, I dropped the time-critical project I had been focusing on and neglected my responsibilities entirely in favor of helping him out by sharing some tips I’ve learned in my own first trips as a new owner. This adventure would likely create lifelong memories for father and son alike, and I wanted to make sure they were great ones. But rather than simply covering tie-downs, sleeping comfort, and personal electronic charging solutions as I did in the past, I focused on some of the less-obvious lessons I learned and observations I made more recently at last year’s AirVenture.

1. Use Your Airplane as Home Base

In all the years I attended Oshkosh prior to airplane ownership, I’d usually hike into the showgrounds with everything I’d need for a full day of fun. Resembling an out-of-shape and badly sunburned Sherpa, I lashed together dozens of pounds of camera equipment, rain gear, water, snacks, and other supplies. My car was parked 2 miles away, after all, and it didn’t make sense to walk back and forth just to stash or retrieve some gear.

Last year, having arrived early with a Cessna 170 that was built in 1953, I managed to weasel my way into an amazingly good spot in the Vintage area. I was in the meadow where you can find the Beech Staggerwings, approximately 50 feet from food and showers and a very short walk to the show center. Accordingly, it was ridiculously easy to pop by the airplane to grab a quick bite to eat, a rain shell, or a fresh change of clothes. It was like having my very own little apartment at the show.

Even with a less exclusive spot in the North or South 40, remember that it’s not necessary to carry everything you expect to need throughout the day. Simply grab the things you anticipate needing for the first part of the day and plan to take a shuttle back to your airplane for a break (and maybe a short nap) later. 

2. Bring and Label Extra Airplane Keys

On the final day of the show last year, my heart skipped a beat while packing my things for departure. My airplane key wasn’t hanging on the altimeter knob like usual. A brief search around the cabin was fruitless, and as I gazed out over the thousands of acres of showgrounds, I wondered how long I’d be stranded while I hired a mechanic to install a new mag switch.

Fortunately, I soon discovered that my keys were in the pocket of some shorts that had been tossed into a duffel bag. Because I had been using my airplane as a locker, I tended to walk around with the key in my pocket during the day. All was well, but the incident taught me a valuable lesson. 

For little money, you could have an extra key or two made just in case the primary one goes missing, and disaster would be averted. If, like me, you prefer to lock valuables up in the airplane when you’re gone, you could give one to a neighboring camper for safekeeping in case you lose yours.

Additionally, I reflected upon the impossibility of finding a key dropped somewhere on the showgrounds. I grabbed a Sharpie marker and quickly wrote my tail number on my keychain. This way, should the key go missing, it would be far more likely to be identified in lost and found and returned.

3. Turn Your Airplane into a Gathering Spot

Anyone who has attended Oshkosh for more than a few years is familiar with a certain phenomenon. While your first trips tend to be primarily about the airplanes, subsequent ones are increasingly about the people. As I had invited several friends to come and see my 170 and catch up, I knew I’d be hosting some pretty enjoyable sessions of hanging out. And having picked up some ideas from previous years, I decided to make a few changes that would improve the space immensely.

First on the list was a set of solar-powered patio lights strung beneath the wing for some ambiance. I brought a few extra folding chairs and set them up around a lightweight, weatherproof area rug. Finally, I brought along a nice Pelican cooler and a few cases of bottled water that I kept on ice, so my friends could always help themselves to a cold drink, whether I was there or not.

It was a great success, and my airplane became something of a front porch. Friends old and new stopped by regularly to take a load off and catch up. Neighboring airplane owners often strolled by to chat, as well. Anyone could kick back, relax, and visit. It was a great experience. 

4. Take Advantage of Storm Shelters

Inevitably, most years at Oshkosh feature at least one night (or day) of strong thunderstorms. As the storm cells approach, they become the talk of the show. Fearing hail damage, airplane owners run out, ravage the city’s inventory of bubble wrap, cardboard, and packing tape, and fortify their airplanes against the approaching meteorological onslaught. 

While the concern for our airplanes is entirely understandable, there seems to be little corresponding regard for our own well-being. Faced with the possibility of lightning, potentially lethal wind gusts, and Ercoupes happily cartwheeling across the grounds, many opt to remain in their tents or under their wings, vulnerable to danger. 

The more prudent course of action would be to heed the warnings from the EAA and take shelter in its more solid facilities. In the past, it has opened the museum to campers, providing shelter from the storm and doubling as an enjoyable way to spend an hour or two. 

5. Pizza Can Save the Day

During AirVenture, fantastic food options abound. Many vendors are local restaurants that specialize in delicious Wisconsin cuisine so thoroughly laden with cholesterol it could likely power large diesel engines. Cheese curds, bratwurst burritos, fish frys…authentic regional fare are well represented, and it’s a good thing EMS is stationed throughout the event.

But what happens if you arrive early before the food vendors are open for business? Or if you become hungry late at night after they all close for the day? If you’re camped out anywhere near an airport perimeter gate, you can simply order a pizza and have it delivered there. 

In my case, I spotted a residence directly across from one of the access gates and noted the address. I requested the delivery driver to use that address for reference but to walk the pizza over to the gate across the street, where I’d be waiting. Shortly thereafter, passing the pizza beneath the fence felt satisfyingly sneaky and covert, and the ensuing pizza party beneath my wing with good friends was truly epic.

If you do this, please make a point to tip well. If the pizzerias institute a policy against AirVenture delivery, we all lose.

The post Lesser-known EAA AirVenture Tips for the New Owner appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Once upon a time, GA aircraft manufacturers pursued market niches with the ferocity of wild dingos. When marketing teams identified a potentially underserved customer segment, they wasted no time introducing minor variations to existing models to accommodate it. Compared to today’s offerings, the resulting variety of aircraft was spectacularly broad and varied.

When Cessna determined some customers would be willing to pay a bit more for a slightly more powerful 172, for example, the company introduced the 175 Skylark. This was little more than a 172 with a different engine, but the company was in pursuit of new market segments and opted to advertise it as an entirely different model.

Similarly, Beechcraft identified markets for both full-sized and smaller light twins in the forms of the Baron and Travel Air. With four seats instead of five or six, thriftier 4-cylinder engines, and significantly lighter weight, the Travel Air was presented as a simpler, more compact solution that emphasized economy rather than outright performance.

Fresh off the successful launch of the unique, twin-boom Skymaster, Cessna began exploring the same opportunity in 1965. Recognizing the market might have room for a smaller, lighter version of the Skymaster, it built a single prototype of the Cessna 327. While it was never given an official name, various sources use the nicknames “Baby Skymaster” and “Mini Skymaster.”

The rationale behind this model was likely rooted in findings shared by other manufacturers—that many owners and operators of twin-engine aircraft travel alone or with only one passenger most of the time. For these customers, it made little sense to haul around excess seats and cabin space while burning additional fuel and paying more to maintain larger, 6-cylinder engines. The diminutive Wing Derringer was an extreme example of minimalist light twins. 

The 327 was Cessna’s solution to this downsizing opportunity. Essentially a 172-sized Skymaster, it was both smaller and lighter than the larger centerline twin. Equipped with two 4-cylinder, 160 hp IO-320 engines, it utilized Cessna’s strutless, cantilever wing, and raked windscreen, similar in design to the 177 Cardinal series. 

The smaller size and sleek lines gave the 327 a sporty look compared with the more utilitarian Skymaster. But like the Skymaster, the front seats were positioned well ahead of the wing’s leading edge. Combined with the lack of wing struts, this would have provided outstanding outward visibility and positioned the 327 to be a favorite for aerial photography.

Cessna never published any dimensions or performance specifications for the 327. Using comparable light twins with the same engines as a reference, we can predict the 327 likely would have had a maximum takeoff weight of 3,500-4,000 pounds, with a maximum cruise speed of 150-175 mph. Fuel burn would also have been correspondingly lower, roughly on par with a Piper Twin Comanche with similar engines.  

First flight took place in December 1967, and Cessna flew the 327 until the following year, logging just less than 40 hours of test flights. At that time, the airplane was presumably placed into storage, and the registration—N3769C—was canceled in February 1972. But unlike many other prototypes, the 327 would serve one last purpose before vanishing forever.

The airplane’s final role would be filled at NASA’s Langley Research Center. There, it was used in the full-scale wind tunnel, or FST, for noise-reduction studies. This research was conducted by Cessna, NASA, and Hamilton Standard in 1975 to evaluate various propeller and propeller shroud designs.

The NASA team removed the front propeller and fitted the 327 with an assortment of three-blade and five-blade options housed within a custom-built shroud. Perhaps surprisingly, the shroud was found to actually increase propeller noise slightly as opposed to reducing it as expected. The airplane was later fitted with Hamilton Standard’s experimental “Q-Fan,” a ducted fan design that was touted to transition from full forward thrust to full reverse thrust in less than one second. 

No official record exists outlining the 327’s ultimate fate. The apparent lack of any information beyond the 1975 wind tunnel testing suggests the airplane was scrapped after that. This was perhaps part of a contractual agreement with Cessna, as the company was known to have discarded other prototypes during that era.

We’re left with a smattering of photos and a few piles of technical reports. Coincidentally, with the introduction of electric vertical takeoff and landing vehicles and a renewed interest in noise-reduction technologies in the GA sector, the studies might prove valuable even today. And for that matter, a compact, efficient piston twin with the safety of centerline thrust might as well.

The post Smaller, Lighter Cessna 327 ‘Mini Skymaster’ appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

The process of completely redoing one’s instrument panel consists of several chapters, each interesting in its own way and some that are unexpected. The first typically tackles some of the most fundamental issues revolving around mechanical interference and the basic compatibility of all the various avionics you’ve selected. The last step involves determining the aesthetics of the panel, from instrument positioning to the colors used.

In between, some more subtle problems emerge. If you’re fortunate enough to have selected an experienced avionics shop that patiently educates you along the way, you can work together to transform these frustrating problems into interesting opportunities. This made me explore and freshen up some of my panel’s less flashy and more functional aspects.

• READ MORE: The Adventures of a Panel Redesign

My friend and avionics sorceress, Jessica Voruda at NewView Technologies, first brought some of these opportunities to my attention. Voruda pointed out that the pull knobs that control things, such as my lighting and cabin climate controls, had lived a hard life and looked pretty well used. It wouldn’t be too terribly expensive, she said, to upgrade them along with new throttle and mixture control knobs.

This was music to my ears. I’ve always hated my Cessna 170’s massive, original throttle knob that felt to be the size of a tennis ball. And I especially hate the 170’s original mixture control, which feels identical to the carb heat knob. The entire travel of the mixture knob was little more than a couple of inches, making accurate leaning a wildly inaccurate guessing game. 

As many older Continental engines seem to foul their spark plugs with massive enthusiasm, this has long been a concern of mine. I typically lean the mixture immediately following a landing to prevent this, and on one occasion last summer I pulled that little mixture knob just a bit too far and caused the engine to stumble. While I was happy to have been on the ground when it happened, it was nevertheless annoying to have such a small window of mixture adjustment.

Faced with the opportunity to upgrade these items, I fondly recalled my time flying Mooney M-20R Ovations. Like many newer types, the Ovation was equipped with vernier throttle and mixture controls, enabling the pilot to twist either knob, slowly screwing it inward or outward to provide precise adjustment. 

The idea of adding such precision to my 170 was irresistible. Voruda recommended going with McFarlane Aviation’s vernier throttle and mixture controls, and when they arrived at the shop, I could see why. Their travel was long and smooth, and they felt solidly built. And unlike some vernier knobs that require the end button to be depressed for quick movement, the throttle control she picked out enables you to freely push and pull the knob while enabling the aforementioned twisting for fine-tuning.

For the smaller knobs that control lighting, carb heat, cabin air, etc., I was surprised to learn that McFarlane stocks them all in ivory. Having just uncovered my yokes for the first time to discover that they  also are ivory colored beneath the ancient, ratty grip tape, I was happy to learn that I could retain the airplane’s original 1953 interior palette.

One of the last concerns in the category of subtle opportunities disguised as problems was my altimeters—yes, plural. For reasons lost to history, some previous owner had decided to add a second altimeter to the panel. While I liked the vintage look of one of them, Voruda tested each and learned that neither could pass a leak test.

Accuracy wasn’t the main concern here—for that, I’ll rely on a modern Garmin GI-275 attitude indicator and a second GI-275 backup for my primary altitude sources. The concern had to do with the old, worn altimeters introducing a leak to the entire pitot-static system, and the problem had to be addressed. Wanting to maintain a vintage look and keep an analog backup to the advanced Garmin avionics for entirely sentimental reasons, Voruda turned me to the Century Instrument Corp. in Wichita, Kansas, a small company that restores old instruments.

I liked this solution, and I doubt I would have thought of it on my own. By freshening up the internal parts that tend to deteriorate with time, Century brings older avionics and gauges up to snuff. This enabled me to purchase a restored turn indicator and altimeter to maintain my panel’s vintage look without any of the vintage reliability concerns. 

The refurbished altimeter, with its 1950s appearance, will be certified for use as an IFR backup to the modern GI-275s should I wish to do any instrument flying in the future. Best of all, the markings will be a light military yellow as opposed to the bright white that comes on factory new gauges—another subtle vintage aesthetic touch.

Each of these cases initially emerged as a problem. But with careful investigation and experienced advice, each turned into a not-too-terribly expensive opportunity to upgrade, adding functionality and reliability to my panel. These items aren’t the most glamorous or flashy upgrades one can make to a panel, but they are each legitimate concerns that ultimately proved to be blessings in disguise.

With the initial compatibility trials out of the way and some of the more minor concerns addressed, I could move on to my favorite part of the project—the visual design. 

The post Making an Old Panel New Again appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

For as long as homebuilt aircraft have existed, enthusiasts have enjoyed a wide selection of small, single-seat types from which to choose. From speedy, stub-winged racers like the Cassutt to the Monerai P powered sailplane that weighs less than 300 pounds, variety abounds even among these tiny machines. But in the early 1970s, one exceedingly creative specimen emerged that blended a multiengine configuration with an empty weight of only 440 pounds.

The Aerosport Rail is a tiny, multiengine aircraft and a rather interesting contradiction. On one hand, its designers whittled away at it until every last extraneous element of the aircraft, including a windscreen and enclosed fuselage, was omitted. On the other hand, they introduced complexity and parallel systems by integrating a second engine. 

Browsing through their circa-1970 marketing material, a backstory adds some context. Formed by a magazine editor and aeronautical engineer, the company prioritized safety, ease of assembly, low cost, and fun flying characteristics. And despite the outwardly primitive appearance, the unconventional design lends itself to these qualities.

The T-tail, for example, was chosen to place it out of the prop wash and eliminate buffet, which may have been a concern with a minimalist empennage that was perhaps more likely to bend and flex than other designs. The pusher engine configuration was selected to reduce noise and buffeting around the pilot, and having two engines offered a level of redundancy that made an engine failure a nuisance rather than a catastrophe. And the 2-cylinder, two-stroke, reengineered snowmobile engines were placed close together to minimize any asymmetric thrust resulting from an engine failure.

The designers apparently succeeded in all respects—and in the last one in particular. During initial testing, a pilot reportedly performed a takeoff with the left engine shut down and its propeller windmilling. Additionally, rudder effectiveness was reportedly maintained during single-engine flight all the way down to the 45 mph stall speed.

With both engines operating, performance was spritely. Marketing material promised a takeoff run of 230 feet, with the ability to clear a 50-foot obstacle in 1,230 feet. Cruise speed at 85 percent power and 2,000 feet was said to be 66 mph while burning just under seven gallons per hour total. Top speed was listed as 90 mph, the modest speed number reflecting the substantial parasite drag inherent in the entirely open design. Indeed, at lower speeds such as climbout, the Rail returned decent performance, with the 900 fpm climb rate easily exceeding that of, for example, a Cessna 150.

Considering the 440-pound Rail’s 100-mile range, 220-pound full-fuel payload, and complete lack of any design features related to comfort or ergonomics, this was clearly an airplane optimized for local flights. But for warm summer evenings bimbling around down low over hayfields and picturesque lakes, the peace of mind provided by the unique twin-engine configuration and completely unobstructed visibility would have made for a uniquely enjoyable experience. 

Unfortunately, the Rail was not a commercial success. In addition to the company prototype shown here, FAA records indicate a Rail registered as N44HW was completed in 1976. An article in Sport Aviation mentions it had accumulated more than 14 hours by June of that year, but it was deregistered only four years later. Another Rail, registered as a “Rail II” and wearing the registration N27T, was completed in 1975, but it’s unclear whether it was ever flown.

Whether the lack of success was the result of a technical obstacle not mentioned in Aerosport’s marketing material or whether the Rail simply succumbed to the business challenges that have claimed so many other designs over the years is unclear. Whatever the reason, the aircraft depicted in every photo of the type seems to have disappeared entirely, and its registration was canceled in 1976, six years after its first flight. 

Ultimately, it’s a sad and all-too-common end to an interesting chapter of aircraft design. A floatplane version was in the works, and had that come to fruition, the resulting machine would have amounted to a mini-AirCam, offering similar levels of fun and redundancy at a far lower price. Even comparing landplanes, the Rail, at $2,495 for the complete kit including engines, cost only 20 percent of a new Cessna 150. 

Though the Rail was unconventional to the point of bordering on crazy, and though it was, like many other private aircraft designs, a commercial failure, it looked to offer more fun per dollar than most other types of the era. Perhaps one day it will be resurrected. At the very least, it could enable aspiring professional pilots to build their multiengine time more affordably than ever.

The post The Unconventional, 440-Pound Aerosport Rail appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

When I decided to spend a not-insignificant sum of money on a complete redesign and rebuild of my instrument panel, I was excited. Over the years, previous owners of my airplane made some bizarre decisions with regard to panel layout, arranging things oddly and inexplicably adding a second altimeter. A new panel would be an opportunity to start from scratch, positioning each instrument, radio, switch, and circuit breaker precisely where I wanted them. 

Or so I thought.

Going into such an endeavor with zero knowledge of panel design, I assumed the process would be as simple as arranging magnets on the front of a refrigerator. I fired up Photoshop, found photos of all the avionics I was planning to install, and got to work positioning them to my heart’s content. 

First on my list of priorities was repositioning the radios, transponder, and GPS. In my airplane, these are presently all relegated to the very bottom of the panel. Half are down by the pilot’s left knee, and the other half are over by the passenger’s left knee. They are so far out of the pilot’s line of sight one must occasionally duck to see the frequency windows. It’s annoying, and it’s a distraction.

As I designed my ideal layout, I immediately set out to relocate the radios. All would be grouped together in perfect alignment and positioned in the exact center of the panel, easily accessible by either front-seat occupant. Additionally, they’d be up high, nicely in the field of view, and easily referenced during flight.

Similarly, I opted to position the engine-monitoring unit directly above the throttle and mixture. It seemed logical that they be placed adjacent to one another. There seemed to be plenty of space for this, and I gave it no second thought as I pasted its likeness onto my Photoshopped panel.

Finally, I positioned the attitude indicator and horizontal situation indicator (HSI) in the most prime panel real estate available—directly in my field of view, above the yoke. Though I didn’t need to retain the analog airspeed and turn/slip indicators, I did so. I liked the idea of airspeed and coordination being represented by relatively large shapes that physically move and are thus a bit more noticeable in my peripheral vision.

Several hours later, I had created an extraordinarily poor-quality representation of my dream panel. Though severely pixelated, out of alignment, and not scaled properly, it seemed the perfect arrangement. Like a kindergartener presenting their artistic creation to their parents, I proudly presented my dismally-Photoshopped creation to my friend Jessica Voruda at NewView Technologies, an avionics and maintenance facility in nearby Oshkosh, Wisconsin. 

Ever the professional, Jessica took pity on my feeble understanding of avionics installs. Marking my mock-up with red Xs like a teacher correcting a student’s test, she patiently explained the limitations inherent in modifying old panels. And there are quite a few to contend with.

As it turned out, two critical concepts had escaped me. First, many radios and avionics are quite deep, extending well into the panel toward the firewall. And second, some aircraft types require ample internal volume within a panel to provide the inner workings sufficient freedom of movement. 

Jessica explained that most of the new avionics I was planning to install had to remain clear of the entire central portion of my instrument panel. She further explained that, inside my panel, I’ve got a large central column shaped like a T that connects the two smaller control yokes. Because of the slope of the upper cowl, there’s a minimal amount of space above this column. 

Additionally, when the control yokes are pulled back, this T-column moves in unison. It is, therefore, critical that nothing impedes its range of motion. New radios and avionics, for example.

As with most matters of aviation, it is entirely possible to throw money at the problem until it goes away. In my case, I could source and install a newer U-column with available conversions that would provide sufficient internal clearance to clear a central radio stack. However, this solution was expensive and time-consuming, and my budget was already stretched thin.

So it was back to the drawing board. Armed with a quick education and better images to drag around in Photoshop, I worked on creating a layout that was compatible with my newly-learned technical constraints. After several days and many revisions, I presented a modified plan to Jessica. After a few minor tweaks of her own, we settled on a final plan and prepared for the fun second phase—how to incorporate minor changes and introduce design elements to balance modern capability with original, vintage design.

This initial phase was an interesting and educational one, however. It underscored the importance of finding and selecting an avionics shop with people who possess the patience and talent to educate and work with you along the way. Working with an impersonal shop that cares more about its bottom line and schedule, you feel like a number, like you’re just along for the ride. 

But with shops and technicians that explain every step of the process and patiently walk you through it, the entire project becomes that much more enjoyable and educational. I’m thankful to have found such a shop and such a technician. Spending tens of thousands of dollars is stressful enough, after all, and thus far, my experience has been a lot more fun than I expected it to be.

The post The Adventures of a Panel Redesign appeared first on FLYING Magazine.