不惑之年，沖上云霄

Parked beside the 1）sleek Air Canada jet， she looked like a toy. But my enthusiasm would not be curbed.

The tiny two-seat 2）Cessna shone in the sun. And for one hour she was mine. Well， sort of. The bill was mine alone. Control and responsibility for my first flight lesson would be shared with my instructor， Glen.

I’d enrolled in 3）ground school last winter， and by spring had 4）morphed into a plane geek. I struck a deal with myself： 100 hours of ground school and online study would be rewarded in summer with one hour of shockingly expensive inflight instruction.

So， there I stood on the Kamloops 5）tarmac.

Our pre-flight inspection indicated the bird should fly. 6）To my untrained eye， the weather seemed fine. “Nice today，” I offered.

Glen eyed the 7）wind sock and scanned the skies. “Wind from 270 at 10 8）knots； cloud ceiling 6，500. …Should be okay in the valley， but we’ll stay away from the mountains.”

I made a mental note to review my 9）meteorology.

After squeezing into the teeny 10）cockpit， we buckled up. Uh oh—trouble already. My eyes were perfectly level with the instrument panel. I cursed my 5-foot-1-inch frame while Glen reached behind the seat and produced a pillow. Sliding it under my butt， I felt more like a grandma than ever. But at least I could see out the window.

The engines were run up and tested， the compass 11）aligned， the GPS turned on and tuned in and radios readied. It was time to warn whoever was out there that we were coming. I keyed the mike.

I spelled out the Cessna’s FBMZ registration—12）Foxtrot Bravo Mike 13）Zulu—and requested an advisory. The tower responded immediately and my confidence surged. Current wind conditions and altimeter settings were given， and runway 26 suggested for departure.

Glen released the brakes and eased the 14）throttle in. The engine purred hungrily， sucking up the extra fuel. The propeller spun into a blur and pulled us forward.

“Take us to 26，” Glen directed.

I turned the 15）yoke left and right to no effect. We drifted onto the grass.

“Steer with your feet； use the rudder.”

Fighting years of automobile-induced instincts， I released the yoke and 16）manoeuvred with the rudder pedals at my feet. We weaved unsteadily to the hold short point on the runway.

Full power and a dose of flaps are needed for takeoff. I applied both and we sped down the runway. With one eye on the 17）airspeed indicator and the other on the white centre line， I struggled to keep us straight， both of my feet working the pedals. At full throttle we hit the 55-knot 18）sweet spot and I pulled back on the yoke， lifting the nose. The Cessna （and I） shuddered as the runway slipped away below.

We climbed steadily into the blue. 19）Wisps of cottony clouds rose beside us. 20）Stratocumulus？ I’d have to check my notes. For now， however， whirring， purring FBMZ had my full attention.

My heart soared， but my arms soon tired from pulling back on the yoke. Glen seemed to read my mind. He reached down and rotated the trim wheel between us. The pressure vanished， and the Cessna stopped fighting me.

“It’s like 21）cruise control，” he grinned. “Trim her right and she’ll practically fly herself.”

I released my death grip on the control column and was amazed at how responsive the plane was to even the smallest adjustments. I struggled to make sense of what the instrument panel was telling me. Our altimeter indicated 3，900 feet and our airspeed was steady at 90 knots. No turning or vertical speed was suggested， so this must be straight and level flight.

“Try a turn，” Glen suggested.

As I rotated the yoke to the right， the wings banked and we headed unsteadily northward. Dual controls allowed Glen to correct my mistakes and keep us safe.

My gaze kept drifting back to the instrument panel， and Glen caught it.

“Private pilot’s license allows you to fly 22）VFR. Remember what that stands for？”

“Visual flight rules，” I replied.

“So， look where you’re going. Your focus should be outside. Where are the clouds？ Make sure you stay out of them. Which direction are the mountains？”

And the 23）mantra I’d heard before was repeated：“Aviate， navigate， communicate.” In other words， first fly the plane.

The wind was behind us now， pushing us back to the airport. We made the necessary radio call and began our descent. Keeping my eyes outside as instructed， I watched a pair of hawks riding the same thermals that were giving us a bit of 24）bump and grind. They eyed us warily， unimpressed with our noisy intrusion into their world.

Glen handled the landing. After slowing to stalling speed， we floated above the runway. Our touchdown was smooth as silk.

After we’d parked， tied down and locked up the plane for the night， I made the first entry in my fancy new pilot logbook， bursting with pride.

Now it’s time to hit the books again. Meteorology must be mastered if this old dog is going to learn new flying tricks.

I had my doubts about learning to fly at the age of 43， but after taking the first steps I know I can do it.

“Attitude plus power equals performance” is a phrase used to explain how an aircraft handles under different 25）scenarios.

Perhaps the same can be said of life， and， regardless of our age or situation， how we choose to live it.

停靠在造型優(yōu)美的加拿大航空公司的噴氣式飛機旁邊，她就像一個玩具。然而我的熱情，絲毫不減。

這架嬌小的雙人賽斯納飛機在陽光下閃耀著光芒。接下來的一個小時，她是屬于我的。好吧，在某種意義上屬于我。我獨力負責買單。而我第一堂課的飛行操控及責任則是由我和指導員格蘭共同承擔。

去年冬天，我入讀空勤預備學校，到了春天，我就儼然一名飛機控。我和自己打了個賭：攢足100小時的空勤學習和網(wǎng)上研修之后，夏天時要獎勵自己一小時貴得讓人咋舌的飛行訓練。

于是，我站在了甘露機場的停機坪上。

我們的飛行前檢查意味著這只鳥兒要展翅高飛了。對于外行的我來說，天氣似乎不錯。“今天天氣真好，”我說。

格蘭看了看風向袋，向天空掃視了一眼。“風速大概是每十節(jié)270公里；云層高度6500千米。……在山谷里飛還行，但是我們今天不會飛到山峰那邊。”

我在腦中記下筆記，復習學過的氣象學知識。

我們擠進狹小的駕駛員座位，系好安全帶。哎呀—麻煩來了。我的眼睛正好與儀表板持平。當我在詛咒自己這五英尺一英寸（約1.55米）的身高時，格蘭從座位后面抽出一個枕頭。我把枕頭塞到屁股下面，從未感覺自己如此像一個老太太。不過至少，我能看到窗外的情況了。

啟動并測試引擎，羅盤已經校正，衛(wèi)星導航已打開并調好，無線電準備就緒。是時候警示附近的人我們準備起飛了。我調好麥克風的音量。

我念出這架賽斯納飛機的登記號—F、B、M、Z—并要求信息導報。