It feels great. It looks sexy. You catch yourself daydreaming about it in boring meetings. People come up and look at it wherever you go.
A brand-spanking-new airplane. There are few thrills and accomplishments as satisfying and special as buying a factory-new airplane. To the new owner, a new bird is the epitome of symphonic beauty and brilliant engineering; a powerful engine and supple, luxurious leather interior combined with the latest in navigation and communication technology, which, in many cases, outpaces commercial airliners. And it’s all yours.
When you fly different-make and -model airplanes, it can be hard to keep them straight in your radio calls. I’ve called a TBM, flying at FL280, a Cirrus. I’ve called a Diamond Star a Cessna, and I’ve called a Warrior a Husky. Usually, I catch myself immediately and correct my call, but there are times in life when calling something, or someone, by the wrong name can be hazardous to one’s health. A radio call generally isn’t one of them. That’s why I’ve decided to call any airplane I’m pilot-testing, “Baby.” So last week, when I was just getting my feet wet with a 12-hour-old Columbia 400, after botching a few radio calls, the airplane thence became Baby N452BS, and that’s no bravo sierra.
You can be proud of the hard work you’ve put into reaching pilot status—especially if you’ve gone the extra mile to become instrument rated. Our aviation culture admires and encourages people to keep busy and work hard. We have checklists for checking everything—often more than once. We’re told to tune and identify VORs along our route of flight, even if we’re navigating with GPS, just because we might need them. We’re often reluctant to use the autopilot for fear that we’ll lose our flying skills. The work ethic is alive and well in general aviation.