I went flying on Saturday. Completely wonderful, and partly surreal, but there I was, at about 2,500ft in clear blue, perfect skies, being handed control of a two-seater Piper Tomahawk.

Last year was my 30th birthday, so my girlfriend decided to go for something pretty special for a present. As I’d often talked about wanting to learn how to fly, she got me an hour’s trial lesson at Goodwood Aerodrome. With the voucher valid for a year, it only took me 361 days to actually get in the plane after all my excitement, but sometimes these experiences are just worth savouring and waiting for that much…

OK, so I’m very bad at organising, brilliant at procrastinating, and I was also very slightly nervous at the prospect of going up in a small plane and flying it myself, even for a second.

But like I said, some things are well worth waiting for. Guiness drinkers, take note: some things really are, and some are… well. Not.

I’d picked a fairly arbitrary flying time, although it definitely meant not getting up too early, and shortly afterwards, with me signed up as a temporary member of the flying club (insurance purposes apparently) Dieter, my lucky instructor arrived. Turned out smartly, he introduced himself professionally, and off we ambled towards a small and fragile looking aircraft. I told Dieter I’d never flown (in the active sense) an aircraft before, which caused him to launch into detailed explanation of ailerons, the elevator, and the thingy that’s a bit like a rudder, which controls yaw. Three control mechanisms, three dimensions. Nice and simple.

After a brief safety introduction, including what I should do if the engine cuts out in mid flight (other than weep) and where to find an axe if I need to break any glass, we taxied towards the runway, Dieter mumbled something incomprehensible to ground control, they mumbled back over static, and we were away. “Just to let you know, I’m going to take a sharp right once we get in the air. They’ve built a new estate at the end of this runway you see. Just so you know why, though.” Bah. Damned developers. Fist shaking at new houses, then a sharp right, and then we’re as up as we’re going to be and crusing at 2000 feet, at around 90 knots (not sure how fast that is in proper speed…). “See what happens if I move the wheel left” says Dieter, as we bank left. Yup, got that. Good. Next? “You have a go. OK, you have control”. Er, sorry, what? We’ve been in the air for, ooh, three or four minutes, and whatever I do to this crazy joystick in front of me will directly affect where this tin heads next?

Well, I wasn’t quite ready for that, and I certainly wasn’t ready for the feather-light sensitivity of the aircraft either. A quick dab to the left, and the plane responded instantly. Hmm. Not so bad after all. We ran through pitch and yaw, talked over a few more things, and then I was given free reign to take us wherever I wanted to. Being a bit wussy, though, I resisted too many complex acrobatic manoeuvers, until suddenly I was being told that we were banking at 45 degrees, at which point Dieter decided to outdo me by turning us at 60 degrees. Which was actually quite comfortable apart from the sudden increase in weight. But even that was nothing compared to Dieter’s first lesson party trick, which I think is called a wing-over (increase speed, climb, turn, basically reversing direction), which was performed over Butlins on this occasion, and invoked even more stomachy heaviness.

Dieter brought us safely down shortly after this, and as nervous as I’d been before going up, I was pumped coming down, and very reluctant to leave the cockpit. Despite being back on terra firma, I was still grinning like an idiot, though. Dieter seems strangely relieved to be back safe and sound in this shot…

And now I’ve only got another 44 hours or to my Private Pilot’s License… anyone care for a bet on which comes first - that or the full driving license…

Tags: Flying