So, how did I get down there? I’m sure you can guess.

New York to Birmingham is about the limit for my Beech Bonanza as far as nonstop flights go. At more than four hours, it’s also the limit for me. At that point, my brain and bladder are competing for who more urgently wants to land. The flight down was a breeze. Good weather, nary a bump. I actually did stop at Tazewell County (KJFZ) in Richlands, Virginia. I like the ForeFlight feature that allows you to find the cheapest fuel on your route. Cheap fuel usually corresponds closely with remoteness and level of services—the farther from a population center and the fewer amenities, the cheaper the gas.

In this case, it also seemed to tie in with the difficulty of the approach. The field rests on top of a plateau surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains with a steep drop-off on the approach side of Runway 25. Now add some gusty winds, and it’s a pay-attention approach even in CAVU conditions. As I descended and started to feel the effects of the wind passing over those mountains, I remembered that I had not been flying in more than five weeks. Not my usual M.O., but life got busy, and I did not have any time to fly all of September.

• READ MORE: The Things We Men Pilots Do to Impress Women

There are parts of flying that are akin to riding a bike, but generally it’s not a very useful analogy for aviation. The truth is, your skill set does diminish with time, and it’s usually in the most critical envelopes of flight. I narrowed my focus, watched my speeds, and landed firmly with only half flaps to counter the gusts with a little breathing room. I took fuel, chatted up a pleasant retiree from Maine, and departed for Birmingham. On departure I thought about how the approach caught me off guard in a way that I could not have prepared for by any method short of flying more. Noted.

While my friends brought my bike, I brought everything else down in the airplane. With the rear seats removed (yes, I have a separate weight and balance prepped for just this purpose), I was able to fit everything from spare tires to tools, a full-size tent, sleeping bag, gear bag, and bike stands. There is this utility scorecard that lives in my head for every flight I make. The more utility and efficiency I can pack into a flight, the better I feel about the decision to use the airplane, and more interestingly, myself.

Being able to utilize the Bo to its maximum ability combats the small voice in my head that still whispers barbs about the extravagance of owning an airplane. The same goes for the pilot, and this is where things get sticky. As far as the airplane goes, I will load it close to its maximum weight and balance. I extract every bit of convenience and performance I can from the Beechcraft. Approaching those limits is easy as they are written in stone and simple to obey. Finding those limits in myself is quite a different experience.

I spent the weekend on the track riding my Kramer, all the while watching a large weather system make its way north and east. I rode well, which helps me do everything else better, from tying my shoes to making espresso to flying an airplane. Racing fires every neuron you have. It sharpens you in a way nothing else can. One second of inattention can spell disaster. Even instrument flying in IMC gives you a greater margin than that.

I woke up on my birthday, the morning of October 7, to terrible news from Israel. Between the approaching storm and my family in Jerusalem, I decided to head home and not race. Everything went back in the airplane save for the spare tires whose sacrifice to my lap times meant they would retire in Alabama. Filed IFR for 10K and headed up into the clouds. I was slightly nervous about the flight but gave myself a pep talk: This is why you have an instrument rating. This is why you have enough Garmin glass to warrant an exhibit at the Corning factory. This is why you have a Bonanza. I mean, isn’t that the point of all this? It is, with one large caveat. You can only load and fly the airplane to its limits so long as everything is in working order. Same goes for the pilot.

• READ MORE: Conversations in Dispatch Can Get Tricky

These are unedited notes I pulled from my flight log, written the evening of the flight after driving home: 

That was an intense flight. Must’ve been in the soup for almost the entire four hour and 20 minute flight. No convective activity, but moderate to heavy rain most of the way, with some turbulence thrown in for good measure. Black hole approach into Sullivan with a tiny bit of oil on the windscreen doing a lot of harm to the visibility. Oil did not register during daylight portion of flight. ATC cleared me for the approach, and I intercepted the glide slope just fine, but I was unable to turn the runway lights on. I was seconds away from going missed when I realized I had not switched over from New York approach to the CTAF. I quickly clicked seven times, and the runway lit up and I landed. For how prepared I was and how much time I had the end was a little bit of a pig f—.

Unlike the airplane’s state of utility, which only need be measured once before the flight, the pilot’s is a moving target. Decidedly not static. Milking every last bit of efficiency/utility from myself is not as straightforward as the aircraft’s. We often talk about evaluating ourselves before a flight. We don’t always think about it in the middle of the action. Things change. Look alive up there.

Also, from what I understand, ATC does not love it when you key the mic 42 times in a row trying to turn on nonexistent runway lights inside its facility.

This column first appeared in the January-February 2024/Issue 945 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Milking It: How to Extract Every Last Bit From Airplane and Pilot appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Based in La Rochelle, France, Elixir Aircraft is a fourth-generation Part 23 aircraft manufacturer.

The Elixir is a low-wing, T-tail design. The cockpit for the two-place trainer consists of dual Garmin G3X touchscreens, a GTN750xi, and Garmin GNC355a comms and nav backup unit.

According to the company, the Garmin avionics suite is “built to withstand the rigors for flight training” in addition to offering an aircraft that is more environmentally friendly than its predecessors in the training market as it reduces “carbon emissions by nearly 70 percent compared to other old generation aircraft.”

The company is pursuing FAA Part 23 certification.

The Elixir comes equipped with a ballistic parachute, AoA indicator, double-slotted electric flaps, an explosion resistance fuel tank, and reinforced oleo-pneumatic landing gear and combined nose wheel, which offers a wide track and low center of gravity to minimize bounced landings associated with loss of control accidents and runway excursions.

The cockpit is designed to appeal to the global training market, said Mike Tonkin, worldwide head of sales for Elixir Aircraft. Tonkin noted that the average age of the single-engine piston training fleet is 48 years old.

• READ MORE: Elixir Trainers Land at Airbus Academy Europe

“As we know the aging single-engine piston fleet needs replacing globally,” Tonkin said. “At Elixir Aircraft we feel we have the perfect EASA CS Part 23-certified aircraft to meet the current market requirements. The Elixir is modern, safe, versatile, and extremely cost-effective with an average hourly operating cost of around 50 euros per hour [$53.97] for any ATO/FTO flying around 500 hours per year per aircraft.” 

About the Company

Elixir Aircraft was established in 2015 with a goal to create safer, more economical, and versatile aircraft for the global training market. According to the company, the aircraft are designed to be resistant to technical failures and learner friendly. To that end, Elixir Aircraft uses the Carbon Oneshot, a technology utilized in competitive sailing, to simplify the structures.

According to Elixir, “more simplicity means less failure, therefore more safety, but also less maintenance and less costs.” The company estimates the hourly operations cost for its aircraft to be approximately $60, factoring in fuel and maintenance.

In June, Elixir announced an expansion of its headquarters in La Rochelle to 150,000 square feet. The company plans to produce more than 300 aircraft a year and employ more than 1,000 people by 2033.

The post Elixir Aircraft Glass Cockpit EASA Certified appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

One interesting flight back in May involved a quick trip down to Palomar to pick up my friend Martijn, who was visiting from Costa Rica. It was not a great beginning as I hit the starter button on the ramp in Santa Monica (KSMO). Nada. Not enough juice. The battery had drained to 11.3V after having updated all of the electronic charts on my multiple navigators and Garmin glass. High-class problem, but still a problem.

Engine jumped by friend Kit Dawson and run-up complete, I got held for 20 minutes waiting for an IFR [instrument flight rules] clearance. Sometimes you hear something out in the world and it scares you sufficiently as to leave a mark. For me, it’s imagining my cylinder walls glazing after idling for more than five minutes. I was told idling for long periods could do this to my engine, and while I don’t actually know anyone who this has happened to, nor do I remember where I originally heard it, it has taken up permanent residence in my head. Once in the air, I found myself in the clouds within a minute. Head down in the instruments and flying through the smooth grayness, I climbed and waited for the light to shine from above. With the Garmin G500 TXi’s flight director showing me the way, it’s easy to fly by hand, and you really want to be in full control that close to the ground, in case George decides to get weird. And weird he got.

I turned on the autopilot switch and found that it would keep the wings level, but it felt as if I was no longer climbing. This is disconcerting in the clouds. Your training tells you not to listen to your body, hammered home by the fact it will lie to you. However, in this case, the artificial intelligence confirmed what I felt in my ass: the airplane was leveling off, then climbing a bit, then leveling off. I switched off the autopilot and hand flew until I sailed out above the clouds in the late afternoon sunshine. This is why I never turn on the autopilot until I am 800 feet agl.

As I scanned the instruments, I saw a red “X” at the top of the primary flight display (PFD). The ruddervator’s servo clutch had failed. I pulled the breaker, then tried again. The autopilot would make coordinated turns but could not climb or descend with any accuracy. I considered turning back and landing in Burbank (KBUR), which I knew was clear, but I was feeling pretty solid about my instrument flying. I had recently taken lessons with a new-to-me instructor out of Camarillo (KCMA) named Michael Phillips—a wily ol’ dog. On my IPC [instrument proficiency check] flight, he secretly changed the navigation signal on my PFD from GPS to LOC [localiser] without me seeing it. It took me more than a minute to figure it out. Mike just shrugged his shoulders when Iasked him if he’d touched any buttons. Watch out for this guy. Point is, I was current and confident. I was given the ILS [instrument landing system] into Palomar with vectors to final and hand flew the approach with no issue. I came out under 1,500-foot ceilings with plenty of room and time to spare. For anyone considering getting your instrument ticket, all I can say is do it. It is unlike anything you will ever experience as a VFR [visual flight rules] pilot. It’s just a whole other animal. The level of attention and skill required makes your brain happy. Once on the ground, I told a waiting Martijn what was wrong with the autopilot and gave him the option of taking the train or renting a car. He asked if it was safe. I explained I can fly without an autopilot and I train to do just that. He said he was game if I was. Martijn has five children, and while I care greatly about my own life, a different set of criteria are superimposed over my decision-making process when I am carrying other people. When they are parents, it’s that much more so. I felt it was a flight well within my personal limits. Santa Monica ATIS [automatic terminal information service] was reporting calm winds, good visibility, and 1,300-foot ceilings. No problem.

Departure was a breeze. Ceilings were still at 1,500 feet and the layer was fairly thin—maybe 500 feet. But the approach back into Santa Monica turned out to be the real deal. I dropped into the clouds at 2,800 feet. The final approach fix is MOVVE (it’s Hollywood, baby) and you cross it at 3,000 feet. Putting the gear down while still in VMC is nice as the aircraft makes a pretty dramatic pitch when this happens. It’s helpful to be able to see what’s happening, but we were quickly in the clouds on a stabilized approach: 18 inches of manifold pressure and 2,500 rpm descending on the glide path. This is usually where I would let the autopilot do the flying while I monitor the engine and make sure that everything is in its right place. Hand flying requires that much more awareness and concentration.

Those ATIS-reported ceilings turned out to be inaccurate, and not by a little. The tower told me they were actually 600 feet agl—only 160 feet above minimums. When a marine layer is involved, the weather can deteriorate quicker than the ATIS can keep up. I wonder how I would have reacted had the tower not given me that information. What would I have done at 1,300 feet, at 1,000 feet, at 800 feet, when I found myself still buried in the clouds? Would I have gone to minimums or would I have called it off early? Hard to say. These are the things you think about at night, laying in bed.

But back in the clouds, passing through 1,000 feet, I was on speed and on glide path with no mistakes made. I continued to gently turn the throttle out to keep that magic combo of 18 inches/2,500 rpm that gave me my 500-fpm descent rate in the Bonanza. I glanced over at Martijn for just a moment. He was asleep. Must be nice.

We popped out at 600 feet agl just as the tower had reported. I dumped the flaps and came in for a decent landing—enough to wake my friend up. Maybe next time I can grease it enough that he’d need to be shaken gently at engine shutdown—something to aspire to. Recurrent training is really the key here. Had I not gone up with Michael for those sessions, I don’t know that I would have felt comfortable completing the flight with an inoperative autopilot. As I’ve said before, know thyself.

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