I Need a Donut
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I strive to keep my inner Homer Simpson quiet. The American lexicon of avoidable mistakes manifests in me at times despite my best efforts. Thankfully, his appearances while flying have not caused anything more serious than a blow to my ego or my checkbook. I wonder if I’m the only pilot who has slapped his forehead with a loud “D’oh!” That realization of an easily avoidable error, if not for a bit more attention to detail. Here are a few of mine, and I hope you can take away some lessons to keep your inner Homer quiet and well behaved.
On a beautiful fall afternoon, I was out flying the Cub. My itinerary included a landing at Bentonville (KVBT), for the Thursday Fly Oz Club gathering on the deck. I knew my many friends would be on the deck watching and eager to provide reviews on each approach and landing. In hopes of receiving thumbs-up reviews, I first flew to a local grass strip to practice a few landings. The landings went well, the skies were beautiful, and the winds were blowing, but well within Cub tolerances. I monitored the advisory frequency at KVBT, with several flight school aircraft in the pattern. Everyone was using 18, which meant I would use 17 grass. I listened to weather, and the winds were out of the north. My first thought was that everyone was going the wrong way.
Homer quickly appeared on the scene. He boldly exclaimed that the windsock was probably favoring the traffic flow. He said, “Relax, just go with the flow.” I followed Homer’s suggestion and crossed the pond just north of the threshold. My first thought was, “I think I’m getting a quartering tailwind.” As my left wheel touched down and the plane started heading for the left runway edge, my thought was, “I’M GETTING A QUARTERING TAILWIND.” I salvaged the landing after some choice words to Homer. I taxied in and parked. I slowly walked up to the deck, where thankfully my friends showed me some mercy as they smiled and said they didn’t see anything. I just slapped my forehead, “D’oh!”
I recently stopped in Parkersburg, West Virginia, for a fuel stop. I completed the 500 NM flight mostly in blue skies, but above a cloud deck. It was a cold winter day. I had not encountered any icing, and none was forecast. Still, for the RNAV approach, a brief dip through some clouds was required. Ceilings were high, and I was not expecting any issues getting in for a landing. TCAS did not show any traffic, and the controller was only talking to one other aircraft. I asked for the runway favored by winds, which was not the same used by the previous aircraft. The controller gave me the requested approach but sounded aggravated with my request. Minutes before reaching the first approach point, my clearance changed. The controller gave me direct to a feeder waypoint and “hold as published.” Great. Now I’m quickly pulling up low route charts, entering the waypoint into the GPS system, and verifying it is a standard hold. I get it all programmed and enter the hold. ATC didn’t give me an expected release time. I call to get that time, and just as I am about to turn outbound, ATC clears me for the approach and sends me to the tower.
Homer quickly appears and tells me to just cancel the hold and head straight to the next waypoint. It’s a lot of quick button pressing, which I do, but in my haste, I hit the wrong button and cancel the entire approach in the Garmin. Now, Homer and I are headed to the clouds. I just called tower to tell them I was on the RNAV. I have no GPS guidance, but I do have the chart pulled up. Time to reduce automation. I put the autopilot in heading mode. I monitor my altitude and descent rate to the next fix. I’m good for now, as I do not have to descend yet. I rebuild the approach, re-engage the GPS and autopilot to NAV, capture the glide slope, and make an uneventful descent through the clouds to an uneventful landing. Tower even gives me a “good job” at making the first turnoff. I guess they didn’t see me slapping my forehead on the taxi to the FBO. “D’oh!”
My last visit from Homer occurred soon after Parkersburg. I departed for home from N71, Marietta, Pennsylvania, on a cold Sunday morning. It was a beautiful day after a recent snowfall. The runway was snow-covered. This was new to a southern pilot like me. But I had Homer to help me. “It’s a dry snow, test the traction, it’ll be fine.” Sure enough, the aircraft taxied true. It turned true. I could see dry snow blowing off the runway as I back-taxied. Takeoff was normal, and the aircraft tracked the centerline. Homer was right this time.
Landing in Evansville, Illinois (KEVV), for fuel, I had my first head slap. The warmest temperature I saw in flight was -8 Fahrenheit. Upon landing at KEVV, the left tire grabbed for a second, skidded on the runway, then the plane rolled freely. The brakes felt a bit different. Were they frozen? At the FBO, I discovered the problem: the wheel pants were stuffed with snow. I did my best to dig the snow out with my fingers. I looked at the tires and fairings the best I could. I didn’t see anything wrong. I fueled, taxied back. The aircraft had a weird “bump” as I was taxiing. Homer was there to tell me not to worry; it was just the snow. Sure enough, uneventful takeoff, flight home, and landing in Springdale. I had the “bump” as I taxied to the FBO, but Homer assured me it was just the snow that remained in the wheel pants.
The following week I’m taxiing for departure. Is that “bump” still there? Yes, but Homer says just let maintenance look at it during the next oil change. There are only a few hours left until the aircraft will be in the shop—everything will be fine. Uneventful takeoff, uneventful landing, turn to back taxi, and the aircraft leans hard left and will not move. I give myself another forehead slap as I study the flat tire that has caused me to shut down on the runway. Thankfully, maintenance is quickly there to save the day and get me off the runway. But now I am at home, and the aircraft is in Texas, awaiting a new tire. Yes, a flat spot caused the issue. “D’oh.”
These are all honest-to-goodness Homer incidents. I knew better, yet still made a dumb decision. I had made better decisions in similar situations in the past. But for some reason, Homer prevailed as the decision maker on these flights.
- I’ve flown into Bentonville before with traffic opposite to the winds. I’ve just waited for traffic to land, called traffic for the preferred runway, and landed uneventfully.
- I’ve been on flights where an ATC call put me in a spot that required me to hurry my actions beyond my comfort level. I’ve said “unable” and asked for delays. It has never been an issue.
- I’m a maintenance “junkie.” If there is something off, I get my maintenance shop to look into it. Sometimes things are caught. Sometimes I get a “fly and see if it comes back.” Peace of mind one way or another, and no big deal.
I sit eating my pink-frosted donut with sprinkles. I’m having a talk with Homer. Why did you show up on those three flights but not others? Homer remains silent, just drooling, saying, “mmm, donut.” It’s up to me to figure this out. Why did I let my Homer prevail on those flights? Honestly, I don’t know. I could say that it was the nature of the flights. My guard was down as weather was good. I was the proverbial “fat, dumb, and happy,” just like Homer. But I’ve had other flights on those types of days without Homer-level decisions. The answer to why those decisions happened on those flights isn’t easy.
As I finish my donut, I realize I don’t have a single answer. I realize I must be vigilant to the fact that bad decisions are always ready to creep into a flight. I am still in search of the perfect flight, and I keep working to get better. Maybe that is the answer: keep working. The landing at KVBT remained in control because I practice a lot of tailwheel landings every week. The ability to handle my fat fingers with the GPS on the approach came from listening to podcasts, chair flying, and being ready to “dumb down” automation when necessary. I also practice approaches—a lot. I remained on the runway in Evansville and Texas because I practice and focus on approach and landing speeds, trying not to carry too much airspeed to the runway.
Honestly, the winter flights are now part of my learning experience to fight Homer-like decisions. I now know the serious implications of snow and freezing temperatures. I know how easy it is to flat-spot a tire. And I know to get said tire inspected fully, ASAP.
Maybe that is the answer. We practice often so that these “Homer movements” don’t break our airplane or ourselves. We then use these Homer moments to prevent other similar events and other “D’oh!” moments. I’ll keep flying, I’ll keep practicing, and I’ll keep the donuts coming—but hopefully they’ll be for celebration and not self-castigation.
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