Southwestern Pennsylvania averages three full sunny days each month from December through February. This weekend, we had a bit of payback after all that dreariness. On Friday night, Saturday and Sunday’s forecast called for clear skies, light winds and lots of sunshine – though I didn’t believe it until the morning dawned clear and bright.

Twenty degrees is my lower limit for flying the Chief – there just isn’t enough heat output and my sneaker-clad feet just give up after an hour. But the sunshine meant temperatures would climb rapidly to the promised 40 degree range.

I had to let the car warm up a bit before driving to the airport. The fields were still snow covered and the roads still wore a white dusting of salt not yet washed away by rain. As I crested the final hill on Route 21, I could see my current airport home waiting for me. There were plenty of cars in the restaurant parking lot, but no hangar doors open, no airplanes taxiing, and no airplanes taking off.

I drove the potholed and puddle access road to my hangar, which faces the south and protects my little airplane from wind, snow, rain, and sun.

Opening a hangar door is a bit like opening an expected birthday present – you know what’s inside, but you still anticipate the unveiling. The door slides open, the light streams in, your airplane awaits.

This is another flight, which will in some way be different than any other flight. You still have time to cancel, tinker, clean, then close the door and go home. You have to decide to continue your preparations, to look closely for problems and yet not so closely that a corroded cotter pin grounds you.

Every pilot (though few will admit it) has days which are shadowed by impending disaster. You’re just sure today is the day you’ll lose an engine on takeoff, collide with a goose, or break a tail wire. Pilots with active imaginations suffer more frequent bouts of gloom, but some pilots succumb to the fear and give up flying. In fact, many airplanes sit unused for years after the owner scared himself once too many times or let his imagination take hold and convince him that the next time he flew would be his last.

Pilots are fascinated with accidents, reading NTSB reports, trying to divine what that pilot did that I would never do. it’s no wonder an avocation with such a preoccupation with avoiding accidents thinks about them quite a bit. It’s like the big pothole you saw in the road – “Don’t hit that pothole!” you think – BLAM! – just before you hit the pothole. The control center of your brain drew your body to the object of its fascination, inexorably, while the other part of your brain observed in drooling apathy.

Therefore to slide open the hangar door – and keep it open – you must want flight and the Olympic perch it provides, the freedom of travel, unbound by roads or guardrails, the sensation of positive or negative G forces, alternating your body’s weight from heavy to weightless, the aloof sense of triumph over time and space.

Sometimes you just want to fly – to practice the craft, master the psychomotor skills required to effectively and efficiently pilot an airplane.

Sadly, for many new Private Pilots, the absence of the need to practice and perform for the final examination required for the certificate is replaced with rides for family and every friend over downtown, over the house, and over the golf course, until flight becomes boring. Eventually the cost and time and trouble and exposure to danger all drop on the other side of the balance. The motivation evaporates, and another pilot lets his currency lapse.

Others fend off boredom with the instrument rating and the commercial certificate. The new pilot starts preparing for the next challenge after the last exam, caught up in the excitement of objective progress.

Pilots that push past this phase are rewarded with gradual exposure to more varied experience, until the mental tool bag starts to fill with varying sizes of knowledge and familiarity. But adding to the tool bag is insufficient motivation to carry through the boring, unchallenging flights that pepper every pilot’s logbook.

In this way the enthusiast pilot – who pays for his own gas, repairs, and hangar space – requires more discipline than the professional pilot. The professional has to fly. He can’t fly only on the days he “feels” like it – thus many hours of flight can be logged absent of any joy, any desire, and any other motivation besides a wage.

The amateur pilot (using the original sense of amateur, a French term that means “lover of…”) doesn’t earn money to fly. In fact flying costs money -- reducing that available for vacations, motor homes, jewelry, boats, and new cars.

Every pilot can fend off the question for a while, but eventually must face the question that causes her to place such a priority on this activity over every other upon which to lavish so much time and money – Why do I do this?

It’s not a simple question, and has as many answers as there are pilots – and the answer for each pilot will vary depending on the day, the last flight, and the available airplane.

Today I think – I bought an airplane, I have complete access to it – I should fly it -- I reason, somewhat uncritically. The view from above won’t be all that pretty, as the snow cover turns the landscape to a monochrome white and grey with predictable lines of black. I’m not motivated by “going somewhere” – as there are faster ways to get from point A to point B, and I’ve moved faster on my motorcycle than this airplane will ever go.

I’m still a new tailwheel pilot, with a grand total of thirty hours in this awkward landing gear type airplane. Takeoff and landing proficiency is a motivation, as is more mastery over the airplane’s control in flight. As I preflight, I build a mental list of things to do in the air, and energize myself with the somewhat artificial and arbitrary challenge.

Melt water poured down on the fabric wings as I pushed the Chief out into the dazzling sunshine. The engine is still warm from the overnight heat provided by two 100w trouble lights and contained by enough blankets to cover two mules. I pound the Army tent stake into the ground, tie down the tail, set the chocks, and perform one more walk around.

Tailwheel airplanes usually dominate pilot’s lists of “Top Ten Most Beautiful” airplanes. This is likely due to the way the nose points eagerly towards the sky: “That’s where I belong! Let’s go that way!” the jaunty angle silently proclaims.

It’s easy to be fooled by this. It’s like a dog that’s wagging its tail: “I’m so happy to see you, Mr Stranger!” – Until you’re close enough to bite. So I remind myself that this collection of parts was designed over seventy years ago, that the rebuild that happened seems not-that-long-ago only because I’m fooling myself that 1979 was “just yesterday.”

Over thirty years ago someone pulled this airplane out of a barn and ripped it apart, overhauled the engine, put it all back together, and applied the most expensive fabric covering then available. Clearly there was care and dedication to restore this airplane to airworthiness.

Since then three successive owners have logged a grand total of 275 hours on the airplane, with me flying it more in the past five months than the airplane flew in the previous ten years.

I’ve flown it enough to know what needs to get fixed, replaced, and adjusted. Nothing critical to flight is a problem, so I feel …. well, confident as I can be in a 70 year old airplane with a thirty year old guts and body.

Satisfied that the simple systems on this simple airplane are adequate for flight, I reach inside, switch fuel to ON, push the primer in four times, check to be sure the magneto switch is set to OFF, pull the throttle all the way out and then slide it back in about ½ inch, glance at the chocks, and walk to the front of the airplane.

I check the ground in front of the prop – no ice, no slippery stuff. I pull the prop through 6 times. The feel and sounds are normal. So far so good.

I walk around the strut and reach inside and set the mags to BOTH. I walk back around the strut, take place in front of the prop, reach up with two gloved hands, check footing, and push hard down on the prop. My momentum carries me away and to the right. The engine sputters – burp-chug-burp-chug-burp…

I run around the strut, reach inside for the throttle, and push it forward a bit. The chug-chug is replaced by a more regular putt-putt-putt with a hesitation every now and then. Good – she’s running fine.

I climb inside and watch the oil pressure gauge – 65 PSI. I tap it and it stays in place. 800 RPM is climbing to 900. The engine sound is more regular now. The prop wash courses through the open side window. The faint odor of oil and fuel fills the cabin. After a couple of minutes running at 900 RPM, I pull back to idle – around 550 RPM – and climb out. The airplane doesn’t move. I walk around the tail, pull the passenger side chocks, walk to the tail, untie the tail – still no movement – then walk to the cabin and reach in and pull the throttle back some more.

Satisfied the airplane won’t move on its own, I reach down and pull the checks at my feet while holding onto the strut. I toss them into the small compartment and then slide into the bench seat.

The doors latched, seatbelt on, everything in its place – a short blast of power and the airplane starts to move. A touch of left brake and now we’re straight – check the right brake – good.

I taxi down to the end of runway 9. The snow banks on either side have shrunk a bit so I can see the vast expanse of flat ground surrounding the runway. I turn on the handheld radio and listen as I taxi. 122.8 is quiet.

I search the sky. No one else is flying yet. I check free and correct, trim setting, altimeter, and oil pressure as I roll to a stop near the end of the taxiway. Engine runs up to 1500 RPM – mags checked, carb heat checked, throttle to idle – all good.

Final excuses evaporate. It’s time to fly. I announce my intentions on the radio, give one more look skyward, then roll out, placing the left wheel on centerline.

I gradually add power – the airplane rolls, the tail lifts – oil pressure good, RPM about 2400, sounds and sights are familiar – a bit more right rudder – center it – speed builds – First one wheel then the other stop rolling – the ground slips downward. I glance at the airspeed indicator – 60 MPH – I reach up and crank the overhead trim a bit. Climb is not bad on this cold morning. A few hundred feet up I start a gentle bank to the left. I pick the nose up a bit and climb at 55 MPH. the water tower on the hill is there – stay south of it – climbing, engine sounds good.

I enter a left downwind about 500’ above the runway. I can make it back with no problem from here – though I’ll need to slip aggressively to get down to the runway. Everything sounds and looks good – ok, let’s head east.

I pass through the blinding morning sun, fly over the house, and climb. The air is still. Haze obscures downtown Pittsburgh to the north, but I can see the steam rising from Coal-fired powerplants near Morgantown and Shinnston, West Virginia. The white cross on the peak of Jumonville Knob is distinct against the clear blue sky.

I spend 20 minutes or so doing steep turns, slow flight, stalls – just getting the feel for the airplane and making as perfect a turn entry and exit as I can. At these slow speeds the turn radius is impressive – I feel like I could 180 out of a phone booth, if needed. Slow flight happens in the thirties – the airplane doesn’t stall as much as mush its way down.

I fly to Connellsville, talk to the lineman a while, fuel up with a full four gallons, fly to Rostraver, mix it up with the RVs and Skywagons and T-34s. I taxi and takeoff and fly some more.

1.5 hours later I roll to a stop in front of my hangar, switch fuel to OFF, and run up a bit and listen as the engine sputters and dies. I switch off the mags, check the fuel again, reset the trim to takeoff, and sit for a moment in the silence.

I never answered the question, “Why do I do this?” logically or rationally. I could trot out a list of accomplishments and objectives met, yet the real answer transcends proposition. Somehow a seventy year old rebuilt airplane and I have become one, blurring the line between man and machine, achieving for brief moments freedom harmonized with immutable laws.

It’s a somewhat ethereal, philosophic answer, and as unsatisfying as a list. Yet time flying swept away more mundane concerns. For those moments, suspended in space, time lost its grip, and life dissolved into simple pressures of hands and feet.

I climb out, slide open the hangar doors, pull the airplane in, and resume the mundane, the predictable, the logical, the normal, confident that soon I’ll be flying again.