Chapter 17

Within two weeks, the test flights had been completed, and the Sabre had passed with, you might say, flying colors. It flew beautifully, was aerodynamically stable at high airspeeds, and recovered smoothly and easily from all six types of multiturn spins. I was excited to have completed the test flights and eager to start practicing aerobatics.

But there were problems. The previous owner, Henry Morrison, had wanted the control forces to feel solid and heavy, and they were. But the pitch forces were extremely heavy, which meant I needed both hands on the stick to enter a snap roll, and the wing tended to wallow and mush rather than making a clean break for the snap, even when I pulled the stick aft as hard as I could and jammed in full rudder. The roll forces were also extremely heavy, and it took two hands and a lot of arm strength to execute a slow roll.

I longed for the feel of my Pitts.

At one of our New J practice sessions, Frank told me it was only to be expected. “That’s what people say about transitioning to a monoplane. The Pitts is more fun to fly. The monoplane is all business. It’s a serious airplane, for the serious task of winning at the World Contest. You’re not the first to think that the monoplane isn’t as much fun to fly.”

But it was more than that. Although I didn’t confess to anyone my growing despair, the truth was that I could barely fly the plane in Sportsman. It was simply too heavy and wallowing to fly the higher aerobatic competition maneuvers.

I heard Andy’s voice in my head as he had warned me throughout the building of the airplane: “I have no idea how it will fly. Henry wanted a big elevator to have a solid, heavy control feel.”

One of the former US Aerobatic Team trainers was running a coaching session in Arizona. I flew out there that winter, and he watched me fly. When I got down after the first flight, he rubbed his brow. “Cecilia, those snaps look like Decathlon snaps. If you can’t fly any better than that, they’re not going to take you to Europe. It’ll be a waste of team resources.”

I’d done everything I could, sunk every last dollar of my own and everything I could raise into this experiment. Now it couldn’t fly? I sat in the hangar staring glumly at my big lug of an airplane. It didn’t look too different from an Extra, and everyone said those flew beautifully. But there was something missing, some magic that Curtis Pitts had lent the biplane, some elusive element in the subtle details of the shape of the control surfaces, the horizontal and vertical stabilizers.

Was there a way to improve it aerodynamically? I called up Roger Blum, the aircraft designer, but he said, “I’m sorry, but I designed the plane for Henry, and that was what he wanted. You bought Henry’s design, and that’s it.”

Increasingly desperate, I called more and more people in the aerobatics industry. No one was impolite, but no one had any ideas for me until one person suggested I call Leo Loudenslager.

“You mean, the seven-time national aerobatic champion?” I asked.

“He designed his own airplane, and there’s probably no one who knows more about monoplane design than Leo,” this person told me.

Would someone that famous take a call from me?

At first, I decided not to. What if he refused? Then, I thought about the humiliation of being unable to fly at the World Contest with so many people depending on me. So I picked up the phone.

Not only did Leo take my call that Saturday, he also listened closely to my explanation of the problems. “It’s difficult for me to diagnose an aerodynamic problem sight unseen,” he said. “But listen, I’m going to be in Guthrie, Oklahoma, this Wednesday. If you can get your airplane there by then, I’ll fly it and tell you what’s wrong with it.”

Pause. I had a job, flight students—my calendar was full. Wednesday was only four days away, and Oklahoma was 1,700 miles across the country. It was impossible. I opened my mouth and blurted, “Sure! Where should I meet you?”

He gave me directions, and when I got off the phone, I was in a fever of agitation. I canceled all my appointments, asked my boss for time off, grabbed my aviation charts, and planned the flight.

The Sabre had even fewer instruments than my Pitts. No electrical system, the compass didn’t work, and the auxiliary tank was a bullet-shaped cylinder that strapped under the belly of the airplane and was necessary if I wanted to fly longer than twenty minutes. I’d never flown the Sabre anywhere near the distance to Guthrie. Fortunately, the weather forecasts across the Southwest and on into Texas and Oklahoma were good for the next couple of days. So ultimately, I decided I would fly 1,700 miles in a practically untested airplane at the drop of a hat, simply for the chance of having an aerodynamic genius work his magic on my airplane.

* * *

On April 4, 1992, I took off from Nut Tree Airport, where I was then basing the Sabre, and headed east. After overnighting in Gallup, New Mexico, I arrived in Guthrie, Oklahoma, on April 5.

Leo Loudenslager met me at the Bakal Aeronautics hangar on the Guthrie field. A tall, serious man with shaggy gray hair, he moved around the hangar with tight efficiency. The hangar—huge, white, and spotless—was used for building composite aircraft parts and drones, and Leo had recently helped them design an all-composite wing called the Edge for Unlimited competition aerobatics. Leslie Bakal, one of the owners, was driven and talkative, and Mark, her husband, was a quiet, deep thinker. I couldn’t help but enjoy Leslie’s focused attitude and Mark’s laid-back, wry humor, despite my anxiety.

Another pilot had his plane—a four-cylinder monoplane called a Lazer with an Edge wing—in their shop, and he worked on it alongside some of the mechanics from Bakal. The pilot introduced himself as Joe Haywood. He was a friendly, slightly rounded man who liked cracking jokes. He owned his own business, and spent most of his free time out at the airport.

Leo focused intently on my description of the problems with the Sabre, circling the plane as I talked. After I removed all the Styrofoam from my cockpit and gave him a quick briefing, he climbed in the plane and took off.

It’s strange seeing someone else in your single-seat airplane disappear into the distance. When he landed, he gave me a quick precis of the aerodynamics of the plane in a brisk, no-nonsense manner. I took notes as quickly as I could. Mark Bakal came out onto the tarmac and listened along to Leo’s report.

“The rudder is too big, as is the elevator. That’s what’s giving you the problems with the heavy control forces.” He rattled off a set of formulas for the optimal area for the vertical stabilizer, horizontal stabilizer, and control surfaces.

“Is it possible to cut down the existing rudder?” I asked.

Leo squinted at the Sabre and slid a hand over the vertical tail. “I’d build a completely new set of control surfaces. You’ll need someone who can do precision welding and can also do fabric work to cover the tubing when it’s done.”

I felt sick. It was only seven weeks before I was due in Ohio for the team practice session at Rickenbacker Field. I’d been hoping Leo would recommend a couple quick fixes, and then I could get down to some hard practicing. His suggestions sounded like they would take a long time.

“You can try some bigger spades on the ailerons and build some for the rudder too.” Spades are aerodynamic counterbalances that are usually mounted aft of the aileron hinge and provide a boosting effect, kind of like power steering for control surfaces. They make the aileron forces lighter.

“Rudder spades?” I’d never heard of them being used anywhere other than ailerons.

Leo frowned at my airplane. “You’re not going to like this, but if you really want my advice, I’d ditch the entire wing. That’s an old-style wooden wing, solid but an obsolete airfoil.”

I choked. “You want me to swap out all the tail surfaces and the wing as well? What’ll be left of the airplane, the serial number?” I could see dollar signs in the air, as well as my chance to compete in the Worlds floating away.

“Do you want a plane that can compete at the highest levels or not?”

“But there’s hardly any time left! I still have to practice and learn to fly the airplane. Plus, I don’t have the money to make major changes. I spent every penny I had on getting the airplane as far as it is now.”

Leo shrugged. “Well, if you were to decide to do it, you just happen to be at the best place to get work done on aerobatic aircraft.” He pointed at Mark Bakal, standing off to one side quietly listening. “No one can build a better aircraft than this guy. If you mounted an Edge wing on your plane, it would solve many of your problems right there.”

The suggestions were coming too fast for me to take in.

“Tell you what,” Leo said. “You asked me for my recommendation, and I’ll give it to you. It’s up to you whether to take it. I recommend you try a few minor changes that Mark can probably knock out over the next couple of days. See if that helps. If it doesn’t, maybe see if you can fly an Edge somewhere, see if you like it. Then I’d recommend doing the complete retrofit with an Edge wing.”

Joe Haywood, who had wandered up to our conversation, said, “Why don’t you fly my airplane and see if you like the Edge. Do that before you make any decisions.”

“You’d let me fly your plane?” The guy had only just met me thirty-­five minutes earlier, and he was offering to let me fly his $100,000-plus custom aerobatic machine.

He grinned. “You’re not gonna break it, right?”

I laughed nervously.

Less than half an hour later, we loaded my Styrofoam cushions into Joe’s Lazer and he briefed me on the cockpit and airplane. I sat in the plane as Joe went over a last set of instructions on the landing speed and the plane’s idiosyncrasies.

It’s not too unusual for Unlimited aerobatic pilots to fly each other’s airplanes. It’s usually assumed that by the time we get this good, we’re not going to do something stupid and crash. But there were so many things that could go wrong.

My arms and legs were shaking at the thought of taking off in this unknown plane. I could barely reach the rudder pedals. The Styrofoam cushions helped somewhat, but they still didn’t give me that last inch without straining. I couldn’t help hearing Louie Robinson’s voice: “You need that last half inch for spin recovery.”

I decided I wasn’t going to try spins, just some turns, rolls, and maybe a snap or two.

The plane felt unstable on takeoff, wiggling as I sped down the runway. Once in the air, the airplane flew lightly. I couldn’t believe the aileron response—so precise and nimble and worlds better than the heavy, somewhat ponderous feel of my plane’s ailerons.

I was already grinning, even before reaching altitude. Out over the bisected green fields, I looped and rolled and snapped and pivoted. When I landed, I announced, “Let’s do it.”

But it wasn’t that easy. First, it would take the Bakals a few weeks to build a brand-new wing. We didn’t have enough time for that. So where could I get a used one? Mark Bakal knew of a used Edge for sale on the East Coast. That was probably the best bet.

But the bigger problems were financial. I was tapped out after buying the Sabre. I couldn’t afford this retrofit project.

But then the Bakals made me an offer hard to refuse. “We’d really like to see an Edge fly in the World Contest,” Leslie told me. “How about if we sponsor you with all our labor? All you have to do is pay for the used wing, and any parts.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s an amazing offer.” I was still worried about the cost of even the used wing. On the other hand, I was desperate. There was no way the Sabre could fly Unlimited as is. It needed a major retrofit. And here Mark Bakal was offering it to me at a substantial discount. I couldn’t not take his offer. I struggled to think of where I was going to come up with the extra money.

But I knew I was going to do it. It was just one more impossible thing.

And then, there was the time factor. “Is it even possible to do all this work in the next few weeks?” I asked Mark. “I’ve only got seven weeks before team practice. Could you do it in four weeks?”

Mark scratched his head very slowly, and gave the Sabre another long once-over. “How about five?”

That would only leave me two weeks before the team practice. No way would that be enough time. Two weeks to train to Unlimited-level competency in a plane I’d barely flown? And that wasn’t even considering how much time it would take to test-fly a brand-new airplane.

I also had to trust that Mark could actually deliver in that short time frame. In fact, I was hanging everything upon believing him. We’d only spent a few hours getting to know each other, but strangely, I already felt like we were old friends, Mark and Leslie and me.

I decided to trust.

I spent the rest of the day getting a tour of the Bakal hangar and learning more than I ever knew was possible to know about composite aircraft. They had a large government contract to build military drones and a giant oven where they cooked the composite materials into aircraft parts. I marveled at the high tech, amazing precision work, all the equipment, and how they produced such incredible craftsmanship in such a small space.

I also spent hours talking about how nerve-racking it is to start a new business with Leslie, the business owner.

By the end of the day, they told me to cancel my hotel reservation and stay in their beautiful Midwestern-style house on a quiet tree-lined street. I spent the next few days hanging out with them 24/7. In the evenings, we talked in the kitchen as Leslie cooked dinner, with me helping however I could. “When we were first getting the loan from the bank for this business,” Leslie said, “they wanted us to use our house to secure the loan. But I refused. I didn’t want to mortgage my children’s future. The bank didn’t like that, but eventually they gave me the loan.”

“Banks make a lot of money off loans,” I said. “But you can sometimes get them to compromise.”

“Yes, they act like they’re doing us a favor, but really, we’re the customer.”

We understood each other, two women business owners trying to make it in the field of aviation.

They gave me a large, quiet room finished with hardwood floors and ringed by dormer windows. Ruffled flounces encircled the double bed piled with quilted pillows. Out the window, huge maple and oak trees crowded the yard. I hadn’t stayed in someone else’s house for a long time—not since I was a child visiting relatives. As an adult, whenever I traveled, I picked the cheapest motel and stayed there.

It was different being welcomed into someone’s home. The Bakals had opened their hearts to me. Yes, they hoped that I would showcase their wing at the World Championships, but there was no guarantee I could even fly it. They offered me kindness of a sort I hadn’t imagined would ever be possible outside my own family.

We set up the final plans. Mark and Leslie would drive to the East Coast with a trailer so they could pick up the wing and drive it back to Guthrie within the next week. I was stunned at how much they were willing to do for me. All of this was free of charge.

All that was left for me was to go home and keep up my aerobatic tolerance by flying in the Pitts. At home, Ben had become a staunch supporter, following my progress eagerly and cheering me on after every competition. Although he still refused to attend local events, citing a disdain for hangar food, I was touched when I found out he planned to come to the World Contest. What’s more, he’d gotten his parents involved and excited. To my delight, his father and mother both said they’d come to France to support me, joining my own parents, who were also planning on making the trip. My parents were absurdly proud that their daughter was now going to represent their adopted country in an international competition. It gave me tremendous solace to know they all stood behind me, and that no matter what happened, my efforts to compete at the world level had become a family affair. I felt surrounded by love, and it floored me.

I caught a commercial flight home and booked my return flight for five weeks later. Would it work? Even Mark Bakal admitted it was an ambitious schedule. If anything went wrong, he wouldn’t hit the deadline. And that would mean missing the World Contest.

* * *

My logbook showed that in the days between April 9 and May 5, I flew nearly every day, often teaching students in several different airplanes and practicing Unlimited sequences in the Pitts S-1T. I’d sold it to a friend in two stages so I could still practice in it while I was waiting for the Sabre to be ready. In May I completed the sale to raise the money I needed.

It made me sad to sell my little Pitts, the plane I had flown from Intermediate through Unlimited, eventually winning a spot on the US Team. I’d flown it over 620 hours—more time than I’d logged in any other airplane. (By then, I had accumulated over 3,000 hours, about half as a flight instructor and over 1,700 in tailwheel airplanes.)

It was quite a journey since the summer of 1985, when I’d taken my first nervous ride in a small plane. And now I was embarking on the most notable journey of my life. I’d gone from being a nobody, scared of flying, scared of everything, to a small business owner, a test pilot, an aerobatic instructor, and now, at last, I’d reached the pinnacle of aerobatic competition flying: membership on the US Aerobatic Team. In less than a couple of months, I’d be representing my country in France. Maybe.

My logbook also showed multiple flights with photographers from various newspapers, video flights with TV stations, and all sorts of encounters that really didn’t belong in the logbook of a “nobody.”

Still, it could all come crashing down. If Mark Bakal didn’t deliver on the airplane as promised, if a tornado tore through the Bakal hangar in Oklahoma, if the plane didn’t fly well and I couldn’t make it snap, if for some reason I couldn’t fly—if, if, if. I put all of that out of my mind and concentrated on keeping my g-tolerance up and going through my sequences mentally.

In early May, the call I’d been waiting for arrived. Mark said the plane would be finished on time, two weeks before team practice, just as promised. On May 6, 1992, I took a commercial flight out to Oklahoma. Mark picked me up at the airport, and we talked all the way back in the car.

The airplane was ready. There had been a couple of problems, but he’d solved them, and everything looked good. I was so excited I could hardly stand it. I couldn’t wait to fly in the morning. We pulled into Mark’s garage as the sun was setting over Guthrie. The lights in the windows of their two-story house were warm and inviting, and I could already smell Leslie’s cooking. She came to the door and gave me a hug.

I sat on a high-backed spindle chair at their polished wood dining table under a stained-glass light fixture. We ate tuna casserole with peas as Mark and Leslie regaled me with all the stories of the journey east, how they had loaded the wing on the trailer and driven it back in the rain, all the difficulties getting the airplane together, but now it was finally done on schedule.

I had trouble sleeping that night near the dormer window where the oaks and maples rustled their leaves under the streetlight. The lamp threw a stippled pattern on the wallpaper across the room.

It was my turn now to show I was worthy of their support. What if I let them down? What if I couldn’t fly the airplane? What if I didn’t perform as well as I hoped?

“Nothing is certain in this world,” they’d said at dinner. “Just do your best. We have your back.” That kind of support was something I’d always longed for. I was so used to my parents being my only cheerleaders and most people outside my family assuming I’d never accomplish anything.

In the morning Mark and I drove out to the Guthrie Airport to begin the test-flying regimen. Hey, by now I was an old hand as a test pilot. Mark described the flight-test regime he wanted me to go through, and I nodded. It was the same as the routine I’d followed when I first flew the Sabre. I’d start out performing the test sequence at a slow speed, and then gradually increase to redline and beyond. Checking for aileron snatch. Checking for flutter.

The first day would be spent entirely on test-flying. I had to make sure the basic flight and spin characteristics were good before I started doing any aerobatics. Mark eyed me closely to make sure I understood. “Don’t just jump in and start snapping it before completing the test sequence.” He sounded like a man familiar with aerobatic pilots.

I grinned. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m cautious.”

If he knew how cautious I really was, he’d demand his money back. He probably had no idea how long I was going to delay before actually taking off in the new airplane. I preflighted the plane, discussed all the changes again with Mark and his engineer, checked the control surfaces on the ground, opened the inspection plate in the tail to make sure no tools or screws or other loose items had fallen inside the fuselage. All looked good. I did another check.

Finally, there was no more dawdling. I had to do the flight. I climbed in, started up the engine, taxied around the airport several times, did two full run-ups, and finally taxied onto the runway for departure.

As soon as I began the climb out, I could tell something was very different. The plane felt light and sweet. It handled like the Pitts, itching to fly. It wanted me to let loose. It was all I could do to complete the first set of test maneuvers, come down and land, have Mark check out the airplane one more time, put more gas in it, and take off again.

I dove in increments to redline, checking for flutter and snatch. No problems. No problems at all. I pulled up, pointed the plane at the sun, and rolled.

Wow! Four hundred and twenty degrees per second. The world went around in a blur and then righted. I found myself laughing. I hadn’t believed that any plane could feel sweeter than my Pitts. But this new plane was even lighter, even more responsive. It was perfectly balanced and neutrally stable. If I pitched up and let go of the stick, the nose stayed there. Exactly what one would want in an aerobatic airplane.

Finally, I let the new Sabre loose. It was everything I hoped it would be. Light on the controls, beautiful snap rolls, incredible roll rate. In fact, the rate was so fast and the controls so sensitive that I was overshooting each roll. Would I be able to train myself to fly this airplane to the exacting standards of world competition in only two weeks? And after that, there were only two more weeks before I had to be in Dover, Delaware, for the departure of the C-5 cargo plane on June 19.

There simply wasn’t enough time. It was impossible. But wait, hadn’t I heard that many times before? It was getting kind of old. It was impossible for a first-generation child of immigrants to overcome abuse and discrimination, a speech defect, crippling shyness, and a lack of finances, to get to where I was and make the US Team—or so I had once thought.

I’d just have to use every minute I could, so I vowed to get up as early as I could each morning and ride out with Mark before eight when he drove to the hangar. Still, things didn’t go exactly as planned. There were mechanical problems, and the changeable Oklahoma weather impacted many flights. More than once, a thunderstorm grounded me, and for two interminable days, it rained steadily from morning until night. I got in some decent practice anyway, even if my flying was serviceable though not exciting. I nervously counted the days until I had to fly to Rickenbacker.

When I met the new US Aerobatic Team coach, would I be good enough?