Paradoxical Spirit:

Flying EAA's Ryan NYP

Like trying to roller skate on ice and wrestle a baseball bat stuck in goo while a motorcycle engine screams three inches beside your head: That's what it was like to fly the Spirit of St. Louis. Like everyone else who has been fortunate enough to fly the Spirit, I gained new respect for Lindbergh, who flew the beast for 33.5 hours on his historic flight from New York to Paris in 1927.

EAA's Spirit of St. Louis replica on takeoff from Pioneer Airport at Oshkosh. The replica has the original N number of the Ryan NYP... which makes for a VERY cool logbook entry...

This is the second replica of the Spirit of St. Louis that EAA has built. The first was built in 1977 and flew around the country promoting the 50th anniversary of the Atlantic crossing. It was retired to the museum in 1988, probably with more hours on it than the original! This new replica was built in 1991, and modifications included a second seat, allowing individuals other than the pilot to try their hand at flying this unique piece of history.

EAA's current Spirit replica (their first was built in 1977 and flew around the country until 1988 when it was retired to the EAA Museum) was built in 1991 and only recently gained a waiver from the FAA for paying passengers. It has two seats, with the "real" pilot sitting up front where fuel tanks were on the original machine. The replica is different in several other important ways as well-it has a tail wheel, brakes, and ailerons with asymmetric deflection being the main luxuries. It also has a full modern instrument set for the forward pilot, much less fuel than the original since it doesn't have to fly the Atlantic, and additional windows for the forward pilot (which are covered when the airplane is on display).

On boarding, I was cautioned to watch my feet, as the sides of the airplane are merely fabric and easy to kick through if you're not careful. I laughed at the irony of the similarity between the Spirit and another famous flying machine-the Apollo lunar module, or LEM. Some of the LEM's skin was only as thick as a couple of sheets of foil and astronauts had to take care not to puncture it. Will our manned interplanetary craft be as fragile?

The seat was wicker, just like Lindbergh's. A belt with shoulder straps as is used in aerobatic aircraft held me in place; there was also a headset and intercom (how Lindbergh tolerated the concussive noise from the engine without such a luxury amazes me). The pilot for the flight was none other than Sean Elliott, who, among other things, is the president of NAFI. Who better to receive dual from in such a remarkable aircraft?

The engine, though not an original Wright Whirlwind, was close in power and appearance, coughed to life, and all eyes on EAA's Pioneer Airport followed us as we taxied to the end of the grass strip. After some quick pre-takeoff checks and a wait for one of EAA's Young Eagle planes to land, we taxied into position. Sean added power and the machine came alive with shudders as it bounced happily along in the grass. The engine clattered with a ferocity that shattered all of the other senses, and with exhaust pipes located above each cylinder, the fumes blew into the open sides of the cockpit. In most other instances, this would be annoying at best, but here it added to the distinction of the experience. Being lighter than the fuel-laden original, the replica took to the air quickly. I kept my legs well clear of the shifting stick, which was the length of a baseball bat and foreshadowed the need for brute strength to control the airplane.

I sat in the wicker seat and looked outside to my left and right-the pilot's seat blocking most of the forward view just as Linbergh's fuel tanks obstructed his vision. We flew at only a few hundred feet, and I felt like a child on a first flight gazing down at the details of the farmland and roads below for the first time. Then Sean asked if I would like to fly, and I felt even more like a child reaching for the giant stick in front of me. A moment later I felt most childlike of all, for my 600 hours of flight time and teaching aerodynamics in ground school were no preparation for flying an airplane with negative stability. Most general aviation aircraft have positive stability-they stay in straight and level flight on their own, and, within reason, return to it if disturbed from that condition. Aerobatic aircraft have neutral stability-they stay where you put them with the flight controls and won't seek to return to straight and level flight. Negative stability, on the other hand, means that the airplane will not only stay put, but it will continuously want to turn, slide, climb, or descend, and you have to stay on it constantly to keep that from happening. Why would anyone design a plane this way? Well, they didn't, really. The Spirit of St. Louis is a derivative of Ryan's mail plane design. To save time and weight, the tail surfaces of the original were not altered, even though the Spirit had a much larger wing and fuselage, and the originals are on the small size by comparison.

Simply put, because of the design compromises made by the engineers at Lindburgh's direction, the Spirit is horrible to fly. It wants to wander, and it does what it wants. Control inputs are less than sluggish-you have to use both hands on the stick to move it much, and there is a considerable delayed reaction to the inputs. Move the stick, then wait. Wait some more. The delay is mere seconds but it seems much longer. When you roll out of a turn, put in as much or more control input in the opposite direction and hold it. Then there are slips- wind from any direction other than straight ahead will cause the beast to slip. Rudder authority is good, but use even the slightest excess and you'll induce yawing oscillations. If that doesn't make it interesting enough, remember that you can't see forward at all, and you have to correct by feel and what little visual cues you can get looking out the side. Before I knew it, we were returning to Pioneer and Sean took back the controls.

"Like walking on ice-your actions produce results you really don't expect," I replied.

"How would you like to do that for 33 and a half hours over the ocean in the dark?"

We did a low pass down the grass strip, then flew a standard traffic pattern. Sean touched down gently, making the airplane look easy to handle, the way it looked when I watched it fly earlier in the day. But now I knew better.

We taxied back to the line and shut down. I gave him my logbook, and he signed it without leaving his seat as the next passenger eagerly strapped in for his own chance of a lifetime. As they fired up for another flight, I read the new entry. Amazing-they got the FAA to give the replica the N number of the original! The entry reads:

I never knew my father very well; we weren't close. But I knew he loved airplanes, and I remember him telling me the story of Lindbergh and the Spirit of St. Louis when I was little. Who would have guessed that a replica of that historic aircraft would ever be made available for the public to fly, or that I would ever have such an incredible opportunity to fly it? For only the second time I can recall in the ten years since his passing, I wished he were still here so I could talk with him. Maybe if the replica had been available for rides years ago we could have found some common ground and shared something.

In the meantime, for my next checkride, I can't wait to see the examiner's face when they see "N-X-211 Ryan NYP" in the logbook.