One Scary Moment in an
Airplane, the R60/2 is Stolen, more BIO
scaryplaneR60,bio.htm
(This was the ONLY scary moment I ever had in a civilian aircraft)
I once owned a 1960 Piper Comanche 250hp, that I had purchased from
the flying club I had been a member of. I was climbing the
ego ladder, and coincidently even the knowledge and experience ladder, and had advanced well beyond the private pilot certificate,
and was sporting credentials listing Commercial Pilot, Instrument
Pilot, Instructor, Advanced Instrument, Multi-Engine, and even
Seaplane. Bragging rights based on those were found to be
unusable for the most part when in the presence of old graybeards with 15,000+ hours
of piloting time, some of which were in REAL airplanes...the then BIG
ones with ROUND engines...and perhaps triple tails (Constellations). My several hundred hours, so hard-fought and
paid-for, seemed inconsequential next to these heroes.
In any event, I was actually flying quite a bit. That is...I
was when I was not out
being an
idiot, or surfing, playing the piano in some dive...or, heavens,
studying
or working....or reminiscing, hanging out with some of the
Edwards (Muroc) Air Base folks....that is, I was riding out to a
infamous bar in that area, and
hoisting a few beers with these icons of the early test pilot era. I
had done that so often that I had left a sleeping bag on a shelf
in what was euphemistically called the men's room. I was also,
finally, Servicing the
Service....AND apprenticing and actually WORKING!....in
whatever spare hours I could find, at a local BMW dealership.
I had split my candle into several pieces, and was burning all
the ends at the same time. I occasionally slept.
One fine day I was returning home from a trip to a Northern
California military base. I was flying on instruments in actual
instrument (blind flying) weather. Somewhat south of Burbank airport,
over the Hollywood hills, my engine's vacuum pump decided that it
was an appropriate time to die and thereby increase my workload. The
vacuum pump ran the gyros in two 'nice to have' instruments, one was a
directional indicator, the other gave information about the attitude
of the aircraft. I dutifully notified Air Traffic Control (ATC) and
kept flying, as approved on the official mapped route, which took me
and the airplane I was attempting to pilot, towards the Century Towers;
the necessary routing to enable an Instruments Landing at
Santa Monica Airfield.
This is another one of those things that Left-Coasters do,
build tall buildings in earthquake prone areas [this tidbit
comes from someone who used to have a lot of fine glassware on several shelves above his
condo wetbar, which is almost directly over an earthquake fault in Palm
Springs].
The map of the roadways in the sky showed a slight turn, a
modest distance before the Towers area, so then I would then take up a new heading, which
would shortly allow me to reduce altitude and track a navigation station at the end of the Santa
Monica Airport runway, so I could land. With the gyro compass
being unusable, headings could be handled by the somewhat
sloppy response of the old 'whiskey compass' which is
filled, actually, with a type of kerosene.
No problem, I'd flown on partial instruments considerably in practice, and once before in actual
conditions.
There were several minutes of flying between my last communications
with
Burbank Air Traffic Control, and when I was to report next. At the appropriate
clock time, I tried to contact them. I could not, so with no results,
I tried contacting Los Angeles Approach Control. I could not
get either on my aircraft radio. I
also noted that I was getting some strange readings or no
readings on the radio navigation equipment. The one
navigation instrument that was capable of displaying a red warning flag
was doing just that. I cussed my old radios, and decided that I
would
just navigate by an old ADF (automatic direction finder, an old
technology) that was installed in the plane. Unfortunately, it was
not working hardly at all. At that moment my suspicion level rose
greatly, and I took a glance at the
ammeter, a old zero center type; which I should have looked at
quite a bit previously. The system in the Comanche,
typical for Piper Aircraft, was to use the meter differently
than in a car, and the meter told very little, as it had during the
entire flight. Normally the meter stays at about zero.
Very suspicious, I then turned on the interior lights. DEAD. NADA.
NOTHING. My battery was approximately dead, and the
engine driven electricity producer, the alternator (a
conversion from the original D.C. Generator), wasn't
producing. The near new Alternator, which I had
paid BIG bucks for recently, since they were SO MUCH BETTER than the
original old fashioned generator, had failed.
I was in the clouds, with only a compass, airspeed, vertical speed and altimeter to navigate by. I was also approaching, I was sure, those tall buildings. The pucker factor was increasing. I had plenty of training in failure of various systems, but this was two power sources for several systems, a very unlikely failure to have happen at the SAME time. I was VERY careful to make all control movements exceptionally gentle.
I can assure you that I installed two backup vacuum sources (some instruments, as noted, ran on vacuum), after this flight. I also had the FAA approve of some modifications: a REAL ammeter AND a voltmeter and I had the only Comanche that I know of, that had an emergency air driven (tiny propeller) generator added to it....a VERY old-fashioned thing to have.
The good thing was that the 'instrument weather' was the typical springtime layer of stratus that the West Coast seems to have rather
often. In fact it was because of Spring stratus that I originally
decided
to get that instrument flight rating. Stratus seldom will deposit ice
on the
airplane...which could have really ruined my day if the pitot tube
that
mechanically worked with the airspeed indicator, was iced up (Pitot
tube was electrically heated, naturally). BAD news if it failed.
It is very nice to know where you are, is the aircraft
right side up, what altitude, what speed, and to be able to communicate and
to navigate.
I now was reduced to some very basic instrumentation, and my clock, to
make estimates, these GUESStimates included the wind direction and speed,
which
could easily move me off any supposed compass course. I remember
having
one fleeting thought "What did Lindy do when crossing the Atlantic?".
Well, things went well, I broke out of the clouds, did not hit a building; and I landed OK. Since that time I have, more than a few times, flown some pretty large aircraft (707...etc.) ...and have also sat, sweating, in a simulator, while a sadistic flight check person manipulated that simulator to fail one thing after another, whilst trying to distract me from noticing.
The R60/2 disappears:
I parked the small trainer airplane, and went to my usual after-flight cuppa at the airport café. I then walked to where I had left my beloved white R60/2 a couple of days previously. Unfortunately it was not there. I returned to the café and asked one of the usual cops there to accept my report of a stolen motorcycle, did the paperwork with him, and asked around the greasy spoon if anyone had noticed anything. No one had.
I did remember a conversation I had with someone at the same café counter not long ago, who also had a BMW, not running, it had a bad engine. Being the suspicious type, and knowing that BMW's are almost never stolen, I asked around and after a bit of detective work on my part over a period of days....and some help from #1 girlfriend, who worked for a certain state agency, I got the likely thief's home address. He was not home, but his garage and a window into that garage was available for snooping, and there were three motorcycles in that garage. One was a R50 with the engine out. The second was a Harley. The third was a sight for sore eyes, my R60, with its engine removed. The two airhead engines were on the floor, with many tools. It was obvious that an engine swap was in process. A fleeting thought was to get my large caliber revolver, and wait until the thief showed-up. Being of sounder mind, I went to the police station, filed the report, and made sure that they would send someone out NOW. I then went home, to await the police telephoning me.
Meanwhile, during this maybe 2 week ordeal, I had been dealing with my insurance company. Since my motorcycle was my sole method of ground transportation, which also allowed me privileged parking when I needed it, I adamantly wanted a replacement. The insurance company did not want to provide anything but bus tickets...and I should wait for 6 months or so, 'to see if it turns up'. This did not sit well with me. My father's business attorney had a chit chat with the insurance folks. The next day I was told that a check for the value of the bike was on its way. That was just fine, except that before I actually received that check, I had found the bike.
NOW I had a problem. Well, three problems. #1 was that check. #2
was
that I really wanted to keep the R60. #3 was that I had ordered a
brand new R75/5.
The insurance company, upon my cashing of the check, would
own the R60. I could offer to buy it back. Receiving some advice, I filed papers to sue the thief. The thief had no
funds to speak of, but did, amazingly, own that other BMW. I made a
deal
(love that word) with the thief's attorney, approved by the
prosecution side,
that I would not push for the harshest sentence...he got lots of jail
time anyway...the HARLEY was also stolen...and I would get everything
else in
the garage, except the R60 of course; which the insurance company
would get. This 'everything' included a
fair
amount of expensive hand and power tools. Also a very expensive
double
commercial rollaway. YUMM! The frosting was that the R50 was legally
his, and it was now mine!
During roughly this same time period I was still playing with my own insurance company. They had sent an adjustor to that garage, and looked at the R50, a rather messy ratty bike. I did not know, nor did the adjustor, about this. With the engine out, he must have assumed it was my R60 that he was inspecting. My R60, and its engine, had been put in a police impound area, and neither the adjustor nor I knew that, and he mixed up the R50 and R60. I assumed he had inspected the R60 at the impound lot. The insurance company certainly did not want to assemble 'my' bike, and would sell it to a salvage yard, so I was told. If I was willing to pay any more than the salvage yard, it was mine. IF I WAS WILLING...OH YEAH!! I purchased 'my' bike very cheaply. I think it was a buck over the formal salvage offer, which was NOT much.
I had trouble getting the R50 title. The title was in the safe of the thief's lawyer. He stalled on releasing it to me. This stalling went on and on....and the R50 was already at my garage, yet I did nothing to it, pending my 'real' ownership. Back to my dad's lawyer. He sued (or whatever the paperwork was) the thief's lawyer, who ignored the paperwork AND the summons. The case went to court many months later. By this time I was riding both the R60, and a new R75/5. The judge at the trial apparently had a grudge against this particular lawyer...perhaps that is why my father's lawyer was so adamant about whose court the case should be heard in. :-).
The lawyer lost and was actually cited for Contempt, my father's lawyers fees were zero, and I obtained the title, duly signed off. I also received a substantial amount of money from that lawyer, mandated by the court. Guess the judge did not like the guy. I thought all these lawyers stuck together. The Dark Charcoal Line, so to speak.
I now finished the R50. The blown engine (so I'd been told) was actually not blown, very little was needed to finish everything. The bike, which looked so ratty, was actually not that bad, and cleaned up nicely.
I had bikes, I even had a new jeep, I had an airplane, I had government and civilian jobs paying for my fun and games, and all at the same time. Life was wonderful.
Then came Viet Nam...well, it had come earlier for some, but now it came for me.
Being under the gun, so to speak, and being of UNsound mind, I sold the R60, modifying it as the new owner desired. I sold the R50. Life was still good, I still had an almost new R75/5. Except.... I had that Viet Nam thing coming up, and I was burning out in my job and was being offered some interesting Agency work.
I found I had only months left before serious life changes. I endured.
Years later, I moved to Tahoe. I had previously sold all my bikes (except a R75/5 road bike, stock, and a R75/5 supercharged monster), and kept also a few antiques, a worn out Harley, and two 400 Husky dirt bikes, and one Vincent amongst them. Wifey moved to Tahoe to become a nurse at the local hospital. I moved to Tahoe on the R75/5 stock Airhead (well, I had purchased it with a Avon Fairing and bags), and started an electronics repair business, taking on a chain store as my first customer. I got an employee, then another, then I left for periods of time, Service and/or Agency Work, off and on. I was burning candles at both ends again.
Within a few years I was a full tilt boogie Tahoe-ite. Wifey
decided
she wanted to become a big time big city nursing supervisor of some sort, and
we split up amicably.
Life was good.
I started a charter
flying service, doing charters, sightseeing, funeral ash drops.
Life was REALLY good.
I was
also doing BMW repairs and modifications.
I started collecting
antique motorcycles in a BIG way. I got involved installing new
hangars at airports, had a couple more businesses....and, all the
time, working on special Agency projects for our dear old Uncle Sam. I
even acquired a rather decent machine shop and an interest in a gas
station.
As the years went on, and I continued to procrastinate about leaving the now more rare part-time employment of the Agency, I started turning over more and more of my business operations to the employees, and spending more time having fun. I even did one thing I swore I would never do: ski. At the age of nearly 40, I learned to ski. That first day, is another story. Things changed again around 1991...more stories.