Two left feet (or how I conquered taxiing)

^{Short story originally published in the January / February issue of COPA Flight}

After completing the pre-taxi checklist, I wait for Murray to say I have control, but instead he says, “Today, I want you to taxi.”

I glance around the ramp, chock full of expensive aircraft. My heart thumps with excitement, yet —how hard can it be? When Murray taxis, the tiny two-seater aircraft trots obediently, turns on command, and halts exactly where he wants.

Last week, Murray said I flew well—but that was a week ago—and there’s a lot to remember. But I’ve committed taxiing to memory.

I’m confident. I can do this.

I scan the ramp for moving aircraft and pedestrian pilots, then push right rudder.          

Nothing happens.

My foot has intuitively mimicked the motion used for driving a car.

Murray says, “Feet control steering, toes control braking, throttle controls power.”

He helps me guide the throttle plunger to 1500 rpm. Despite his assistance, I’m heavy-handed: the tach zooms past 1,500 to 2,000 rpm. The engine thunders and the aircraft surges toward three airplanes, parked only twenty feet away.

The image of twisted propellers and crumpled airplanes jumbles the signals from my astonished brain. I can’t move my hands and feet. I can’t reduce power, brake, concentrate, and breathe simultaneously, but I must do something, so I reduce power and stomp on the brakes. My body lurches forward, toward the instrument panel.

This time, I nudge the throttle, gently increasing power. The aircraft inches forward, slower than a slug. At this pace, I’ll spend my one-hour lesson on the ground, not in the air. I tease the power setting up to 1,500 rpm. The plane submits to my command, and I begin to relax . . . until my uneven foot pressure on the rudders causes the plane to slither like a sidewinder across the desert.

Every movement is important and requires immediate and simultaneous attention. But when I tell my hands what to do, I forget to tell my feet what to do. Or maybe I’m telling them, but they’re not listening. I feel like a gangly puppy running downhill, tripping over feet too large for her body. I’m inexperienced, unable to anticipate possible consequences. Stimuli, not anticipation, drive my actions.

I’ve heard pilots brag, “Good pilots can do ten things at once.”

Obviously, I’m not a good pilot.

Then I remember my clumsy teenage attempts to master our car’s standard transmission. Driving a standard requires both feet, one for the clutch, one for the accelerator; driving an airplane requires both feet for steering and braking. Driving with a stick shift requires both hands, one for the wheel, one for the stick; flying requires one hand on the steering control and one on the throttle. I’m certain flying is harder than driving a car, but the similarities encourage me.

I mumble my new mantra, Rudders to turn, toes to brake. I increase power, the plane saunters toward the taxiway, and Murray says, “Well done.”

A smile of pride flashes across my face. I’m on my way, about to nail this, just as I nailed driving a standard. My confidence builds until I realize I need to turn left onto the taxiway, an action that will destroy the equilibrium I’ve finally achieved.

Instinctively, as if turning left in a car, I turn the control column to the left.

But instead of turning left, the plane continues toward the grass field, sodden with spring rains.

I push the all-too-real image of a bent propeller mired in the mud from my mind, breathe deeply and visualize my exit from the ramp onto the taxiway. I tap the bottom of the left pedal (as if I actually know what I’m doing) and, to my astonishment, the plane turns left and glides onto the taxiway.