My airplane has similar issues. I shouldn’t be surprised. We were both made in the same year: 1972. She’s serial number 9046. I’m somewhere around 108 billion. The Bonanza has evolved a lot faster than humans have. My knees are still Gen 1, and my electrical system hasn’t been upgraded to 28 volts. Not holding my breath either. My autopilot works just fine, but that’s not considered a desirable attribute in a human.

Last week I departed Los Angeles for New York. I flew straight back to Moriarty Municipal Airport (0E0) in New Mexico to clean up some additional squawks that surfaced post-annual. These aren’t things Fernie missed, rather just additional groans and signs of aging that my bird is exhibiting. Fernie cared for her immediately and got us going in just a day. By comparison, my doctor has a “first available” three months out, and my squawks are quite a bit more difficult to address and repair.

As a young man, I sustained plenty of injuries taking part in the many extreme sports I was drawn to. To alleviate the depression of being sidelined by an injury, I would tell myself that the treatment was going to make me stronger than I was before. I believed that my double meniscus surgery would make my knees like new again. It didn’t. You could make a case that the multiple fractures I’ve endured have possibly healed stronger than they were pre-break, but the calcified bump on my foot over the fifth metatarsal makes it impossible to wear ski boots now.

I have similar fantasies when parts are replaced on my airplane. Unlike my knees, this is less of a self-deception. When Joe and Brian from ACE Aircraft Cylinders & Engines overhaul my Continental 550, I am flying behind an engine better than the one it replaced. I breathe easier knowing that Kevin O’Halloran refurbished my landing gear motor. The list goes on. These craftsmen are the equivalent of doctors for our airplanes. They keep our machines healthy.

The squawks I returned to Moriarty with seem to dovetail with my own physical issues. Stay with me here:

• N1750W developed a small oil leak from a flex joint on the breather tube.

• I cough up phlegm most mornings apropos of nothing.

• My Bo’s vernatherm isn’t functioning properly as the oil never seems to get up above 150 degrees at cruise altitudes.

• I’m in Santa Fe, New Mexico, at the moment and couldn’t breathe on my run this morning here at 7K feet msl. I hid behind a bush to avoid the embarrassment of another jogger asking me if I needed help.

• The double-sided tape on my window scoop let go during taxi the other week, sucking the entire assembly out of the window and forcing me to shut down, exit the airplane, and run back to get it. No joggers witnessed this event.

• My knee let go on a tennis court in Griffith Park last month. I snapped it back into place, took an “L” on the match then went and got tacos.

• Lately, there is the faint smell of gas in the cabin.

• Lauren has been complaining about the not-so-faint smell of gas coming from my “cabin.” Neither issue has been resolved to anyone’s satisfaction.

I grew up in the 1980s with Steve Austin. “Gentlemen, we can rebuild him. We have the technology…Better. Stronger. Faster.” Nope. At 50 it feels more like: Slower. Dumber. Crankier. You take things for granted when you’re young. Now, your health is first and foremost. I used to throw my body around. No stretching. No thoughtfulness. Treated myself like a workhorse: ridden hard and put away wet. I imagine buying a new airplane (something I’ve never done) must allow a similar lack of concern.

Many manufacturers cover basic maintenance for a time, and the warranties are substantial, covering most everything that could go wrong. So a pilot behind a new aircraft flies with mechanical abandon, knowing they likely aren’t going to have anything go wrong—notwithstanding their own deficiencies.

My overhauled engine in the Bonanza has 400 hours on it. I’m right in that sweet spot between the infant mortality stage and the still-distant 1,400-hour TBO. I am not worried about my engine. I can imagine flying past TBO—something I intend to do—but it won’t be the same. Crossing Lake Erie will feel differently with 1,800 hours on the Hobbs. At some point, something will fail. Just like my body. At a certain point, there is only decline. You can try and fight it, but you will one day lose. The best we can do is manage it. This isn’t meant to be morose. I believe the ephemeral quality of life is meant to have us appreciate our time here in a way we could not if we were granted immortality.

The Six Million Dollar Man comparison doesn’t hold water in regards to my body. But in some ways it does hold true for my aircraft. The Garmin suite of avionics I have in my airplane make it far more capable than it was when I first bought it with its steam gauges and a VOR receiver as its sole means of navigation. But there is a law of diminishing returns at play here. The airframe is aging. Metal fatigues. Magnesium pits. Floorboards rot. At some point, and it may not be for years, you’re putting lipstick on a pig.

This is where the comparison between myself and the airplane has its limits. I am deteriorating at a faster pace than my Bonanza. Sadly (or not), N1750W will outlive me. With proper care, she still has many years ahead of her. Me…I’m entering what is effectively the last third of my life. Don’t worry: I’m still sending it. I have no intention of slowing down. But I’m aware that time is ticking. In the meantime, I’m gonna keep applying that lipstick. Appearances must be kept.

This column first appeared in the August 2023/Issue 940 print edition of FLYING.

The post Time Is Ticking on My Youth—and My Airplane’s Too appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Those of us seasoned in the world of aviation and airplanes know that stuff breaks. A cylinder loses compression. A fan blade cracks. A magneto fails. A hydraulic pump leaks. But do any of us for even a moment conceive that a wing might fail? Tragically, this is precisely what occurred on April 4, 2018, at Daytona Beach International Airport in Florida when the left wing separated from a 2007 Piper Arrow operated by Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University shortly after takeoff from a touch-and-go landing.

A commercial-pilot check ride was being conducted by 61-year-old designated pilot examiner John Azma, a 27,000-plus-hour ATP. The 25-year-old student, Zachary Capra, was a Navy veteran with 218 hours of total flight time. After some air work had been accomplished, the airplane returned to the traffic pattern, initiating a touch-and-go landing on Runway 25L.  Sometime prior to when the last radar track indicated an altitude of 900 feet during climb-out, the left wing separated from the airplane. The Arrow impacted the ground approximately 2 miles from the departure end of the runway. Neither pilot survived.

The airplane had logged nearly 7,700 hours of total time and over 33,000 hours of takeoff-and-landing cycles. The PA-28R-201 had been operated only by ERAU strictly as a flight school trainer, spending most of its life below 3,000 feet. The airplane had a maintenance record of 14 hard-landing events, with five occurring within the prior 24 months. Considering its occupation, the hard landings weren’t unusual. The appropriate inspections were completed for both the hard landings and the regular maintenance required of a Part 141 training facility. None of the procedural inspections would have revealed the fatigue crack that doomed the airplane.

Because the determination of probable cause was made early in the field investigation—almost conclusively at the crash site—the National Transportation Safety Board focused on metal-fatigue cracks within the main wing spar. The question of where and how the cracks originated dictated not only the course of the investigation but also the fate of the numerous Piper models affected by the resulting airworthiness directive. Extensive analysis—inclusive of electron-microscope observations, other flight school wing evaluations, inspection methodologies, US Air Force engineering participation, and metallurgy composition—was involved. In a frightening twist, an analysis by the Air Force of the airplane manufactured two serial numbers earlier—and part of the fleet at ERAU—determined that one of its wings was less than 2,000 hours away from failure.

A similar wing-separation event in 1987 on a PA-28-181 almost defined the current AD, but it was rescinded two years later because a determination was made that the accident airplane at that time was operated in a “severe” environment, utilized for pipeline patrol at consistently low altitudes. In other words, the wing separation was a result of operational circumstances seldom encountered.

Once the FAA was convinced the ERAU tragedy uncovered a serious problem that could affect numerous Piper models with the same wing-spar engineering installed, the “notice of proposed rule-making” process was initiated. The NPRM formulated the basis for the current AD, which brings us to my woes.

The AD includes a formula to calculate “factored service hours” for when a wing-spar inspection must be completed. It’s a simple formula that incorporates the number of 100-hour inspections performed, utilizing the theory that such inspections correlate to flight school airplanes and/or airplanes with higher cycles than personal-use airplanes. If the factored service hours equal 5,000 hours, an eddy-current inspection of the spar cap and outboard wing bolt holes must be performed. The wing does not have to be removed, only the two lower outboard bolts—not a major process for an experienced A&P.

My Arrow has only personal-use history, so if all was normal, my factored service hours would be approximately 250. For those of you who might remember Jumpseat’s April 2017 installment, a replacement with a salvage-yard wing was completed as a result of an inadequate hard-landing repair found by my mechanic friend in Connecticut after I had purchased the airplane. No documentation of the wing’s history was provided, either because it was lost or the salvage yard feared a liability issue. In this circumstance, the AD requires an eddy-current inspection regardless of factored service hours. Yay. But, wait, there’s more.

The original wing on the left side passed the inspection, but the replacement wing did not. Tiny gouges in the two bolt holes of the spar cap were found, possibly as a result of removal at the salvage yard. Yay, again. But, wait, there’s even more. 

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Following the AD requirements and getting frustrating results attempting to obtain guidance from Piper, my mechanic, Josh Jackson, finally was able to contact a designated engineering representative near our Florida location. The DER directed the wing to be removed and a dye-penetrant test administered to locate fatigue crack(s). With none found, a new eddy-current inspection was performed. The right wing failed again.

An engineering order from the DER not only provided technical procedures to continue but officially deemed the Arrow unairworthy. Great. So, now what? Buy another salvage wing in a market that’s become overpriced because of the AD, with the possibility that it too will require a successful eddy-current inspection? And the replacement wing must be painted, notwithstanding its overall condition, i.e. dents, bruises, etc. Plus, the replacement wing must be compatible with the old fuel tank, ailerons and flaps. The dollar signs were starting to add up. Or…do I send out the wing for a complete spar repair? Is that the same money? 

So, with nothing to lose except a couple more decimal points [AC1] in my checking-account balance, the decision was made to continue with the engineering order, which consisted of carefully reaming out all the bolt holes of the spar cap—carefully—to within one-thousandth of an inch.

Well, the wing passed the third eddy-current inspection. Now we are in a holding pattern for approval from the FAA, through the DER, to allow wider bolts to be installed. Wider bolt holes require documentation in the form of an “alternate method of compliance.” My fingers and toes are crossed.

I won’t be the first and I won’t be the last PA-28 owner to confront this issue. I’m not sure that Piper and the FAA considered the collateral damage from the AD. It’s uncharted territory until more data is collected. For the moment, no template has been established for an AMOC in circumstances such as mine. 

That being said, the important goal is safety. Regardless, maybe I should just consider stamp collection.

Editor’s note: This article originally appeared in the November 2021 issue of FLYING.

The post A Wing and a Prayer for a Classic Piper Arrow appeared first on FLYING Magazine.