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Parked beside the sleek Air Canada jet， she looked like a toy. But my enthusiasm would not be curbed.
The tiny two-seat Cessna shone in the sun. And for one hour she was mine. Well， sort of. The bill was mine alone. Control and responsibility for my first flight lesson would be shared with my instructor， Glen.
I’d enrolled in ground school last winter， and by spring had morphed into a plane geek. I struck a deal with myself： 100 hours of ground school and online study would be rewarded in summer with one hour of shockingly expensive inflight instruction.
So， there I stood on the Kamloops tarmac.
Our pre-flight inspection indicated the bird should fly. To my untrained eye， the weather seemed fine. “Nice today，” I offered.
Glen eyed the wind sock and scanned the skies. “Wind from 270 at 10 knots； cloud ceiling 6，500. …Should be okay in the valley， but we’ll stay away from the mountains.”
I made a mental note to review my meteorology.
After squeezing into the teeny cockpit， we buckled up. Uh oh—trouble already. My eyes were perfectly level with the instrument panel. I cursed my 5-foot-1-inch frame while Glen reached behind the seat and produced a pillow. Sliding it under my butt， I felt more like a grandma than ever. But at least I could see out the window.
The engines were run up and tested， the compass aligned， the GPS turned on and tuned in and radios readied. It was time to warn whoever was out there that we were coming. I keyed the mike.
I spelled out the Cessna’s FBMZ registration—Foxtrot Bravo Mike Zulu—and requested an advisory. The tower responded immediately and my confidence surged. Current wind conditions and altimeter settings were given， and runway 26 suggested for departure.
Glen released the brakes and eased the throttle in. The engine purred hungrily， sucking up the extra fuel. The propeller spun into a blur and pulled us forward.
“Take us to 26，” Glen directed.
I turned the yoke left and right to no effect. We drifted onto the grass.
“Steer with your feet； use the rudder.”
Fighting years of automobile-induced instincts， I released the yoke and manoeuvred with the rudder pedals at my feet. We weaved unsteadily to the hold short point on the runway.
Full power and a dose of flaps are needed for takeoff. I applied both and we sped down the runway. With one eye on the airspeed indicator and the other on the white centre line， I struggled to keep us straight， both of my feet working the pedals. At full throttle we hit the 55-knot sweet spot and I pulled back on the yoke， lifting the nose. The Cessna （and I） shuddered as the runway slipped away below. We climbed steadily into the blue. Wisps of cottony clouds rose beside us. Stratocumulus？ I’d have to check my notes. For now， however， whirring， purring FBMZ had my full attention.
My heart soared， but my arms soon tired from pulling back on the yoke. Glen seemed to read my mind. He reached down and rotated the trim wheel between us. The pressure vanished， and the Cessna stopped fighting me.
“It’s like cruise control，” he grinned. “Trim her right and she’ll practically fly herself.”
I released my death grip on the control column and was amazed at how responsive the plane was to even the smallest adjustments. I struggled to make sense of what the instrument panel was telling me. Our altimeter indicated 3，900 feet and our airspeed was steady at 90 knots. No turning or vertical speed was suggested， so this must be straight and level flight.
“Try a turn，” Glen suggested.
As I rotated the yoke to the right， the wings banked and we headed unsteadily northward. Dual controls allowed Glen to correct my mistakes and keep us safe.
My gaze kept drifting back to the instrument panel， and Glen caught it.
“Private pilot’s license allows you to fly VFR. Remember what that stands for？”
“Visual flight rules，” I replied.
“So， look where you’re going. Your focus should be outside. Where are the clouds？ Make sure you stay out of them. Which direction are the mountains？”
And the mantra I’d heard before was repeated：“Aviate， navigate， communicate.” In other words， first fly the plane.
The wind was behind us now， pushing us back to the airport. We made the necessary radio call and began our descent. Keeping my eyes outside as instructed， I watched a pair of hawks riding the same thermals that were giving us a bit of bump and grind. They eyed us warily， unimpressed with our noisy intrusion into their world.
Glen handled the landing. After slowing to stalling speed， we floated above the runway. Our touchdown was smooth as silk.
After we’d parked， tied down and locked up the plane for the night， I made the first entry in my fancy new pilot logbook， bursting with pride.
Now it’s time to hit the books again. Meteorology must be mastered if this old dog is going to learn new flying tricks.
I had my doubts about learning to fly at the age of 43， but after taking the first steps I know I can do it.
“Attitude plus power equals performance” is a phrase used to explain how an aircraft handles under different scenarios. Perhaps the same can be said of life， and， regardless of our age or situation， how we choose to live it.
停靠在造型优美的加拿大航空公司的喷气式飞机旁边，她就像一个玩具。然而我的热情，丝毫不减。
这架娇小的双人赛斯纳飞机在阳光下闪耀着光芒。接下来的一个小时，她是属于我的。好吧，在某种意义上属于我。我独力负责买单。而我第一堂课的飞行操控及责任则是由我和指导员格兰共同承担。
去年冬天，我入读空勤预备学校，到了春天，我就俨然一名飞机控。我和自己打了个赌：攒足100小时的空勤学习和网上研修之后，夏天时要奖励自己一小时贵得让人咋舌的飞行训练。
于是，我站在了甘露机场的停机坪上。
我们的飞行前检查意味着这只鸟儿要展翅高飞了。对于外行的我来说，天气似乎不错。“今天天气真好，”我说。
格兰看了看风向袋，向天空扫视了一眼。“风速大概是每十节270公里；云层高度6500千米。……在山谷里飞还行，但是我们今天不会飞到山峰那边。”
我在脑中记下笔记，复习学过的气象学知识。
我们挤进狭小的驾驶员座位，系好安全带。哎呀——麻烦来了。我的眼睛正好与仪表板持平。当我在诅咒自己这五英尺一英寸（约1.55米）的身高时，格兰从座位后面抽出一个枕头。我把枕头塞到屁股下面，从未感觉自己如此像一个老太太。不过至少，我能看到窗外的情况了。
启动并测试引擎，罗盘已经校正，卫星导航已打开并调好，无线电准备就绪。是时候警示附近的人我们准备起飞了。我调好麦克风的音量。
我念出这架赛斯纳飞机的登记号—F、B、M、Z—并要求信息导报。发射塔立刻给予回复，我的信心倍增。发射塔提供了现时风速情况及高度表拨定值，并指示我们从26号跑道起飞。
格兰松开手刹，慢慢推进油门杆。引擎饥渴地咕噜噜响，贪婪地吸食着燃料。螺旋桨旋转着，模糊成一个影子，带动我们向前。
“带我们去26号跑道，”格兰指示道。
我左右转动着轭架，未见有任何反应。我们滑到了草地上。
“用双脚来导向；用方向舵。”
我努力对抗着多年的驾车本能，放松轭架，用双脚操作着方向舵踏板。我们迂回不稳地来到跑道的暂停点。
起飞之前需要开足马力及扇动飞机的副翼。我做了這两个操作，我们沿跑道飞驰。我一只眼睛看着航速表，另一只眼睛看着跑道上白色的中间线，努力让飞机沿直线滑动，我的双脚都在操作着踏板。满油门时我们达到了55节的最有效点，我拉回轭架，抬起机头。赛斯纳（和我）颤抖着飞离了跑道。
我们稳稳地朝着蓝天爬升。一缕缕棉花似的云在我们旁边升起。这是层积云吗？我得翻一翻笔记。然而现在，旋转着，咕噜叫着，FBMZ这架飞机霸占了我所有的注意力。
我的心已高飞，但是没过多久我的手臂就因为拉着轭架而感到疲劳了。格兰似乎读懂了我的心。他伸出手旋转着我们中间的操纵舵。压力消失，赛斯纳不再与我对抗。
“这跟定速巡航一样，”他笑着说。“舵掌好了，她就会自己飞了。”
我放松死抓着的操控杆，对飞机在每一细微调整之下作出的回应啧啧称奇。我试着解读仪表板给我展示的信息。我们的高度读数是海拔3900英尺，航速为90节匀速。没有转弯或者垂直速度的提示，因此，这一定是水平直飞。
“试试转弯吧，”格兰提议道。
随着我把轭架往右边旋转，飞机的机翼倾斜转弯，我们不太稳定地朝北边飞去。双人操控时，格兰可以更正我的错误，让我们安全地飞行。
我总忍不住望向仪表板，格兰发现了这一点。
“私人飞行员驾照允许你以VFR飞行。还记得VFR是什么意思吗？”
“目视飞行规则，”我回答说。
“那么，看看你正往哪儿飞吧。你的注意力应该在外面。云层在哪里？确保你不会飞进云层里。山在哪个方向？”
我重复读着之前听到过的准则：“飞行，导航，通信。”换句话说，首先考虑如何开飞机。
现在，风在我们的身后，推着我们飞向机场。我们发出了必要的无线电呼叫，准备降落。我双眼注视着机外环境，就像格兰指导的那样，我看见两只鹰随着上升的暖流滑翔，这股暖流同时也给我们带来一些颠簸推撞。它们警惕地看着我们，对我们给它们那世界带来的嘈杂侵犯不为所动。
格兰负责降落。在减慢至失速速度后，我们在跑道上飘浮了一会儿。飞机触地时顺滑得像丝绸一样。
我们停靠、绑稳并锁好飞机以便过夜，之后我在我那本想象中的飞行日志上写下第一条记录，洋溢着自豪。
现在，又到了好好学习的时候了。如果这个老家伙想学习点新的飞行技巧，他就得好好掌握气象学了。
43岁才来学习飞行，我曾一度怀疑自己，然而在初次试飞之后，我知道我能行。
“态度加上马力等于表现”是一句用来描述一架飞机如何应对不同飞行情况的短语。
也许这一句话也适用于生活，以及我们如何选择过自己的人生，不管我们是什么年龄、在何种处境。
The tiny two-seat Cessna shone in the sun. And for one hour she was mine. Well， sort of. The bill was mine alone. Control and responsibility for my first flight lesson would be shared with my instructor， Glen.
I’d enrolled in ground school last winter， and by spring had morphed into a plane geek. I struck a deal with myself： 100 hours of ground school and online study would be rewarded in summer with one hour of shockingly expensive inflight instruction.
So， there I stood on the Kamloops tarmac.
Our pre-flight inspection indicated the bird should fly. To my untrained eye， the weather seemed fine. “Nice today，” I offered.
Glen eyed the wind sock and scanned the skies. “Wind from 270 at 10 knots； cloud ceiling 6，500. …Should be okay in the valley， but we’ll stay away from the mountains.”
I made a mental note to review my meteorology.
After squeezing into the teeny cockpit， we buckled up. Uh oh—trouble already. My eyes were perfectly level with the instrument panel. I cursed my 5-foot-1-inch frame while Glen reached behind the seat and produced a pillow. Sliding it under my butt， I felt more like a grandma than ever. But at least I could see out the window.
The engines were run up and tested， the compass aligned， the GPS turned on and tuned in and radios readied. It was time to warn whoever was out there that we were coming. I keyed the mike.
I spelled out the Cessna’s FBMZ registration—Foxtrot Bravo Mike Zulu—and requested an advisory. The tower responded immediately and my confidence surged. Current wind conditions and altimeter settings were given， and runway 26 suggested for departure.
Glen released the brakes and eased the throttle in. The engine purred hungrily， sucking up the extra fuel. The propeller spun into a blur and pulled us forward.
“Take us to 26，” Glen directed.
I turned the yoke left and right to no effect. We drifted onto the grass.
“Steer with your feet； use the rudder.”
Fighting years of automobile-induced instincts， I released the yoke and manoeuvred with the rudder pedals at my feet. We weaved unsteadily to the hold short point on the runway.
Full power and a dose of flaps are needed for takeoff. I applied both and we sped down the runway. With one eye on the airspeed indicator and the other on the white centre line， I struggled to keep us straight， both of my feet working the pedals. At full throttle we hit the 55-knot sweet spot and I pulled back on the yoke， lifting the nose. The Cessna （and I） shuddered as the runway slipped away below. We climbed steadily into the blue. Wisps of cottony clouds rose beside us. Stratocumulus？ I’d have to check my notes. For now， however， whirring， purring FBMZ had my full attention.
My heart soared， but my arms soon tired from pulling back on the yoke. Glen seemed to read my mind. He reached down and rotated the trim wheel between us. The pressure vanished， and the Cessna stopped fighting me.
“It’s like cruise control，” he grinned. “Trim her right and she’ll practically fly herself.”
I released my death grip on the control column and was amazed at how responsive the plane was to even the smallest adjustments. I struggled to make sense of what the instrument panel was telling me. Our altimeter indicated 3，900 feet and our airspeed was steady at 90 knots. No turning or vertical speed was suggested， so this must be straight and level flight.
“Try a turn，” Glen suggested.
As I rotated the yoke to the right， the wings banked and we headed unsteadily northward. Dual controls allowed Glen to correct my mistakes and keep us safe.
My gaze kept drifting back to the instrument panel， and Glen caught it.
“Private pilot’s license allows you to fly VFR. Remember what that stands for？”
“Visual flight rules，” I replied.
“So， look where you’re going. Your focus should be outside. Where are the clouds？ Make sure you stay out of them. Which direction are the mountains？”
And the mantra I’d heard before was repeated：“Aviate， navigate， communicate.” In other words， first fly the plane.
The wind was behind us now， pushing us back to the airport. We made the necessary radio call and began our descent. Keeping my eyes outside as instructed， I watched a pair of hawks riding the same thermals that were giving us a bit of bump and grind. They eyed us warily， unimpressed with our noisy intrusion into their world.
Glen handled the landing. After slowing to stalling speed， we floated above the runway. Our touchdown was smooth as silk.
After we’d parked， tied down and locked up the plane for the night， I made the first entry in my fancy new pilot logbook， bursting with pride.
Now it’s time to hit the books again. Meteorology must be mastered if this old dog is going to learn new flying tricks.
I had my doubts about learning to fly at the age of 43， but after taking the first steps I know I can do it.
“Attitude plus power equals performance” is a phrase used to explain how an aircraft handles under different scenarios. Perhaps the same can be said of life， and， regardless of our age or situation， how we choose to live it.
停靠在造型优美的加拿大航空公司的喷气式飞机旁边，她就像一个玩具。然而我的热情，丝毫不减。
这架娇小的双人赛斯纳飞机在阳光下闪耀着光芒。接下来的一个小时，她是属于我的。好吧，在某种意义上属于我。我独力负责买单。而我第一堂课的飞行操控及责任则是由我和指导员格兰共同承担。
去年冬天，我入读空勤预备学校，到了春天，我就俨然一名飞机控。我和自己打了个赌：攒足100小时的空勤学习和网上研修之后，夏天时要奖励自己一小时贵得让人咋舌的飞行训练。
于是，我站在了甘露机场的停机坪上。
我们的飞行前检查意味着这只鸟儿要展翅高飞了。对于外行的我来说，天气似乎不错。“今天天气真好，”我说。
格兰看了看风向袋，向天空扫视了一眼。“风速大概是每十节270公里；云层高度6500千米。……在山谷里飞还行，但是我们今天不会飞到山峰那边。”
我在脑中记下笔记，复习学过的气象学知识。
我们挤进狭小的驾驶员座位，系好安全带。哎呀——麻烦来了。我的眼睛正好与仪表板持平。当我在诅咒自己这五英尺一英寸（约1.55米）的身高时，格兰从座位后面抽出一个枕头。我把枕头塞到屁股下面，从未感觉自己如此像一个老太太。不过至少，我能看到窗外的情况了。
启动并测试引擎，罗盘已经校正，卫星导航已打开并调好，无线电准备就绪。是时候警示附近的人我们准备起飞了。我调好麦克风的音量。
我念出这架赛斯纳飞机的登记号—F、B、M、Z—并要求信息导报。发射塔立刻给予回复，我的信心倍增。发射塔提供了现时风速情况及高度表拨定值，并指示我们从26号跑道起飞。
格兰松开手刹，慢慢推进油门杆。引擎饥渴地咕噜噜响，贪婪地吸食着燃料。螺旋桨旋转着，模糊成一个影子，带动我们向前。
“带我们去26号跑道，”格兰指示道。
我左右转动着轭架，未见有任何反应。我们滑到了草地上。
“用双脚来导向；用方向舵。”
我努力对抗着多年的驾车本能，放松轭架，用双脚操作着方向舵踏板。我们迂回不稳地来到跑道的暂停点。
起飞之前需要开足马力及扇动飞机的副翼。我做了這两个操作，我们沿跑道飞驰。我一只眼睛看着航速表，另一只眼睛看着跑道上白色的中间线，努力让飞机沿直线滑动，我的双脚都在操作着踏板。满油门时我们达到了55节的最有效点，我拉回轭架，抬起机头。赛斯纳（和我）颤抖着飞离了跑道。
我们稳稳地朝着蓝天爬升。一缕缕棉花似的云在我们旁边升起。这是层积云吗？我得翻一翻笔记。然而现在，旋转着，咕噜叫着，FBMZ这架飞机霸占了我所有的注意力。
我的心已高飞，但是没过多久我的手臂就因为拉着轭架而感到疲劳了。格兰似乎读懂了我的心。他伸出手旋转着我们中间的操纵舵。压力消失，赛斯纳不再与我对抗。
“这跟定速巡航一样，”他笑着说。“舵掌好了，她就会自己飞了。”
我放松死抓着的操控杆，对飞机在每一细微调整之下作出的回应啧啧称奇。我试着解读仪表板给我展示的信息。我们的高度读数是海拔3900英尺，航速为90节匀速。没有转弯或者垂直速度的提示，因此，这一定是水平直飞。
“试试转弯吧，”格兰提议道。
随着我把轭架往右边旋转，飞机的机翼倾斜转弯，我们不太稳定地朝北边飞去。双人操控时，格兰可以更正我的错误，让我们安全地飞行。
我总忍不住望向仪表板，格兰发现了这一点。
“私人飞行员驾照允许你以VFR飞行。还记得VFR是什么意思吗？”
“目视飞行规则，”我回答说。
“那么，看看你正往哪儿飞吧。你的注意力应该在外面。云层在哪里？确保你不会飞进云层里。山在哪个方向？”
我重复读着之前听到过的准则：“飞行，导航，通信。”换句话说，首先考虑如何开飞机。
现在，风在我们的身后，推着我们飞向机场。我们发出了必要的无线电呼叫，准备降落。我双眼注视着机外环境，就像格兰指导的那样，我看见两只鹰随着上升的暖流滑翔，这股暖流同时也给我们带来一些颠簸推撞。它们警惕地看着我们，对我们给它们那世界带来的嘈杂侵犯不为所动。
格兰负责降落。在减慢至失速速度后，我们在跑道上飘浮了一会儿。飞机触地时顺滑得像丝绸一样。
我们停靠、绑稳并锁好飞机以便过夜，之后我在我那本想象中的飞行日志上写下第一条记录，洋溢着自豪。
现在，又到了好好学习的时候了。如果这个老家伙想学习点新的飞行技巧，他就得好好掌握气象学了。
43岁才来学习飞行，我曾一度怀疑自己，然而在初次试飞之后，我知道我能行。
“态度加上马力等于表现”是一句用来描述一架飞机如何应对不同飞行情况的短语。
也许这一句话也适用于生活，以及我们如何选择过自己的人生，不管我们是什么年龄、在何种处境。