That year winter arrived on the heels of a cold front that marked the end of an interminably long and hot Ohio Valley summer, one that lasted nearly to Thanksgiving. Arriving at the ‘drome for a flight check I got a brutal reminder that airports are the coldest places on the planet. Back to the painful bite of the wind while you knock frost off a wing or struggle to get fuel into the tanks, perched on a rickety aluminum ladder, gloved fingers numb and soaked in 100LL. Tears from the cold wind running down your cheeks to join the rivulets of snot from your nose. Not too elegant, but what pilot who’s battled to launch an airplane in cold weather hasn’t asked himself, “Is this really worth it?” Snot, tears and all, the answer’s an unqualified “yes.” But where’s global warming when you need it?
In really frigid situations I’ve been tempted to limit preflights to the important stuff: Are the tires round and is anything (other than my nose) dripping? It’s the same flaw in reasoning behind Martha’s Law of Magneto Checks: If you’re departing someplace where there’s no mechanic … why check? Fortunately, more often than not, basic survival instincts prevail (or somebody’s watching) and I do a good preflight inspection. You can bet your Bernoulli that the lower the temperature the more likely something’s going to break off, freeze shut or stick open. 72B snoozes in an unheated T hangar so I use an engine block heater and a big blanket to keep it cozy on cold winter nights. And to keep me honest and careful, a world-class torpedo heater lives in the hangar.
