This elegant little airplane was born into a general aviation boom period, quite different from the high-cost, low-volume single-engine market of today. During the 1960s, nearly 9,000 light singles and twins were produced every year. In addition to the big three of the time—Cessna, Piper, and Beechcraft—the major defense airframe contractors were considering ways to enter this red-hot civilian market.

There was both an easy way and a hard way. The hard way involved designing an aircraft from scratch and suffering the slings and arrows of a long and expensive certification process. The easy way involved buying a type certificate of an existing aircraft.

Grumman Aerospace created its Grumman American Division by purchasing the American Yankee and Traveler type certificates and then developing a full line of single- and twin-engine aircraft based on these designs. In a similar way, North American Rockwell’s GA subsidiary, Aero Commander, acquired the type certificates to the single-engine, fixed-gear Volaire Model 10, which it renamed as the model 100 Darter and Lark Commanders. In 1966, it purchased the type certificate and tooling of a high-performance, retractable-gear single, the Meyers 200.

And just like that, Aero Commander had a full line of single-engine aircraft. With a hot GA market, a record-setting airframe and engine combination, and the deep-pockets support of an aerospace giant, what could go wrong? Spoiler alert: By 1972, Aero Commander had ended production of both the 100 and 200 series and designed and certified its own Rockwell Commander 111/112/114 line of fixed- and retractable-gear aircraft.

So what happened?

To answer the question, let’s go back to where the Meyers 200 story begins. Al Meyers was a gifted aircraft engineer who spent the years leading up to World War II working for industry leaders Stinson Aircraft, Chance Vought, and Glenn Martin. His first solo design, the Meyers OTW (Out to Win) was an elegant biplane trainer that enjoyed a limited production run in the run-up to the war.

Unfortunately, as with most peacetime activities, the war years placed a hold on the Meyers Aircraft Co. However, as the war ended, and the postwar civil aviation boom got underway, Al Meyers designed the Model 125 and 145. This thoroughly modern monoplane design featured a fully enclosed, two-place cabin, all-metal construction, a distinctive squared-off tail, and fully retractable conventional landing gear. Though just 23 were constructed, the design was good enough to be resurrected nearly 50 years later as the Micco SP 20 and 26, a plus-6G and minus-3G personal aircraft produced for a short time by the Miccosukee Nation in Fort Pierce, Florida.

However, Meyers was not done. His next design took the Meyers 145 to the next level, featuring a four-place cabin, retractable tricycle gear, and retaining the sturdy, steel tube wing, carry-through structure of the 145. Originally equipped with a Continental IO-470, then later with the larger IO-520, this design realized Meyers’ goal of a fast, strong, and comfortable airplane. One feature that really set the Meyers 200 apart from the rest of the four-place field was its unique, wraparound cabin windows. When combined with its raised canopy section, this provided the pilot with nearly 360-degree vision, similar to the WWII fighter to which it bore such a strong resemblance.

• READ MORE: Incredible Plane: Cessna 150

With a gross weight of 3,000 pounds, empty weight of just less than 2,000 pounds, and a 70- to 80-gallon fuel capacity, the Meyers 200D variant, like most GA aircraft, is really a two-,or occasionally three-place, aircraft. However, the lucky pilot and passengers were treated to 180 knot cruise speeds and 1,350 fpm climb rate. Because of its sturdy 4130 chrome-moly steel cabin/wing center section, the 200 series have not experienced an in-flight structural failure or airworthiness directive related to the airframe and wing structure. Adding to its high cruise speed, the engine mount on the Meyers 200 line is not canted to compensate for P-factor, and it coincidentally requires a boot full of right rudder on takeoff.

In fact, the Meyers 200D set several national and international speed records, and some consider it more than a match for the mighty 8-cylinder Piper Comanche 400. Yet stall speed with its fowler flaps fully extended is under 50 knots. Topping it all off, the Meyers 200 is a great looking airplane. With its large greenhouse, squared-off tail, and compact landing gear, it resembles a cross between a P-51 Mustang and P-39 Airacobra. It appears to be fast just sitting on the ground, even now.

When Aero Commander purchased the type certificate, the Meyers Aircraft Co. had produced just 49 Meyers 200 models between 1959 and 1965. Each aircraft had been built to order in the Meyers factory in Michigan. As Aero Commander soon discovered, each one had been hand built by a small but dedicated production staff, with a minimum of factory tooling. The result was a high-quality product that was prohibitively expensive to build. After creating the required tooling and constructing just 75 Aero Commander 200D models, the company accountants calculated that it took $4 million to produce $3 million worth of these sturdy little birds. Seeing the handwriting on the wall, production ceased in 1968. The same fate awaited the Aero Commander 100 single-engine, fixed-gear line, which by 1971, with a little more than 500 produced, was a memory.

The good news is that a considerable number of the Meyers/Aero Commander 200 series remain on the FAA registry, and their record of safety and performance remain a source of pride. The type certificate has passed through several hands, but most recently resided with the Interceptor Aircraft Corp. A Meyers Aircraft Owners Association provides limited product support, web presence, and camaraderie for the type.

Oh, and there is one more thing. The final model of the line, initially labeled the Meyers 200E, mated a 400 hp Garrett TPE331 turboprop to the already sturdy airframe. This model, soon dubbed the Interceptor 400, added nearly 100 knots on the top end and is still registered and flying.

The Meyers/Aero Commander 200 series combined outstanding performance, strength, and hand-built quality into a stylish airframe. Its undeniable ramp appeal and excellent performance remain class-leading. Occasionally one turns up for sale and, like anyone shopping for an out-of-production, retractable single, the prospective buyer should balance the performance against the cost of insurance and ownership.

However, if the Meyers/Aero Commander is your cup of tea, this incredible plane will reward you with speed, safety, and undeniable ramp appeal. 

Editor’s Note: This story originally appeared in the JAN/FEB 2024 issue of Plane & Pilot magazine.

The post This Incredible Plane: Meyers/Aero Commander 200 appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

My son is reading The Great Gatsby in his 10th grade English class—the same school year when I first read it—and chatting with him about the story’s setting got me thinking about New York’s Long Island and how I have wanted for years to fly to Montauk on its eastern tip.

Yes, it’s a long way from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Gold Coast and quieter than Jay Gatsby’s party-hearty haunts. But like the novel’s North Shore setting, Montauk gives visitors the feeling that they have truly arrived. As I found out, that feeling is especially strong for pilots.

My wife and I recently ended the long wait with a flight to the popular summer destination known for beautiful beaches, great food, hiking trails, and other outdoor activities. We wanted to get a sense of the place before the busy season really gets going. Over the years, we have spent weekends with friends and attended weddings in the Hamptons, of which Montauk is part, but never drove far enough east to see the hamlet. Now, once again, flying has opened the door.

Getting There

Montauk Airport (KMTP) is 122 nm from our home airport at Sussex, New Jersey (KFWN), a distance “Annie,” our Commander 114B, can cover in about 50 minutes. By road the distance is 171 miles and close to four hours or longer on a summer weekend. Flying there is a joy. Scenery includes the New York skyline, Long Island Sound, the Connecticut coast and dozens of interesting islands. There are also airports to spot along the way, many of which, like East Hampton, (KJPX), Groton, Connecticut (KGON), and Fishers Island, New York (0B8), may inspire future flights.

The airport is not where you would expect to find it. As you fly east over the Sound, Long Island dwindles, getting narrower. Just as it appears to melt into the Atlantic, the runway appears, peeking out from a swath of thick vegetation edged with sand. The field sits in a largely undeveloped area that includes Montauk County Park and Montauk Point State Park. There is an inlet and a harbor between the airport and the village, giving the former a remote feel.

The Airport Environment

On the day we visited, the winds favored Runway 24, which necessitates an overwater approach into a right-hand traffic pattern. Descending over water always feels strange to me, but you cannot avoid it when the runway threshold abuts the beach. It is best to focus on flying a precise pattern while enjoying striking views of the harbor, village, and shoreline. I tried not to fixate on the ocean’s expanse.

On short final, we could see people gathered and strolling on the beach. Several looked up as we passed over; a few waved. I still get such a kick out of being that person in the airplane after decades of looking up at others flying past.

The runway is 3,246 feet long, so light piston aircraft make up most of the traffic, though turboprops also show up. We shared the ramp with a Daher TBM, a Beechcraft Bonanza, and two Cirrus SR22s. There is a small airport office that is attended sometimes but not the Sunday afternoon in early May when we stopped in. I understand there is more of a reception for arriving aircraft during the summer, when traffic increases and the vacation rhythm picks up. Still, Montauk is known as a quiet place compared with the rest of the Hamptons.

Getting Around

This is an ideal destination for flying in for lunch and a walk along the shore. The Gin Beach Cafe is across the street from the ramp, really just steps away. We took a 10-minute walk up the road north of the airport to the Inlet Seafood Restaurant, which is a classic seaside spot where you can watch boats coming into the harbor while enjoying a menu full of delicious options.

Walk a little farther, and you are on the county park beach, which we flew over earlier. One pilot friend who encouraged us to visit Montauk flies there regularly on summer evenings after work just to swim and relax on the beach near the runway.

But there is more to Montauk than the airport, and while hiking is among the area’s popular activities, you will need a set of wheels if you are planning a longer stay and want to explore. Shuttles, taxis, and rental cars are available for getting back and forth to points of interest, but this also seems like the perfect place for lightweight, folding bicycles.

The latest generation of folding bikes includes many that close up into a package compact enough to fit easily in an aircraft baggage compartment—and these include some electric or e-bikes as well. On the road, they handle and perform like high-end touring bikes, allowing you to cover lots of ground quickly. In locations like the Hamptons, where summer car traffic can be unbelievably thick, a bicycle is often the quickest, most efficient way to get around. I plan to test a few of these bikes soon.

Things To Do

The parks around the airport are good places to start if you enjoy hiking and communing with nature. Before heading to the village you might also visit the Montauk Point Lighthouse, which, according to the Montauk Historical Society, George Washington commissioned as president in 1792. It was the first lighthouse built in New York and ranks as the fourth-oldest working lighthouse in the U.S. The lighthouse is also a museum that delves into the area’s history.

Camp Hero State Park, which includes a former coastal defense station, is another historic site at the eastern tip of town. Concrete bunkers housed gun batteries here during World War II, but today the area is better known for its diverse landscape, long beachfront, and trails for hiking, biking, and horseback riding. Deep Hollow Ranch, about 3 miles south of the airport, includes an extensive stable and offers trail and beach rides.

There is a lot of history in Montauk and the rest of the Hamptons, from wartime military activities to the area’s development over the last 100 years or so into a popular escape for New York City dwellers. Visitors can learn a lot in the area’s museums by taking tours of historic homes or casually studying local architecture. From Colonial to Revival to mid-20th century kitsch, you can find it all in Montauk.

Where To Stay

You can also experience a range of styles in the town’s accommodations, whether you are interested in outsize resorts like the Montauk Manor, understated bed and breakfasts, or classic throwback motels Haven Montauk, Montauk Blue, and Daunt’s Albatross. Indeed the classic motel, once an endangered species, has made a comeback here as vacationers from Generations X and Y express nostalgia for time spent in similar digs during family road trips from the 1970s through the ’90s.  You probably will find the ideal combination of balconies, sliding glass doors, flat roofs, and decoratively shaped swimming pools.

If you prefer to camp, you can check out the waterfront sites at the scenic Hither Hills State Park or along the Paumanok Path, a long-distance hiking trail that runs about 125 miles from Rocky Point through the towns of Brookhaven, Riverhead, and East Hampton, ending at the Montauk lighthouse.

I plan to visit Montauk again soon, but for the whole weekend at least—not just lunch. Between now and then, I will have to decide on where to stay. But there is no longer a decision about whether or not to go.

In the old days before I acquired my pilot certificate, I never quite got around to visiting the eastern extreme of Long Island. It always seemed a bit too far, requiring more hours than I had to spare. Now, the ability to get there in less than an hour has extended my reach and transformed my outlook.

Landing at Montauk—having avoided the snarled weekend traffic—instantly makes a strong case for general aviation and the notion that there are still a few forms of real freedom out there. KMTP had been on my GA destinations list since I began flight training, and while it took more than 10 years to get there, I can say with conviction that it was worth the wait. 

Editor’s Note: This story originally appeared in the August 2023 issue of Plane & Pilot magazine. 

The post The Scenic Route appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

We need to take care of these aviation treasures—their kind will not be seen again. They were developed during America’s post-war boom by designers and marketers who gave pilots what they wanted at a price point within reach of a large percentage of the flying population. In their day, competition encouraged innovation, even while design compromises between performance, cost, and quality provided a variety of choices in the marketplace.

Because of these vast numbers of airplanes placed into service 50 or so years ago, we still have a relatively large pool of legacy equipment available. How long we can keep them flying is anyone’s guess, but the cost of maintaining, equipping, and flying these old birds is much higher than their original builders could ever have envisioned. And yet, they can do the job for a fraction of an equivalent airplane built today—if one even exists.

Attrition is inevitable since some of this elderly fleet disappears from the active register each year. Losses from accidents, neglect, impractical upkeep, and aging structures will eventually take their toll. To preserve what’s left, we must be ready to place increased resources into their preservation and encourage production of parts for overhauling and maintaining continuing airworthiness. And we must be ever more careful in how we operate and store them. This aging fleet is too precious to ignore.

Where Did They All Come From?

The answer is: It depends.

In 1960, a total of 7,588 general aviation aircraft were produced; in 1970, an anomalously similar number, 7,508, were built. An astounding 98,407 airplanes went out the door between those years. After another 10 years, the industry had added another 150,220 aircraft to the fleet. Then, the bubble burst in the ’80s, with only 30,908 airplanes built in that decade. The ’90s saw just 17,665 airplanes produced. The nearly 250,000 general aviation airplanes built in the ’60s and ’70s, therefore, were the origins of our still-existing legacy fleet.

During nearly 65 years of industry observation, I was fortunate to have been around at the birth of many of these legacy airplanes. I remember walking around one of the first Cessna 210s parked at our field in 1960, trying to figure out where the gear went. When a Piper dealer came by to show us a brand-new ’62 Cherokee, we could scarcely believe it was a sibling to our Tri-Pacers. And, compared to the twin Beechcraft Bonanzas on the field, I thought the ’60 Beech Queen Air was the most beautiful mini-airliner I had ever seen when I climbed aboard one of the first, not realizing that in four more years its sister ship would become the turboprop King Air.

A Cessna 336 Skymaster showed up at an airport opening I attended in 1964, attracting all sorts of attention since it was unlike any Cessna we had seen before. By then, Brand C had added the 185, 206, and 320 models, and the cabin-class 411 was coming. Piper’s new 1963 Twin Comanche struck us as cute, compared with the pudgy Apache and Aztec, while the Pawnee was our first look at a purpose-built ag plane. In the mid-’60s, new aircraft models were popping up everywhere. One of my friends bought a brand-new Citabria in 1964, which we thought was a vast improvement over the old Aeronca Champion.

As the years passed, I became associated with airplane dealerships, and then started covering a beat as an industry journalist. I saw Cessna’s abortive attempt to enter the helicopter business with the CH-1 Skyhook in the early ’60s, and later in 1967 we picked up one of the first Cessna Cardinals at the factory. In 1973, I attended Beech’s November sales meeting in Wichita, Kansas, featuring the introduction of the big Super King Air 200. About the same time, Cessna was dropping into our airport with the new Citation jet. Back in 1961, I had seen a mock-up of a civilian version of Cessna’s T-37 jet trainer, perhaps a response to Beech’s short partnership with the Morane-Saulnier Paris jet. The Citation 500’s fanjet engines made all the difference.

All through the ’70s and early ’80s, we news hounds were kept busy attending rollouts and first flights of new models. Airplane companies were in full production and eager to expand their market, trying out every novelty and adding improvements. Mooney stretched and muscled up its M20 series, Maule constantly reworked its Rocket models, Rockwell added more Commander types, and Grumman gave us “cats” of every size, Lynx to Cougar.

It All Started in the Late 1950s

In my earliest flying years at the end of the 1950s, Piper was producing only the Apache, Comanche, Tri-Pacer and Super Cub models. Cessna had the 310, 182, and 172, and was just adding the 175 and 150. Beech built the Model 18 Twin Beech, V-tail and twin Bonanzas, and a new Travel Air light twin. Mooney basically sold one model, as did Bellanca, and Aero Commander competed solely in the twin market. As the industry and I matured during the ’60s, dozens of new designs and variations appeared in the marketplace.

This era’s fertile incubator brought forth steady innovations. Piper adopted touches from the Comanche, such as the swept tailfin and stabilator pitch control, for its Aztec and Cherokee models introduced in the early ’60s. Cessna not only swept the tail on most models in 1960, it copied Detroit automotive marketing by introducing “deluxe” versions loaded with standard options—all-over paint instead of partially bare aluminum, gyros and radios in the panel, landing gear fairings, and showy interiors. Beech, on the other hand, expanded its line downward, first with a Debonair economy version of the Bonanza and later the entry-level Musketeer singles with (gasp!) fixed landing gear. The Baron was introduced in 1961 for buyers needing something smaller than the hulking twin Bonanza but more capable than the Travel Air.

The secret sauce enlivening this banquet of expansion in the ’60s and ’70s was the involvement of ownership and management dedicated to personal aviation. William T. Piper and his sons, Bill Jr., Thomas (“Tony”), and Howard (“Pug”), made the decisions at Piper Aircraft. Mrs. O.A. Beech and her nephew Frank Hedrick held the reins at Beech Aircraft. Dwane Wallace, Clyde Cessna’s nephew, would walk the factory floor at Cessna. Rather than being subject to a corporate board of bean counters and legal advisers, these leaders had grown their companies with a vision of what little airplanes could do and took risks based on the love of the game.

Amazing products resulted, not from committee decisions but because of a guiding hand at the top who was likely a pilot and aircraft enthusiast. At the industry press conferences and sales meetings back then, one could sense the devotion and dreams in the presentations. All of this changed in the last quarter of the 20th century, as the old general aviation firms were sold and wrapped under conglomerate, non-aviation management. This brought cautious decision-making and design compromise by consensus, with legal, sales, engineering, and bookkeeping departments making sure all interests were represented. Lockheed engineer Kelly Johnson once said, “From now on, there will be no more great airplanes, just adequate ones.”

The Sizzling ’70s

The 1960s had seen heady expansion of product lines. By 1970, Piper had largely made the switch from building fabric-covered airplanes at its old plant in Lock Haven, Pennsylvania, to all-metal designs streaming from a bright new complex in Florida. Labor problems and a disastrous flood in 1972 ended the Lock Haven era and the Comanche line, although the Aztec and Navajo twins continued. However, there were plenty of other options in the product line. The Piper Cherokee, also known as the PA-28 platform, had been expanded to at least eight variants, being added to six twins and the Pawnee ag planes. Cessna was building half of the world’s GA airplanes in its Kansas facilities, offering no less than a dozen singles, eight twins, and a new bizjet on the horizon. Beech, meanwhile, now had 12 single-engine models, seven twins, and three turboprops in its fleet. And the 1970s were just starting.

Vertical integration seemed to be important, in that each major manufacturer wanted to offer a two-seat trainer, four-seat family airplane, higher-powered business cruiser, and complex retract. Twins were similarly ranked—as light, medium, and cabin class—with pressurization and turbine engines being the ultimate goal. Piper took the Cherokee Six heavy-single into a Seneca twin in ’72, followed by the Lance retractable in ’76. Tapered wings and stretched fuselages improved the smaller Cherokees, and a true two-seater, the Tomahawk, came along in ’78, followed by the Seminole light twin. At the top, the Navajo cabin twin became stretched, pressurized, and turbine-ized.

Over at Cessna, a plethora of preferences had been promulgated by 1970. Tubular landing gear legs replaced older flat springs, manual flaps were changed to electric, the 210 Centurion’s wing struts had been removed, and by the mid-1960s stylish back windows had been installed in nearly all models. Engine turbochargers became an option, starting in ’62 with the 320 twin, then in ’66 for the 206 and 210. Cessna joined Piper in the ag plane business that year, and in ’69 the 206 was stretched into the 207. By the end of 1970s, there were three models of the 210—normal, turbo, and pressurized—the Skylane RG joined the fixed-gear 182, and even the Skyhawk went retractable with the Cutlass RG. On the twin side, the “push-pull” centerline-thrust Skymaster was available in three performance categories, the 310/340 was similarly outfitted, and the 400-series twins offered models with utility, executive, and pressurized cabins. It took until the late 1970s for Cessna to move into the turboprop business since it was occupied with the Citation jets earlier in that decade.

Beech was busy introducing the stretched King Air 100 in 1970 and the flagship Super King Air 200 for ’74, adding the longer Baron 58 in ’70, a pressurized Baron 58P, in ’76 and the Duchess light twin in ’78, while continuing to build piston-engine Queen Airs and Dukes. Still, Beech found time to put retractable gear on the Musketeer and add an extra cabin door to the light airplanes, and to develop the two-place Skipper trainer at the end of the decade.

By no means was all the action in the ’70s limited to the “Big Three” airplane manufacturers. Mooney was innovating like crazy in that time frame, with the introduction of the cleaned-up 201 and the turbo 231. Other short-line manufacturers like Bellanca/Champion, Maule, and Grumman American enlarged their offerings, and Rockwell jumped into its own single-engine Commander business after first trying to acquire smaller companies in the 1960s. The ’70s were full of enthusiasm for aviation, despite an oil embargo setback in 1973-74 and a disrupting air traffic controller strike in 1981. By the mid-’80s, it was all over.

Did CAR 3 Play a Role?

What may have made all these developments of new airplane types possible was the continuing use of Civil Air Regulation Part 3 certification, a holdover from the Civil Aeronautics Authority, predecessor to the Federal Aviation Administration’s creation in 1958. With the changeover to the FAA’s Federal Air Regulations, FAR Part 23 became the new certification basis for light aircraft, gradually evolving into a fresh start with some new requirements added to the old CAR 3 rules. As this regulatory meshing took some time to accomplish, established airplane companies rushed to certify as many new models as possible under CAR 3, filing applications that could grandfather them into existing rules while product development continued into the ’60s.

Using these old CAR 3 certifications as basis, most of our legacy fleet was built using amendments to the original type certificate, even though the airplanes were marketed as “new” models. Hence, the 1968-introduced Beech Bonanza 36 was certified as an addition to the CAR 3-basis TC #3A15, which was originally issued for the Bonanza H35 of 1957. Cessna’s Bonanza competitors, beginning with the model 210 certified on April 20, 1959, were also certified under CAR 3 except for the pressurized P210 because its original application was dated August 13, 1956. Even the ’64 Cessna 206 was certified as a CAR Part 3 airplane, as the original application was dated November 9, 1962, continuing right up through the end of legacy 206 production in ’86.

For its part, Piper introduced the PA-28 Cherokee in ’61 under CAR 3 certification basis from an application dated February 14, 1958. Even the PA-32 Cherokee Six was born as a CAR 3 airplane in ’65 with an application dated ’64. Similar modifications to original CAR 3 certifications took place at Mooney, Champion, Rockwell Commander, Lake, and Maule. To be fair, subsequent model changes through the ’70s frequently complied with FAR Part 23 amendments applicable to their dates of certification, even though they were built as CAR 3-certified airplanes. On the other hand, the four-seat Grumman AA-5 airplanes were certified under FAR Part 23 with an original application dated July 2, 1970.

As is typical of the mission creep inherent in any administrative law, FAR Part 23 certification grew in complexity from the boilerplate inherited from CAR 3. Much of this was inevitable as new construction methods and materials were developed, and equipment unanticipated in CAR 3 was placed on airplanes. However, grandfathering in earlier type certification, rather than pursuing entirely new FAR 23 approval, meant less time and money was required to produce a new aircraft.

Are FAA Part 23-certified airplanes any better? It depends on which level of amendments they complied with. Certification under Part 23 in the ’60s was quite similar to the CAR 3 certification of a decade earlier, but Part 23 amendments of the ’80s had evolved to a greater degree. When it comes to engineering small unpressurized general aviation aircraft, however, structures are typically overbuilt simply for durability and manufacturing ease. The basic criteria for CAR Part 3 and FAR Part 23 remain much the same. CAR 3’s stipulation that stall speed for single-engine airplanes shall not exceed
70 mph is simply restated in FAR 23 as “61 knots.” However, as mentioned, there have been multitudinous minutia added in FAR 23, often in response to newer materials and devices never contemplated in CAR 3 days. Each of these must be given consideration when developing entirely new designs, taking up engineering time and documentation.

Most significantly, this prodigious adaptation and modification of basic CAR 3 aircraft designs, along with introduction of entirely new FAR 23 ones, continued through the ’60s and ’70s. Each of the major manufacturers wanted to make sure customers were able to remain loyal as they upgraded into higher-performance airplanes. They accomplished this by increasing the number of types offered and seeing that any small opening into an unserved need was met with a new model.
And so it was that fixed-gear models received retractable landing gear. The fuselage stretched to accommodate extra seats. Four-cylinder engines became six-cylinder powerplants. Turbocharged models complemented normally aspirated offerings. Even twin engines were grafted onto single-engine airframes. Pressurization, turbine engines, tip tanks, cargo pods: if you wanted it, engineering and marketing departments made sure you could get it.

Market saturation eventually brought down the number of aircraft types, and production rates plummeted in the ’80s to match the lack of buyers. Contributing to the collapse of the ’80s was a lingering economic malaise from double-digit interest rates and inflation, and the increasing cost of product liability insurance against the growth industry of tort suits, divided by the fewer and fewer units sold.

Why can’t we just make new old ones?

Challenges on several fronts make reviving old type-certificated aircraft difficult. Small production rates mean handcrafting what was once mass-produced, so each unit costs more. Rebuilding the market requires making enough people want what you have to offer. The numbers of active pilots and qualified, motivated buyers are down compared to the bustling days, and consumer expectations are much higher now, requiring airframes to be bloated with quality accessories. Back in the day, comfort and ease of use took a back seat to the thrill of flight. We didn’t expect to have air conditioning in our airplane because it weighed half as much as a passenger and it wasn’t needed aloft. Plush seating, Wi-Fi, sound deadening, single-lever power control, and wall-to-wall glass instrument panels weren’t a priority or even dreamed about 50 years ago. We were just glad to have an engine, wings, and freedom to fly. Legacy airplanes today need considerable upgrading to bring them up to speed with current buyer desires.

Airports were social communities during the last third of the 1900s. Security was almost nonexistent, perceived threats being remote, so coming and going was less restricted and hurried. Pilots spent time at the airport. Airport lounges were often untidy but welcoming places that encouraged hanging out, not polished palaces to pass through. If you parked outside with your new 1970 Mooney, someone would come out to admire it, not shepherd it away to piston-engine row. Today’s aircraft owners are far different. Many are users of airplanes, not flyers for the sake of flying. They are more satisfied to possess their flying machines—less so to be companions with them.

That said, the great fleet of general aviation aircraft built in the two decades of the mid-’60s to mid-’80s still represents a wonderful opportunity for acquisition and preservation. We must not underestimate the continuing rise in maintenance and operation costs. But these remarkable old birds serve their purpose as well as they ever did, if we’ll just take care of them.
Let us rise to the challenge. 

Editor’s note: This story originally appeared in the July 2023 issue of Plane & Pilot. 

The post Sustaining Our Fleet appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

We need to take care of these aviation treasures—their kind will not be seen again. They were developed during America’s post-war boom by designers and marketers who gave pilots what they wanted at a price point within reach of a large percentage of the flying population. In their day, competition encouraged innovation, even while design compromises between performance, cost, and quality provided a variety of choices in the marketplace.

Because of these vast numbers of airplanes placed into service 50 or so years ago, we still have a relatively large pool of legacy equipment available. How long we can keep them flying is anyone’s guess, but the cost of maintaining, equipping, and flying these old birds is much higher than their original builders could ever have envisioned. And yet, they can do the job for a fraction of an equivalent airplane built today—if one even exists.

Attrition is inevitable since some of this elderly fleet disappears from the active register each year. Losses from accidents, neglect, impractical upkeep, and aging structures will eventually take their toll. To preserve what’s left, we must be ready to place increased resources into their preservation and encourage production of parts for overhauling and maintaining continuing airworthiness. And we must be ever more careful in how we operate and store them. This aging fleet is too precious to ignore.

Where Did They All Come From?

The answer is: It depends.

In 1960, a total of 7,588 general aviation aircraft were produced; in 1970, an anomalously similar number, 7,508, were built. An astounding 98,407 airplanes went out the door between those years. After another 10 years, the industry had added another 150,220 aircraft to the fleet. Then, the bubble burst in the ’80s, with only 30,908 airplanes built in that decade. The ’90s saw just 17,665 airplanes produced. The nearly 250,000 general aviation airplanes built in the ’60s and ’70s, therefore, were the origins of our still-existing legacy fleet.

During nearly 65 years of industry observation, I was fortunate to have been around at the birth of many of these legacy airplanes. I remember walking around one of the first Cessna 210s parked at our field in 1960, trying to figure out where the gear went. When a Piper dealer came by to show us a brand-new ’62 Cherokee, we could scarcely believe it was a sibling to our Tri-Pacers. And, compared to the twin Beechcraft Bonanzas on the field, I thought the ’60 Beech Queen Air was the most beautiful mini-airliner I had ever seen when I climbed aboard one of the first, not realizing that in four more years its sister ship would become the turboprop King Air.

A Cessna 336 Skymaster showed up at an airport opening I attended in 1964, attracting all sorts of attention since it was unlike any Cessna we had seen before. By then, Brand C had added the 185, 206, and 320 models, and the cabin-class 411 was coming. Piper’s new 1963 Twin Comanche struck us as cute, compared with the pudgy Apache and Aztec, while the Pawnee was our first look at a purpose-built ag plane. In the mid-’60s, new aircraft models were popping up everywhere. One of my friends bought a brand-new Citabria in 1964, which we thought was a vast improvement over the old Aeronca Champion.

As the years passed, I became associated with airplane dealerships, and then started covering a beat as an industry journalist. I saw Cessna’s abortive attempt to enter the helicopter business with the CH-1 Skyhook in the early ’60s, and later in 1967 we picked up one of the first Cessna Cardinals at the factory. In 1973, I attended Beech’s November sales meeting in Wichita, Kansas, featuring the introduction of the big Super King Air 200. About the same time, Cessna was dropping into our airport with the new Citation jet. Back in 1961, I had seen a mock-up of a civilian version of Cessna’s T-37 jet trainer, perhaps a response to Beech’s short partnership with the Morane-Saulnier Paris jet. The Citation 500’s fanjet engines made all the difference.

All through the ’70s and early ’80s, we news hounds were kept busy attending rollouts and first flights of new models. Airplane companies were in full production and eager to expand their market, trying out every novelty and adding improvements. Mooney stretched and muscled up its M20 series, Maule constantly reworked its Rocket models, Rockwell added more Commander types, and Grumman gave us “cats” of every size, Lynx to Cougar.

It All Started in the Late 1950s

In my earliest flying years at the end of the 1950s, Piper was producing only the Apache, Comanche, Tri-Pacer and Super Cub models. Cessna had the 310, 182, and 172, and was just adding the 175 and 150. Beech built the Model 18 Twin Beech, V-tail and twin Bonanzas, and a new Travel Air light twin. Mooney basically sold one model, as did Bellanca, and Aero Commander competed solely in the twin market. As the industry and I matured during the ’60s, dozens of new designs and variations appeared in the marketplace.

This era’s fertile incubator brought forth steady innovations. Piper adopted touches from the Comanche, such as the swept tailfin and stabilator pitch control, for its Aztec and Cherokee models introduced in the early ’60s. Cessna not only swept the tail on most models in 1960, it copied Detroit automotive marketing by introducing “deluxe” versions loaded with standard options—all-over paint instead of partially bare aluminum, gyros and radios in the panel, landing gear fairings, and showy interiors. Beech, on the other hand, expanded its line downward, first with a Debonair economy version of the Bonanza and later the entry-level Musketeer singles with (gasp!) fixed landing gear. The Baron was introduced in 1961 for buyers needing something smaller than the hulking twin Bonanza but more capable than the Travel Air.

The secret sauce enlivening this banquet of expansion in the ’60s and ’70s was the involvement of ownership and management dedicated to personal aviation. William T. Piper and his sons, Bill Jr., Thomas (“Tony”), and Howard (“Pug”), made the decisions at Piper Aircraft. Mrs. O.A. Beech and her nephew Frank Hedrick held the reins at Beech Aircraft. Dwane Wallace, Clyde Cessna’s nephew, would walk the factory floor at Cessna. Rather than being subject to a corporate board of bean counters and legal advisers, these leaders had grown their companies with a vision of what little airplanes could do and took risks based on the love of the game.

Amazing products resulted, not from committee decisions but because of a guiding hand at the top who was likely a pilot and aircraft enthusiast. At the industry press conferences and sales meetings back then, one could sense the devotion and dreams in the presentations. All of this changed in the last quarter of the 20th century, as the old general aviation firms were sold and wrapped under conglomerate, non-aviation management. This brought cautious decision-making and design compromise by consensus, with legal, sales, engineering, and bookkeeping departments making sure all interests were represented. Lockheed engineer Kelly Johnson once said, “From now on, there will be no more great airplanes, just adequate ones.”

The Sizzling ’70s

The 1960s had seen heady expansion of product lines. By 1970, Piper had largely made the switch from building fabric-covered airplanes at its old plant in Lock Haven, Pennsylvania, to all-metal designs streaming from a bright new complex in Florida. Labor problems and a disastrous flood in 1972 ended the Lock Haven era and the Comanche line, although the Aztec and Navajo twins continued. However, there were plenty of other options in the product line. The Piper Cherokee, also known as the PA-28 platform, had been expanded to at least eight variants, being added to six twins and the Pawnee ag planes. Cessna was building half of the world’s GA airplanes in its Kansas facilities, offering no less than a dozen singles, eight twins, and a new bizjet on the horizon. Beech, meanwhile, now had 12 single-engine models, seven twins, and three turboprops in its fleet. And the 1970s were just starting.

Vertical integration seemed to be important, in that each major manufacturer wanted to offer a two-seat trainer, four-seat family airplane, higher-powered business cruiser, and complex retract. Twins were similarly ranked—as light, medium, and cabin class—with pressurization and turbine engines being the ultimate goal. Piper took the Cherokee Six heavy-single into a Seneca twin in ’72, followed by the Lance retractable in ’76. Tapered wings and stretched fuselages improved the smaller Cherokees, and a true two-seater, the Tomahawk, came along in ’78, followed by the Seminole light twin. At the top, the Navajo cabin twin became stretched, pressurized, and turbine-ized.

Over at Cessna, a plethora of preferences had been promulgated by 1970. Tubular landing gear legs replaced older flat springs, manual flaps were changed to electric, the 210 Centurion’s wing struts had been removed, and by the mid-1960s stylish back windows had been installed in nearly all models. Engine turbochargers became an option, starting in ’62 with the 320 twin, then in ’66 for the 206 and 210. Cessna joined Piper in the ag plane business that year, and in ’69 the 206 was stretched into the 207. By the end of 1970s, there were three models of the 210—normal, turbo, and pressurized—the Skylane RG joined the fixed-gear 182, and even the Skyhawk went retractable with the Cutlass RG. On the twin side, the “push-pull” centerline-thrust Skymaster was available in three performance categories, the 310/340 was similarly outfitted, and the 400-series twins offered models with utility, executive, and pressurized cabins. It took until the late 1970s for Cessna to move into the turboprop business since it was occupied with the Citation jets earlier in that decade.

Beech was busy introducing the stretched King Air 100 in 1970 and the flagship Super King Air 200 for ’74, adding the longer Baron 58 in ’70, a pressurized Baron 58P, in ’76 and the Duchess light twin in ’78, while continuing to build piston-engine Queen Airs and Dukes. Still, Beech found time to put retractable gear on the Musketeer and add an extra cabin door to the light airplanes, and to develop the two-place Skipper trainer at the end of the decade.

By no means was all the action in the ’70s limited to the “Big Three” airplane manufacturers. Mooney was innovating like crazy in that time frame, with the introduction of the cleaned-up 201 and the turbo 231. Other short-line manufacturers like Bellanca/Champion, Maule, and Grumman American enlarged their offerings, and Rockwell jumped into its own single-engine Commander business after first trying to acquire smaller companies in the 1960s. The ’70s were full of enthusiasm for aviation, despite an oil embargo setback in 1973-74 and a disrupting air traffic controller strike in 1981. By the mid-’80s, it was all over.

Did CAR 3 Play a Role?

What may have made all these developments of new airplane types possible was the continuing use of Civil Air Regulation Part 3 certification, a holdover from the Civil Aeronautics Authority, predecessor to the Federal Aviation Administration’s creation in 1958. With the changeover to the FAA’s Federal Air Regulations, FAR Part 23 became the new certification basis for light aircraft, gradually evolving into a fresh start with some new requirements added to the old CAR 3 rules. As this regulatory meshing took some time to accomplish, established airplane companies rushed to certify as many new models as possible under CAR 3, filing applications that could grandfather them into existing rules while product development continued into the ’60s.

Using these old CAR 3 certifications as basis, most of our legacy fleet was built using amendments to the original type certificate, even though the airplanes were marketed as “new” models. Hence, the 1968-introduced Beech Bonanza 36 was certified as an addition to the CAR 3-basis TC #3A15, which was originally issued for the Bonanza H35 of 1957. Cessna’s Bonanza competitors, beginning with the model 210 certified on April 20, 1959, were also certified under CAR 3 except for the pressurized P210 because its original application was dated August 13, 1956. Even the ’64 Cessna 206 was certified as a CAR Part 3 airplane, as the original application was dated November 9, 1962, continuing right up through the end of legacy 206 production in ’86.

For its part, Piper introduced the PA-28 Cherokee in ’61 under CAR 3 certification basis from an application dated February 14, 1958. Even the PA-32 Cherokee Six was born as a CAR 3 airplane in ’65 with an application dated ’64. Similar modifications to original CAR 3 certifications took place at Mooney, Champion, Rockwell Commander, Lake, and Maule. To be fair, subsequent model changes through the ’70s frequently complied with FAR Part 23 amendments applicable to their dates of certification, even though they were built as CAR 3-certified airplanes. On the other hand, the four-seat Grumman AA-5 airplanes were certified under FAR Part 23 with an original application dated July 2, 1970.

As is typical of the mission creep inherent in any administrative law, FAR Part 23 certification grew in complexity from the boilerplate inherited from CAR 3. Much of this was inevitable as new construction methods and materials were developed, and equipment unanticipated in CAR 3 was placed on airplanes. However, grandfathering in earlier type certification, rather than pursuing entirely new FAR 23 approval, meant less time and money was required to produce a new aircraft.

Are FAA Part 23-certified airplanes any better? It depends on which level of amendments they complied with. Certification under Part 23 in the ’60s was quite similar to the CAR 3 certification of a decade earlier, but Part 23 amendments of the ’80s had evolved to a greater degree. When it comes to engineering small unpressurized general aviation aircraft, however, structures are typically overbuilt simply for durability and manufacturing ease. The basic criteria for CAR Part 3 and FAR Part 23 remain much the same. CAR 3’s stipulation that stall speed for single-engine airplanes shall not exceed
70 mph is simply restated in FAR 23 as “61 knots.” However, as mentioned, there have been multitudinous minutia added in FAR 23, often in response to newer materials and devices never contemplated in CAR 3 days. Each of these must be given consideration when developing entirely new designs, taking up engineering time and documentation.

Most significantly, this prodigious adaptation and modification of basic CAR 3 aircraft designs, along with introduction of entirely new FAR 23 ones, continued through the ’60s and ’70s. Each of the major manufacturers wanted to make sure customers were able to remain loyal as they upgraded into higher-performance airplanes. They accomplished this by increasing the number of types offered and seeing that any small opening into an unserved need was met with a new model.
And so it was that fixed-gear models received retractable landing gear. The fuselage stretched to accommodate extra seats. Four-cylinder engines became six-cylinder powerplants. Turbocharged models complemented normally aspirated offerings. Even twin engines were grafted onto single-engine airframes. Pressurization, turbine engines, tip tanks, cargo pods: if you wanted it, engineering and marketing departments made sure you could get it.

Market saturation eventually brought down the number of aircraft types, and production rates plummeted in the ’80s to match the lack of buyers. Contributing to the collapse of the ’80s was a lingering economic malaise from double-digit interest rates and inflation, and the increasing cost of product liability insurance against the growth industry of tort suits, divided by the fewer and fewer units sold.

Why can’t we just make new old ones?

Challenges on several fronts make reviving old type-certificated aircraft difficult. Small production rates mean handcrafting what was once mass-produced, so each unit costs more. Rebuilding the market requires making enough people want what you have to offer. The numbers of active pilots and qualified, motivated buyers are down compared to the bustling days, and consumer expectations are much higher now, requiring airframes to be bloated with quality accessories. Back in the day, comfort and ease of use took a back seat to the thrill of flight. We didn’t expect to have air conditioning in our airplane because it weighed half as much as a passenger and it wasn’t needed aloft. Plush seating, Wi-Fi, sound deadening, single-lever power control, and wall-to-wall glass instrument panels weren’t a priority or even dreamed about 50 years ago. We were just glad to have an engine, wings, and freedom to fly. Legacy airplanes today need considerable upgrading to bring them up to speed with current buyer desires.

Airports were social communities during the last third of the 1900s. Security was almost nonexistent, perceived threats being remote, so coming and going was less restricted and hurried. Pilots spent time at the airport. Airport lounges were often untidy but welcoming places that encouraged hanging out, not polished palaces to pass through. If you parked outside with your new 1970 Mooney, someone would come out to admire it, not shepherd it away to piston-engine row. Today’s aircraft owners are far different. Many are users of airplanes, not flyers for the sake of flying. They are more satisfied to possess their flying machines—less so to be companions with them.

That said, the great fleet of general aviation aircraft built in the two decades of the mid-’60s to mid-’80s still represents a wonderful opportunity for acquisition and preservation. We must not underestimate the continuing rise in maintenance and operation costs. But these remarkable old birds serve their purpose as well as they ever did, if we’ll just take care of them.
Let us rise to the challenge.

Editor’s note: This story originally appeared in the July 2023 issue of Plane & Pilot.

The post Sustaining Our Fleet appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

Over the weekend my wife and I experienced the magical power of a light piston airplane to add hours to the day. At least that is how it felt.

On Sunday morning our college-age son’s rowing team was competing close to home in New Jersey where it was easy for us to watch and spend a few minutes catching up before he had to get on the bus and head back to campus in New Hampshire. It is a five-hour drive by car, longer on the bus. But there was a tempting wrinkle.

• READ MORE: Six Modern High-Performance Piston Singles

After the racing ended, our son’s coach mentioned that local athletes could spend the rest of the day with their families as long as they had a way of getting back to school, since the bus could not wait. Indeed, we had a way, called general aviation.

One of the reasons we bought “Annie,” our Commander 114B, was to figuratively shorten distances between us and the family members and friends we like to visit, many of whom are hundreds of miles and a day’s drive away. We wanted to spend more time together at destinations and less in transit. And we wanted the transit to be more fun and satisfying. Annie certainly has taken care of that. Every trip is an adventure, never a slog.

But having our older son away at college for the first time and missing him very much upped the sense of urgency regarding airplane ownership. I convinced my wife that having the option of flying would result in easier, more regular visits. Any weekend could become our own special Parents’ Weekend, I told her. And a flight of about an hour and 15 minutes does not eat up the day and leave you exhausted the way a five-hour drive does. In this way the airplane is a time machine, turning out minutes and hours that we would not otherwise have.

• READ MORE: 10 Cheapest Planes in the Sky

That is what happened on Sunday. We drove our son home after the races, went out for lunch, visited friends in town and, around 5 p.m., got to the airport. We lifted off about 30 minutes later and, with a headwind, landed in Lebanon, New Hampshire (KLEB) around 7. Had we driven instead, we would not have reached Hartford, Connecticut, yet and would have spent another three hours or so on the road.

And what about getting home? We almost certainly would have needed to spend the night in New Hampshire, which would have been a disruptive start for the work week. But as aircraft owners my wife and I simply shuttled our boy back to campus in the airport crew car, said our good-byes and were airborne again by 8:30 or so (long good-byes). The Commander saved us so many hours of travel that we were able to pack in real quality time with family and friends that would not have been impossible otherwise.

The bottom line is that the airplane gave us the option of spending the whole day with our son instead of just an hour or two watching him race. At this point in life, such opportunities are increasingly rare, and precious.

The post How To Find Your Ideal Aircraft and Make Time Fly appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.