“…without compromising the car’s Mamie Eisenhower sex appeal.”
Exactly.
I miss my old hangar. But we’re building new ones.
Perfect timing Paul, not to mention yet another delightful play on words by aviation’s best wordsmith. Perfect timing because on Friday our airport manager told me they were going to be circulating through our hangars to lubricate our windlasses. (My door has two of those levers.) Well, he didn’t really use the word “windlasses”. Not sure he knows what one is but that’s what he meant.
Speaking of visitors, yesterday I was honored by the visit of a retired lineman and his son who incidentally even brought their own beer. And wouldn’t you know it, they immediately rolled their chairs, you said it Paul, to precisely beneath the guillotine which serves as a hangar door. That’s the spot where you can catch a breeze and still officially be in the hangar so to speak.
Hangar doors; I’ve known quite a few in my lifetime. Some I’ve like but most I don’t. This time around I thought I’d found the perfect hangar: solid concrete floors, tight walls to keep out the vermin, and a roof guaranteed to spare my airplane from the dangers of excessive sunlight, rain, or hail. The only problem is the snow and freezing rain that cements the doors shut after a winter’s storm.
There are no hydraulics connected with my door; it’s just brute manpower against mother nature, and at my age, such physical determination might be difficult to measure on any scale, so thank GOD for sledgehammers because this winter during the area’s many freezes, the floor lifted and locked the door shut, totally, frozen stiff, my airplane entombed.
I love my airplane and have bonded totally with it, so sensing the desperation my airplane felt being trapped in the hangar, I raced home and returned with a sledgehammer and beat the offending concrete into submission. I’ve since learned that while it might only take a few minutes to beat the hangar floor loose from its death grip on the door, it can take up to two days to repair the damage under the watchful eyes of understanding management. And it’s never just the door! It’s the floor lifting, the moisture underneath the floor that lifted and blocked the door and the poor drainage that funneled the moisture under the floor in the first place and the rain, the snow, and many other things.
Thanks Paul for discussing one of the most important yet least discussed aspects of aviation and airplane ownership: the hangar door!
Holy Quail is used so snowflakes don’t pretend to be Holier-than-thou and get offended - because they can.
I’m not sure about your comment about the worst marketing name. I’m old enough to remember when Chevrolet tried to sell the Nova in Mexico, not realizing that No Va in Spanish means doesn’t go.
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It’s a funny story, and I remember it from the 1980s. It usually comes up about the time kids start taking basic Spanish in junior high and notice the similarity.
But it’s just an urban legend. “Nova” in Spanish is just as different from “no va” as “carpet” is from “car pet” in English. There is (or was) even a “Nova Gasolina” in Mexico.
Sorry folks…not to bright, but, “What is a Windlass?” I looked the word up in google but couldn’t find a proper answer. Geez, I’m curious.
As a happy owner of a ‘73 Cherokee Challenger, what I learned early on is not to use the name with ATC, or they might ask you to up your approach speed to something like 150 knots. Now, for all the Greek references, Paul, seems like you might have just finished Stephen Fry’s trilogy.
My hangar is sliding door. My daily fitness to fly test is getting the doors open and hauling the plane out and back in again using the puny little Piper towbar. I suppose that someday my fitness test will be starting the tow tractor.