The story of my first RV-8 flight …
The RV-8 and I met in Sedalia, Kansas—a place so aggressively flat that the horizon feels like it’s mocking you. The airplane looked innocent enough: polished aluminum, smug little grin, sitting there like it hadn’t already decided to test my character over the next 900 miles.
The weather briefing was the usual Midwest lie:
“Winds aloft… moderate.” Moderate, as in only trying to kill you a little.
I launched westbound and immediately learned that the RV-8 is an honest airplane—but also a bit of a smartass. The headwind wasn’t just strong, it was personal. Groundspeed numbers looked like I’d forgotten to remove the tie-downs. I swear at one point I could’ve opened the canopy and jogged alongside it.
First fuel stop was somewhere that technically qualified as an airport but emotionally felt like a truck stop with commitment issues. The AWOS was already laughing when I dialed it up:
“Wind… two eight zero at a lot.”
On short final, the windsock was fully horizontal, pointing at a nearby cow like it owed it money. I slipped that RV-8 so hard the airplane filed a noise complaint against me. Touchdown was… survivable. Not pretty. But we were both still speaking to each other, which counts.
On the ramp, the wind was doing its best to turn the RV-8 into a kite. I fueled one-handed while using my body as a human tie-down, whispering reassuring things to the airplane like, “You’re a good airplane. Don’t embarrass me.”
Back in the air, the desert started creeping in. The sky turned that late-day golden color that makes you feel like a hero in a movie—right up until you realize the sun is winning the race to the horizon.
By the time I got near Hemet, it was just past sunset. Not dark-dark. Just that sketchy, in-between lighting where depth perception files for workers’ comp.
I keyed up for runway lights.
Nothing.
Tried again.
Still nothing.
The runway was there, technically—just a long, black suggestion running through darker blackness. The kind of runway that makes you deeply reflect on your life choices.
I circled once, mostly to pretend I was calm. The RV-8, of course, was thrilled. “Oh good,” it seemed to say. “Drama.”
Final approach felt like landing on a memory. No lights, no visual cues, just airspeed, attitude, and the quiet confidence that comes from knowing you’ve messed up worse before.
I held it off.
And off.
And off.
Then—chirp, chirp, chirp.
A perfect three-pointer.
The kind where even the airplane pauses for half a second like, “…well I’ll be damned.”
I rolled out in the dark, laughing inside my headset like a lunatic, taxied in by feel and stubbornness, shut down, and just sat there listening to the engine tick itself cool.
Sedalia to Hemet.
Headwinds, crosswinds, disappearing daylight, and a runway that tried to ghost me.
The RV-8 and I came to an understanding that night:
It would keep testing me.
And I’d keep sticking the landing—sometimes on skill, sometimes on luck, but always with a story worth telling.
And honestly?
That perfect three-pointer in the dark?
Yeah.
That one’s staying canon forever.
Beats slipping on the ice.
