Recalling the Rogue Inspector

The student was flying a Cincinnati Aircraft Cessna 172. When he added full throttle, and we started down the runway at Lunken Airport (KLUK), the tach read 2,300 rpm. I told him to close the throttle—abort the takeoff—and explained to the tower we needed to return to the hangar. 

Something was obviously wrong with this engine.  

At the shop, a mechanic patiently explained to this ditzy flight instructor (me) that at full throttle 2,300 rpm on takeoff with that 145 Continental engine was quite normal. So, we tried it again, although I was a little surprised that the guy agreed to keep flying with me.

I don’t know whether to be proud or chagrined that I would eventually accumulate about 6,000 hours as a flight instructor over the next 15 years. During that time, I got an instrument rating (not necessary for a CFI in those years), a multi-engine rating, and became a pilot examiner for my Part 141 flying school—Midwest Flight Center, or better known as “Miss Martha’s Flying School.”

I owned a 1956 Cessna 150, leased back three or four more planes, and had several great part-time flight instructors. A friend who flew for US Airways and helped me with IFR dual encouraged me to start applying for a job as an airline pilot. This was the time when the airlines were just beginning to hire women.

But it was also one of those times in all our lives where the road splits and we’re faced with a decision. I was burned out on instructing—grinding around the pattern in that 150 or giving a little aerobatic dual. I was no expert in the Citabria but occasionally played around (solo) in the 150.

Ebby Lunken still wanted to get married after a 10-year hiatus, and although I’d played the field, I was still in love with him. It certainly would be a more comfortable life and a perfect way to cut back on instructing. I could keep the school going but depend more on the four or five part-time instructors and give check rides.

But it was a difficult decision. There was a 30-year difference in our age, and in those 10 years, we got three marriage licenses and made a trip to Las Vegas where I ended up in tears.

Within a couple of years after the marriage, things weren’t working the way I had imagined. It was, for me, a leap into Cincinnati high society, where I desperately tried to fit in. Ebby’s friends were much older. I didn’t have the “right” maiden name and came from an unknown family on the west (wrong) side of town. But I vigorously adopted the new lifestyle—giving and attending parties, taking golf lessons, buying the “right” clothes, Sunday brunches at Camargo Club, and dinners at fancy restaurants.

We went to Europe twice on ocean liners, flew over to play golf at Gleneagles and St. Andrews, cruised to Alaska on a lovely small boat, stayed at the Beverly Hills Hotel and dined at Chasen’s, spent a week at the Cloisters and another at the Greenbriar, and flew to exclusive dove hunts on private southern plantations.

Meanwhile, the flying school was limping along. 

Ebby had sold the DC-3s, three Lockheed 10s and a 12, but he bought a Lockheed Lodestar, hopefully to sell charters to vacation spots for hunting trips and major sports events.  That idea didn’t pan out, but I did get a type rating and ATP in that wonderful airplane.

After a few years, Ebby wasn’t flying much and spent most days on the golf course. Well, eventually the marriage began to crumble. 

At the same time, the FAA wanted to hire me because I was a woman with an ATP.  I scraped along for two years, finally ending up in Chicago and having no idea what an air carrier inspector did. My only big airplane time was in a Lockheed Lodestar.

Finances were a problem, and I pawned my wedding silver and engagement ring to keep my head above water. I hated the paperwork involved in processing violations against pilots and air carriers.

Finally, with a sigh of relief and a string of reprimands, the Feds transferred me as a general aviation inspector to the Indianapolis Flight Standards District Office. These were some flat-out wonderful people. There were occasional accidents and violations but mostly airshows and surveillance for a bunch of Part 135 operators all over the southern area of Indiana. I loved the Browns in Terre Haute, Louie Darlington at Sky Castle, and a wonderful guy in Washington, Indiana, who’d leave a note on the door if he’d be late getting back. “Let the FAA lady, Martha Lunken, in. She’s OK.”

I should have stayed, but I wanted to get back to Cincinnati, so I jumped at the position as a safety program manager. The guys from Indy moved me down in pickup trucks and we remain forever friends.

My new manager suffered from a form of Captain Queeg paranoia, and I was his worst nightmare—a wild card. But I could give flight checks in everything from Cessna 152s to DC-3s and loved the safety program. We had weekly or more meetings all over southern Ohio. I could stay out of the office and sneak in on weekends to do the paperwork. It wasn’t always “up to snuff,” which infuriated him. 

My coworkers and customers loved me. The manager and his administrative assistant (secretary) didn’t. I used my Cub and my sister Mary’s Ercoupe (for night flights) and reluctantly sold both airplanes to buy the wonderful 1956 Cessna 180. The manager paid 11 cents per mile instead of the normal rate for rentals, but I had some money by then.  

People came to hangars for the camaraderie, to earn a step in the old WINGS program, hear a speaker, watch a movie, and always make burgers, cookies, or pies. I kept my sanity and hope I prevented some damage—maybe saved a few lives. Our WINGS Weekend program was a grand success.

My safety counselor appointees at airports in our district were supposed to do everything—set up meetings, give courtesy proficiency flights, etc., and send me monthly reports that I would tabulate and forward to the regional office.  

They rarely did, so I made ’em up.

This column first appeared in the December Issue 953 of the FLYING print edition.