Why a Book About Flying Super Cubs—Or Taildraggers in General?
Most pilots do their training—and most of their flying—in tricycle gear aircraft.
So why bother writing a book about taildraggers?
Simple:
When I started flight training over 16 years ago, I had one mission:
Fly in Africa.
Just like Finch-Hatton in Out of Africa.
Granted, I wasn’t a fan of the Tiger Moth, but I did (briefly—and idiotically) consider buying a Boeing Stearman.
Luckily, I ended up with something far more reckless: a Super Cub.
After the initial tailwheel endorsement, I devoured every book I could find on taildragger flying. Two became my holy grail:
- Sparky Imeson’s Taildragger Tactics
- Wolfgang Langewiesche’s Stick and Rudder
Both are brilliant. But I always felt there was room for one more—A guide with less sanctimony, more sarcasm.
One that teaches through bruised egos, bent airframes, and dark laughter.
Less lecturing. More flaming metaphors.
Something that respects the fact that humour—not bullet points—is what burns lessons into your brain the moment the airflow collides with the fertiliser.
Because I didn’t learn to fly the Super Cub the right way.
I learned it the real way.
Through unearned confidence, delusional optimism, and the catastrophic misjudgment of my own abilities.
And I truly believe:
If I’d had a book back then—one that actually explained what could go horribly wrong in a vivid, ridiculous, cinematic way—
Instead of dry numbers, stall charts, and recycled NTSB reports—
I would’ve learned faster.
And bled less.
Now, is this a book that teaches?
Not unless you count teaching you not to be that guy.
It’s less of a manual and more of a biohazard label slapped on a Cub with a grudge.
The kind that whispers, “Go on… try that again… see what happens.”
Yes, you’ve watched Valdez.
Yes, they make it look easy.
But unless your idea of preparation is brewing coffee during a glacier landing, you might want to sit down and shut up.
This book is not about flying.
It’s about the two most deranged parts of tailwheel life:
Takeoffs and landings.
Especially when the weather is throwing hands and the crosswind is sponsored by Satan.
Because flying a Taildragger?
Easy.
Operating one on the ground without making the evening news?
That’s the part that separates pilots from propeller confetti.
So, are Taildragger pilots better?
Nah.
Just more paranoid.
Which is what keeps us alive.
Because what kills isn’t the wind.
It’s that tiny, smug voice in your head that says,
“I’ve got this.”
Right before you ground-loop into a goat and become a cautionary tale at someone else’s check-ride.
Even Sparky—yes, that Sparky—flew into terrain.
The sky does not care about your résumé.
So no, this book won’t make you a better person.
But it might keep your prop from being dug out of the side of a hill with your sunglasses still fused to your melted headset.
This is not a guide.
It’s a warning flare with punchlines.
Now let’s get on with it—
before someone tries a crosswind takeoff in flip-flops again.
Chapters are fun—but context is lethal.
If this made you flinch, the introduction might just make you sell everything and move to a gravel strip in Alaska.
Start there—then come back and blame me.
https://www.romdanetraveltales.com/stick-rudder-regret/2921554_introduction-read-this-before-you-ground-loop-your-soul
