CHAPTER 2 / TAILDRAGGERS vs. TRICYCLE GEAR

Let’s rip off the band-aid: Tricycle gear aircraft—those comfort-first configurations with a reassuring nose wheel up front—are like golden retrievers. Predictable. Friendly. Obedient. Safe enough for dentists, influencers, and the kind of people who think flying is a good time for a podcast.

Taildraggers?
They’re the junkyard mutts of aviation.
Loud. Jumpy. Suspicious of humans.
And they will bite. Especially when you least expect it—say, on rollout, flare, or while blinking.
They don’t forgive. They don’t forget.
And they can smell your fear from base leg.

THE LANDING GEAR DESIGN THAT RUINS LIVES

In a tricycle gear setup, the centre of gravity is in front of the main wheels.
Translation: any deviation—crosswind, rudder fumble, or sudden onset of pilot brain fog—is gently nudged back into line by the plane itself. Like a shopping cart. One of the ones that actually rolls straight.
Useful. Civilised. And about as thrilling as licking wallpaper.

Taildraggers, however, have the centre of gravity behind the mains.
Which means any minor yaw, twitch, sneeze, or spiritual doubt becomes an unholy pirouette of doom.
It doesn’t self-correct.
It self-destructs.

You touch down even slightly crooked?
Congrats—you’ve just engaged in spontaneous agricultural outreach via a manoeuvre known as the ground loop.

GROUND LOOPING: THE TAILDRAGGER INITIATION RITUAL

Taildraggers have a single mission on the ground:
To break your pride, sabotage your logbook, and humble you in front of children.

You will ground-loop.
Not if. When.

And afterward you’ll blame:

• the wind,
• the tires,
• the runway slope,
• the moon phase,
• or a breakfast burrito you definitely shouldn’t have trusted.

But deep down, you’ll know.
She was testing you.
And you failed.

SO WHY DO WE KEEP FLYING THESE THINGS?

Because they’re better?
Sure. If you enjoy flying aircraft that behave like caffeinated goats in a thunderstorm.

Because they look better?
Also yes.
Taildraggers—at least the sexy ones—carry that WWII fighter plane DNA. That “I don’t need brakes if I’ve got gravel” energy.
But let’s not pretend:
Some models were clearly painted during an acid flashback at a Love Parade for skydivers.
There are taildraggers out there dressed like rainbow sherbets with wings—complete with glass cockpits so sterile they feel like flying an iPad with anxiety.

But if you get the right one—your weather-beaten, under-instrumented, big-tired, gravel-spraying bush bird—then yes:
You’ve got a machine that handles rough fields, short strips, and absurd landings like Evel Knievel  on espresso with nothing to lose.

Taildraggers smell like freedom.
They reek of adventure and bad decisions—especially once you’ve mortgaged your sanity and your mother-in-law's life savings to bolt on every Alaska-grade mod known to man, beast, or bush mechanic. If it was forged in Fairbanks, survives permafrost, and requires a blood sacrifice to install—it belongs on your Cub. Let’s be honest: those 35” tundra tires look better than Brigitte Bardot at a wet T-shirt contest in Valdez.

THE SAYING GOES:

“If you ain’t a taildragger pilot, you ain’t sh*t.”
And if that offends you?
It probably means you haven’t yet pirouetted off the runway into a ditch while a Cub instructor yells “right rudder!” like an exorcist.

FINAL VERDICT:

Tricycle gear is paddling in the kiddie pool.
Taildraggers are swimming with sharks, naked, with open wounds.

One builds hours.
The other builds trauma.
And stories.
And an unhealthy addiction to whiskey, GoPros, and field-grade duct tape.