As an editor, I get some interesting and sometimes off-the-wall press releases. Many of them have dubious relevance to aviation or flying. We occasionally get far-fetched story pitches that make you wonder how they possibly found the inbox of an aviation magazine.
Not long ago, I received a press release entitled: “Tissues, Pee Bottles and [BLANK]: The Most Disgusting Things Left in Our Car.” The third discarded item in their lead was a word I couldn’t contemplate seeing in print within the pages of Twin & Turbine. You’ll just have to trust me that the “ew” factor was exceedingly high.
The press release breezily described a survey conducted by a UK-based cleaning company that asked more than 3,000 people across the globe what are some of the grossest things you have left behind in your car? In complete seriousness, the press release provided a useful chart to document the findings: No. 1 on the list were old tissues. Sweeping into second place was take-out food containers followed by pee bottles. Yes, really.
Other common items floating around car interiors are old receipts, spare change, make-up, unwashed gym clothes and magazines (hopefully not this one). Nearly 12 percent said they never cleaned their car. I have high confidence that both my daughters fall into that group. However, most people clean out their cars every three and six months. Interestingly (or not), the dirtiest car owners are those who own red vehicles. The cleanest are yellow car owners.
What does any of this have to do with aviation? Hang in there with me. Over the years I have conducted my own non-scientific study and have found that there is a direct correlation between the condition of a pilot’s personal car to that of their aircraft’s interior. Case in point: My husband and I have a good friend who’s in the construction business. The state of the interior of his Super Duty F-250 pickup is exactly what you’d expect from a guy who spends his time driving to and from worksites: empty 7-Eleven Big Gulp cups bouncing around the rear floorboards, petrified French fries in the space between the front seats and center console, and a solid coating of grit on every surface. Even the WeatherTech floormats are crying.
The condition of his light jet interior? Exactly the same. In his view, both are tools, not toys. They don’t have to be pretty or remotely clean to get the job done.
Here’s another data point: Growing up, my dad had very strict rules about the interior of our cars that extended to our airplane. Consider eating in a car or plane? Forget it unless you wish to see your French fries become bird food. Touch the inside of a window with your grimy fingers? Do so at your own peril. Any car or plane trip was strictly a pack-in/pack-out arrangement. Whatever you brought in must subsequently leave the car/plane in your possession. No Kleenex left behind.
In our plane, my parents would occasionally take along employees or friends, some of whom were smokers. It was the 1970s, after all, and planes of that vintage came from the Cessna factory with ashtrays. To pre-empt any temptation to light up, my dad installed a highly visible placard that read: “If you must smoke, please step outside.” I don’t think he was kidding.
When I became a parent myself, I didn’t have my dad’s ironclad resolve on keeping the family car in showroom-ready condition. I’m guilty of tossing bags of fruit snacks or goldfish into the backseat to buy myself five minutes of peace and quiet. In the airplane? Guilty as charged. On long vacation trips, the back of our plane was a pubescent burrow filled with wadded-up blankets, pillows, wrappers, empty water bottles, books, and uncased DVDs sliding around the floor. Some trips ended with one of us carting out a small Hefty bag of trash. (Sorry, Dad.)
Tying back to the theme of the “grossest thing ever left behind,” this one wasn’t really my fault. A girlfriend and I were flying to Broomfield, Colorado for a weekend girls’ hiking trip. Having ill-timed my arrival to coincide with afternoon summer turbulence that is common along the Front Range, the last 50 miles of our trip was in light-to-moderate continuous bumps. As I transitioned the Denver Class B airspace to KBJC, which can get busy, my girlfriend urgently announced that she was about to toss her cookies. I reached behind me and pulled out the only thing handy: a 1-quart Ziploc of dubious vintage.
As I turned final, she relieved herself of her breakfast burrito, closed the Ziploc and tucked it under her seat. It wasn’t until we were at the hotel that I thought to ask her whether she happened to throw away the Ziploc. Nope, it was still in the plane, now fermenting on the 95-degree airport ramp. I swear I could hear my dad laughing as I raced to the airport to fetch that wretched bag before it exploded.
While our aircraft may not be pristine all the time, my husband and I have tremendous pride of ownership. There’s nothing more satisfying than opening your hangar door to a gleaming, spotless airplane without a speck on the carpet. See, Dad, your example did pay off. Just don’t look too closely at the trunk of my car…
