After I got down the basics, I had the thrill of my first solo flight—a spin over the Allegheny Mountains during which I felt the power of having the controls of the airplane entirely to myself. That solo flight earned me my single-engine pilot’s license, permitting me to fly under what the Federal Aviation Administration calls “Visual Flight Regulations.” I could fly only with clear visibility, circumnavigating “weather” by either flying below the clouds or in some cases above them. In those early days of my flying career, Babe accompanied me to several tournaments, but it quickly became clear to us both that he had other students to teach.
In late 1958, the year I won my first Masters, I leased a Cessna 175, hired my first copilot, and began flying to tournaments and exhibitions. Occasionally, if the trip could be accomplished in daylight hours, I even flew myself there alone and back, without the benefit of the serious navigational cockpit tools we have today. It was really hands-on flying—and I loved it. I remember once, early on, flying over to Indiana for a scheduled exhibition match, missing the designated airfield (which was little more than a mowed-down cow pasture), nearly flying to Indianapolis before I realized my mistake. Doubling back, I finally found the right airstrip and did the exhibition, but then had trouble finding Latrobe again on the return leg. It made for a long but oddly enjoyable day in the air.
For the most part, though, a couple of able local pilots, Harold Overly and Frank Shepherd, accompanied me to tournament sites and on longer business trips. It wasn’t until after my 1960 U.S. Open win at Cherry Hills, though, that Mark McCormack and I both began to seriously discuss the potentially huge impact owning my own airplane could have on our blossoming business opportunities. Corporate executives owned airplanes in those days, but an athlete owning and operating his own aircraft was virtually unheard of.
Shortly after I took possession of my first airplane in early 1961, a twin-engine Aero Commander 500 that had been owned by Commercial Credit Corporation out of Baltimore, I showed up at the FAA inspector’s station at Allegheny County Airport in Pittsburgh, ready to take what’s called a “check ride” and shoot for my multi-engine private pilot’s license.
It’s an engaging memory.
The inspector was a dour-faced sort who clearly didn’t suffer any fools in the air, and after I completed the oral part of the examination without any hitches, he looked at me and suggested that we go for a ride in my new plane. The actual flying was the really critical part of the test, of course, but unknown to him I was anxious as hell about just getting the engines properly started. We walked out to the plane with me saying a silent prayer that the fickle left engine would start. The problem was a fuel valve that stuck when the engine was cooling off, and—sure enough—I’d no sooner switched on the right engine and gotten it running than the left refused to crank. I was suddenly sweating golf balls.
“I can get this going,” I promised the stone-faced instructor. “Let me do something and I’ll be right back.”
He watched me climb out of the plane and remove the engine cowling on the left wing, whereupon I took a hammer and gave the fuel pump a good sharp whack. I replaced the cowling, hopped back in, and cranked up the engine, revving it good.
“Well, Arnie,” he said with perfect deadpan timing, then smiled at me. “You’ve passed your mechanics exam. Let’s see if you can actually fly this thing.”
Beginning in 1961, I was in the air a lot. The man who played the critical role in helping me be there was Russ Meyer. A Harvard-educated attorney and former U.S. Air Force and Marine reserve pilot who initially worked with Mark McCormack’s Cleveland law firm, Arter, Hadden, Wycoff, and Van Dusen, booking my various exhibitions beginning in late 1960 and early ’61, Russ was the man who engineered that purchase of the Aero Commander from Commercial Credit. Over the years, through a thousand deals and business transactions, he also became a cherished friend and the man I have turned to for anything having to do with aviation.
Russ was an early partner in the formation of IMG, and I fondly recall that one of his first jobs on my behalf was the ghostwriting he did, first penning a brochure of golf tips for Newsweek and then, more ambitiously, producing 260 fifty-second “Arnold Palmer Golf Tips” for radio syndication. My memory of trying to read Russ’s beautifully written scripts and screwing them up is probably at least as amusing as it is painful, a prelude to the screwups Gary Player and I committed in the studio booth while doing voice-overs for the Challenge Golf series a few years later. The good news from Russ’s standpoint, I guess, was that he used his part of the $10,000 fee to pay off his Harvard Law School loans.
A few years after Russ negotiated the purchase of my first plane, with an ever-growing interest in private aviation, he took a leave of absence from the Cleveland law firm to run a small aviation company called American Aviation Corp. I was flattered when he asked me to come on board as vice president of public affairs—though my role really didn’t involve a lot more than consulting on a new single-engine airplane the company planned to produce called the American Yankee, and meeting with salespeople and members of the company’s board of directors. I loved talking airplanes, and these were my kind of fellows.
American thrived under Russ’s leadership, developing a second popular four-seater plane called the Traveler. Eventually American acquired the assets of Gulfstream Aviation, in a reverse merger deal, becoming Grumman-American Aviation in 1972. It was a good move and paid off for all parties concerned.
The jet age was dawning fast for private and corporate aviation, and Russ’s talents didn’t go unnoticed by industry leader Cessna Aviation, in Wichita, Kansas. Cessna convinced Russ to become executive vice president of operations in 1974 at a critical moment in the growth of the private-jet industry. Cessna was a fifty-year-old company that had had only two chairmen in its illustrious history and was the world leader in the manufacture of single-engine airplanes, producing more small aircraft than every other company combined, more than six thousand planes a year.
The problem was, lawyers and insurance companies had driven the product-liability costs of producing and selling single-engine airplanes so high that the market was rapidly dwindling—just as the jet age was coming on. Part of Russ’s mandate was to take Cessna into the next phase of its business life, which he did in spectacular fashion after being named the company’s third chairman and CEO in 1975.
That same year, he made available the company’s first private jet, the Citation I. I’m proud to say I was one of the new craft’s first owners. At that time, his planes were the new kid on the block, but within five years the company had abandoned single-engine airplanes entirely and was rapidly becoming the major design and engineering force in private jet aviation. Today, almost twenty-five years later, Cessna is the dominant player in the thriving private-jet industry, with something like 60 percent of the market share. Better yet, Russ and I are closer friends than ever. He’s still my number-one man in aviation, the guy I consult about anything that has to do with flying, and I guess I must be considered one of his best-paying customers, since I’ve owned six different Cessna Citation jets.
More on them in a bit, though.
* * *
In 1963, I purchased my second airplane, a Rockwell Aero Commander 560F. It was brand new, more powerful, and roomier, than the 500. It had a cruising range that would enable us to make it to Palm Springs from Latrobe with just one stop, cruising at 240 nautical miles per hour. One of the simple joys of owning that plane, I realize when I think back, was taking Winnie and the girls up in it for Sunday-afternoon spins, or “training” flights, as we called them. Winnie loved flying, but the girls, I’m afraid, weren’t terribly impressed. They were far more interested in the dolls they were playing with in the rear seats.
I, on the other hand, found that piloting an airplane did something very special for me, especially after I acquired my instrument and multi-engine ratings, which enabled me to fly through all kinds of weather, in and out of small airports—really anywher
e I wanted. Above all, the speed and convenience of air travel was infinitely preferable to the old way touring pros got around the circuit; as I said to a reporter about that time, “I loathe driving a couple hundred miles every Monday.” I literally and figuratively had put that old trailer home as far behind me as possible, and I liked it that way.
Moreover, though, after climbing into the left seat of my plane following a tournament, whether I had won or not, I found it impossible to dwell too long on what had happened, good or bad, on the golf course. Flying the plane demanded my full attention, clear thinking, and an unerring performance under pressure I found almost soothing. Flying a plane was good therapy, perhaps even like a form of meditation for me—I could disappear into the clouds and not have to worry about what I had or hadn’t done on the golf course, what opportunities I had grabbed or chances I’d blown, whom I’d pleased or let down. The phone couldn’t ring. I didn’t have to try to answer impossible questions about whether my putting would ever regain its brilliance or how it felt to be considered the hottest commercial pitchman in the world.
I was just another pilot in the air, heading home somewhere over America. I found the experience both stimulating and comforting. Ironically, nothing I’ve found except perhaps hitting a golf shot provides me with such instantaneous feedback on the decisions and the moves I execute.
Over the next two years, I put over a thousand hours on that plane, which was the first to wear the special registration number granted to me by the Federal Aviation Administration: 701AP. Just over a year later, in February 1966, I upgraded to my latest capitalist tool—a new Rockwell Jet Commander, which we leased for two years with an option to buy.
There’s no question that private jet travel significantly enhanced my earning potential, though in retrospect I’m sure it also cost me a few tournaments I might otherwise have won, including a couple of majors. Indulging two obsessions sometimes resulted in fatigue, robbed me of needed practice time on the golf course, and generally found me overstretching my physical and mental limits. Relieved of a reliance on commercial air carrier schedules for longer hauls, I literally could be five or six places in a single day. From a business standpoint, this was ideal. By this time, the late sixties, I had Palmer businesses cropping up in at least ten major cities in addition to playing in, on average, about twenty-five tournaments a year and no fewer than twenty exhibition matches. Combined with a growing number of commercial endorsements and the scores of speaking engagements I was asked to do, I probably visited from thirty-five to fifty other cities in a single year.
In my old flying logs I see I was sometimes in the air twenty-six days out of any given month, but the convenience of having a jet also permitted me to sleep in my own bed most of those nights. A typical non-tournament business day from those years might have gone something like this: I would have breakfast at home with Winnie and the girls, fly down to New Orleans or Jacksonville for an afternoon golf exhibition, maybe stop somewhere en route for a business meeting, then fly home to Latrobe. On lucky days, I actually made it home for dinner with the girls or at least in time to kiss them goodnight before they went to bed.
This leap into the corporate jet age—with an aircraft whose range was two thousand nautical miles and cruised at speeds of five hundred miles per hour—came with a factory test pilot named Darrell Brown, who taught me the ins and outs of flying a jet and eventually became a trusted friend and valued pilot for many years. When Darrell went briefly back to Rockwell in Oklahoma City, as planned, a new copilot named Dick Turner took his place, but he and I had a few rocky moments adjusting to both the new jet technology and to each other. I learned that good chemistry and communication are as essential between pilots as they are between a golfer and his caddie.
I remember vividly one incident early on in our brief association, when the plane was still new to both of us. Dick and I realized that our fuel supply was seriously out of balance—a real no-no in a jet, a formula for disaster—but neither of us had the technical expertise to correct the problem. Fortunately, we got the plane down and went scurrying for the right information, and the problem never reared its ugly head again. Even so, I felt much more confident when, at the time of the Buick tournament in Flint, Michigan, and shortly before my most celebrated collapse at Olympic Club, I phoned Oklahoma City and convinced Darrell to join me on a full-time basis. Darrell, I was pleased to learn, was as happy as I was about this development. We made a good cockpit team.
I suppose in some ways the confidence I felt on the golf course extended to the way I flew an airplane, with both good and not-so-good consequences. You really can’t do anything halfway in the air. In those early years of flying—with memories of Tony Arch’s foolish stunts emblazoned in my head—I was for the most part a stickler for following the proper procedures for safety’s sake. But I’ll also admit to the occasional bit of youthful hotdogging.
The FAA, it must be said, was a bit more lenient in those days, and far fewer private pilots were in the air then. I’m proud of the fact that I have no blemishes on my flying record, and that I always tried to stay within the rules. But early in my flying career, I confess, I did sometimes give in to the temptation to buzz airfields or golf courses where friends were playing, careful to stay above the 800-foot minimum. The most infamous buzzing incident came in September of 1967 when I took several members of the British Ryder Cup contingent up for a pleasure ride in my Jet Commander during the matches at the Champions Golf Club in Houston. Tony Jacklin, Hugh Boyle, Malcolm Gregson, and George Will all wanted to go for a ride. With them aboard, I circled over the golf course and then took them straight up to 8,000 feet before peeling off and rolling the plane.
A couple of them lost their cookies, and I later had to do some serious explaining to the FAA after a local dairy farmer complained that I was flying below the legal minimum elevation, and, worse, was disturbing his livestock. Lucky for me, an FAA inspector happened to be at the Ryder Cup and confirmed, after a brief investigation, that I had done nothing illegal—just pushed the envelope a bit, as they say.
A year or so later, Darrell and I were approaching Latrobe Airport in my newly leased Lear 24, which I got in early 1968, when the tower informed us that the Powder Puff Derby planes had stopped by. The lady pilots had assembled at the airfield and were anxious to watch us land our latest aircraft.
The Lear, with its sleek aerodynamics and so-called fixed wing, was fast, hot, and extremely nimble, and I felt as if I could do almost anything in it, which may be one reason I would fly it quite contentedly for many years. At the time, there was a great deal of concern about the plane’s safety record, because of a series of unfortunate crashes. My personal view of the situation was that the technology was too new and the aircraft was simply too fast for most private pilots to handle. Jets of its speed capabilities were not commonplace, so there weren’t many experienced pilots available to fly them. A potentially dangerous supply-and-demand problem. Darrell resigned his position as my pilot when I first leased the Lear, citing the plane’s spotty safety record. It was only after I convinced him to fly with me and he saw what the plane could do, how easy to fly and safe it really was, that he agreed to stay with me for a while longer.
Anyway, as we approached the 4,000-foot landing strip at Latrobe, I turned to Darrell and suggested we give the famous lady aviators on the ground a little show. He grinned and nodded. We first made a low drag pass with the flaps down, then climbed rapidly and came around again—rolling the plane and flying past the ladies upside down. I’m told the gallery—I mean to say audience—went crazy with pleasure.
I could read you a long list of famous folks who’ve flown with me and signed my plane’s guest book—ranging from my old Palm Springs flying pal Dinah Shore to President and Mrs. George Bush—but maybe the most fun I had flying friends around was with the annual trip I took to the Tournament of Champions in Las Vegas with my doctors from Latrobe Hospital as my guests. For them, it was some needed R and R, a mini
–golf vacation, while for me it was a bit like having an extended family along. With all my aerial guests, I’m careful to make sure every comfort they might desire is at hand, including snacks and cocktails (though if they feel the urge to smoke, I’m always quick to point out management’s official policy, posted on a small sign in the cabin: “If you must smoke, please step outside”).
I’ll never forget one such trip with my doctor friends. My personal physician, Dr. Bob Mazero, an old friend and classmate from Latrobe High, was standing in the aisle just behind the pilot seats holding a martini as we began making our initial approach to Las Vegas over Hoover Dam. Just for fun, I rolled the plane 360 degrees. I executed the maneuver so quickly, Bob didn’t appear to realize what had happened. He blinked with confusion.
“Arnie, what the hell was that?” he asked finally, realizing he’d felt something funny. On the other hand, his martini hadn’t lost a drop.
“I don’t know, Bob. What did it feel like?” Seated at the controls, I was the picture of sweet innocence.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted, his brow knitted in puzzlement.
A few seconds later, I rolled the plane the other way and he let out a yelp. “Good heavens. What are you doing, Arnie!” He’d figured out that I’d turned him upside down for an instant in the air.
“Nothing, Bob,” I remarked calmly. “Don’t get so excited. I wound you up one way, so I thought I’d just better unwind you.”
The plane erupted with laughter.
Not quite so amusing, but happily far rarer, are those tense little moments when something unexpected happens in the air and you must react with as much coolness and levelheaded thinking as you can muster. Fortunately for me and my passengers, flying has been such a major passion of mine that I regularly go through recurrent intensive training every year at Cessna’s Wichita headquarters. It doesn’t hurt that I’ve had a succession of gifted, experienced pilots flying with me over the years who were great in the clutch. They include, in addition to the ones I’ve mentioned, Lee Lauderback, Charlie Johnson, Ken Gero, Roy Martin, Don Dungey, Woody Woodard, Dan Keating, Cliff Crews, and my current fellow pilot, Pete Luster.
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