So what was the coolest airplane you ever flew? Which did you like the best? The worst? These are the kind of questions a pilot will ask another pilot. No civilian will ever think to ask this kind of question. I asked a friend once, a former TWA pilot, what was the best plane he ever flew. He said without hesitation, "The Tristar, the L1011. That was a beautiful machine." A Northwest DC-10 pilot once told me "The 747. You can fill up the cargo hold, with every seat empty, and still make money. It would fly all the way to Tokyo with plenty of reserves." Another friend, who's in the Air Force Reserve said "The F-16. I have been at 3000' and 250 knots, pulled it up with the afterburner on, and went through 31,000' like a missle, still doing 250 knots. And with an external fuel tank, too." Now that's a cool airplane.
Different airplanes meant different things to me. The Cessna 402C and I had a special relationship. When I held that plane in my hands it felt like it was a part of me, it would speak to me. I could fly it with my fingertips. Landings were almost always beautiful. We were just very much in synch. The Beechcraft Baron was also like that. Though I didn't fly it nearly as much, it flew like it was on ball bearings. Flying either one always put a smile on my face.
The Saab 340. It was big and flew like a big heavy machine, and it was in a word, stable. It always did just exactly what you expected it to do. A rock solid machine that was dependable and never had any surprises. Plus it had a cockpit door, a bathroom in the back and hot coffee, so it was pretty much a dream. I love to taxi, and the Saab was fun to taxi. One day I lined up on runway 31 at Int'l Falls and Thor lined up next to me in the snow with his hot rod snowmobile. He signaled go so I added power and took off. He told me later, "I kept up with you for a short distance, and then you were zoom! Gone!" 1735 shp a side would do that. It was a good place to earn a living. The KingAir 200 was just like a Saab, only smaller. Rock steady, dependable. With hot coffee, a cockpit door and a bathroom. 
The SA227 Metro IV. This I fly today, and it's a love-hate relationship. It is in a word, demanding. You must respect it and fly it with precision, or it will very quickly turn around and kill you if you let it. It uses a lot of runway for both landing and takeoff. Oh it'll haul a big load, and can fly non-stop from Seattle to St Louis, or San Juan to South America, but the autopilot only holds heading and altitude, the radar is right out of 1968, and there is no GPS. It is old school all the way. My hand flying skills have never been better! You can't come blazing into anything, traffic pattern or approach. It takes forever to slow down thanks to Fairchild's fascination with flush riveting. She does not like being handled that way. You set up early and it'll fly quite nicely. It is possible to roll it on the runway too, in the touchdown zone. I know, my First Officer did it today. But only if you fly it precisely and are established and stabilized early. It demands respect, and after a good flight you feel like you really earned it's respect back. It gives you a feeling of accomplishment.
The DC-3. I loved that plane. They flew them at PBA and I rode the jumpseat every chance I could. One night we were to fly home to New Bedford empty, and two instructor pilots were flying. They asked if I wanted to fly it (I was slated for DC-3 Captain class soon). No need to ask me twice! Takes off is at a ridiculously slow airspeed, it lumbered along like an elephant, but was smooth in its handling. It was summer so I had the side window cranked open, flying at 1500' over the Sound to New Bedford, with those beautiful Pratt & Whitney's making that hypnotizing sound just a few feet behind me. I looked out at the lights on the shore, without a glass window between me and just being out there. As we approached EWB I flew it toward a left base entry to the runway, figuring when he took it back I'd have him in a good position. We got closer. And closer. And he leaned over and shouted "After we land, don't touch the brakes!" Oh my God, he was going to let me land it. I flew as nice a pattern as I could. The controls took a lot of movement to make anything happen, but it was actually happening. We crossed the end, I closed the throttles and eased back on the wheel. With a bit of a sigh she just sat down on those two big, fat tires nice as could be. He took over and I let the sounds of those engines and the squeaky brakes just flow right through me. The best 45 minutes of my life. Never did get the Captain class, they made all us 402 drivers stay where we were. Sigh.
Rockwell Sabreliner 60. Only got about 60 hours in the right seat, but what a rocket machine. It climbed like crazy and would go up to FL420 as easily as you walk to your mailbox. Except at ludicrously fast speeds. It made contrails, landed easy, handled sweet. First landing I did, the Captain was all nervous. Guess he felt turboprop pilots don't know how to fly jets. He wasn't making me nervous though. I was too busy flying it around the pattern with a giant grin on my face. Felt like I was handed the reigns to a thoroughbred race horse.
The worst airplane? None of them. There's no such thing as a bad airplane. Just bad pilots.
