He points to the right, and I carefully swing 6FR around, maintaining 65 with the prop idling. There are a couple of iffy-looking clearings, the details of which I can't determine too well. I suddenly hear the FAA medical examiner's words again: "You'll probably need glasses for your commercial medical..."

I try to set up for the nearest field, but I'm too high and hot. I recite the restart and emergency comms checklist perfectly, but my glideslope has us pointed into trees. Beyond the trees is a large corporate park... if i can glide over the trees I know i can jink around the buildings to land on the grass. But...

"But it looks like I won't make it..." I mutter.
"Nope. We sure f*cked up, didn't we?" T. asks cheerfully.
"We sure did", I sigh, as he restores the power.
"That was my worst emergency descent ever", I tell him. less a disclaimer than an abject admission of utter failure.

"Okay... well, you've got to choose the right spot right away. and my first choice would be a field rather than a highway like that one."

I climb back to 2500, considering that error. I also start thinking that I was not really relaxed and assured of my preparation for this check ride- I am merely complacent. I'd lulled myself into a false sense of confidence with a few smooth lessons and the smug belief that any paved surface would be better than any field for a landing.

This is a very humbling realization, but I also now feel wiser, which takes some of the sting off.

T. next wants to see me land the airplane; he suggests we head for N07.
"Know where it is?" he asks. I think I do. I scan ahead and to my left. In the thin scud and haze is a wooded ridge, and beyond it a highway.

"I'm not positive", I say, "but I think Lincoln Park is just beyond that ridge..."

"Okay; good."

After changing course and trimming to ctuise at 2500 at about Va, I notice a body of water to the right that looks an awful lot like Monksville Reservoir. If that is the case, then we are in fact closer to 4N1 than N07.
I mention this to T., and he seems slightly perplexed. This isn't the first time I've left instructors puzzling over my choice of landmarks. It tickles me to know that as weak as my pilotage skills may be, I can make a very positive ID of some of the lakes, rivers and highways around here, as I grew up in the area and have also studied road and topographical maps as well as the aeronautical charts.
It also tickles me, now, to realize that he, too, thought it was Lincoln Park ahead, and cannot figure out how I have decided it isn't.

"I... I don't think that name is even on the chart..." says T., fumbling with the sectional.

"Yeah, it is. That's gotta be it; I know that one. Greenwood Lake is right... there, but we can't see the runway yet."

He peruses the chart a moment, and says "Okay, I think you're right... but we're running out of time- take me back to Teterboro."

He has me tune the VOR to track a radial in to TEB; I do it okay, if a little slowly for his liking. T's instruction style reminds me of M. : a tad impatient, but always offering tips and encouragement.

  No problem (as usual) entering the Class Delta under the direction of Radar- I'm relieved by this as much as by the fact that it will soon be over, this apparent inquisition. What I'm neglecting (as usual), however, is to maintain the Big Picture of my approach. It's a three-dimensional image that must be conjured up in the mind and analyzed quickly and thoroughly.
I'm suddenly at a loss; my timing is off. The approach is untidy. Once cleared to land, i manage an acceptable turn to final, but I'm a bit high... I decide, foolishly, to sort of dive for the first third of the runway, and of course float past Charlie intersection, arriving with a bounce and a tooth-rattling slam.
Now I'm really miserable, as I numbly recite the post-landing checklist and taxi back to the ramp.
It's a new low for me, this moment: I now understand fully that this was not a good day for me to take this ride.
Part of me feels cheated, though- the part that taught itself to fly more proficiently; the part that after only 15 hours of dual, swooped into a strange airport in Orlando and touched down with a confident flourish (with my first friend/passenger, Mitch, huddled bravely in the back seat).
The Voice remembers these things, and it quietly reassures me.

Whatever he decides, it tells me, you are ready to solo.
I'm ready... we're ready!

I note this, but there's more music to face. I pull up a chair opposite T. to debrief. I bravely steel myself for the worst.

"You're going to do just fine," he says calmly, "but you have to work on landings..."

What followed was a frank, open discussion of the whole flight. I found T. to be very interested in my take on things. I mentioned that I'd done "much better" previously; he nodded and told me I needed to use the checklist more.

It was all very educational. The best lesson of all:
The pride that accompanies a fall may be so subtle as to not be recognized as pride... in all its vain glory.

The Voice had grown faint as I failed to study during the long stretches between flights.

Without saying anything, that part of me had simply let me reach this moment, where I would be confronted with my need to study harder.