The last Sunday in November dawns bright and hot. The day.

I've been looking forward to this moment for months, but somehow it still takes an age to get from eyes-open down to the garage.

Along the way the cats have been fed, terse instructions left not to let them out, and the Rotax operator's manual consulted because I can't for the life of me remember whether it's fifty or a hundred to one on the oil.

Wiser builders set up shop in spaces which actually exceed the dimensions of their aircraft. Mine is about two inches taller than the lower edge of the garage door under which it must pass. A long and wearying battle of wits ensues, which the door wins. I manoeuvre one wheel out onto the ramp and then remove the nosewheel and rudder pedals. She slides ignominiously out canted to one side. I mentally apologise to her for this indignity and worry again about the yet-to-be-installed rotorhead.

The tow rope purchased specifically for the purpose is too short. I cast frantically about for a substitute and find the old mainsheet from the sailing dinghy the gyro has displaced. With dire warnings about the dangers of stretchy rope sounding in my head I anchor the tail to a particularly solid tree, and chock the wheels.

What happens next brings a smile my face. I, who loathe and detest any form of housework or maintenance, grasp a broom and carefully sweep the driveway clear. This with a diligence that would no doubt confound Sue, my long-suffering partner doggedly persisting with her Sunday lie in. If everything goes according to plan she's about to get a rude awakening.

Wandering back into the garage, I locate the container of two-stroke oil and pour two hundred carefully measured millilitres into the tank, watching with interest as the dark green stuff sinks to the bottom. I slosh it around, marvelling at how completely the oil disperses into the fuel. The tank is trudged outside and bungeed into place on its mount and the two halves of the quick-disconnect snap together.

Delta Echo doesn't have an electrical system yet, which is to say I haven't installed the voltage regulator, so for this exercise she'll be running on what I fancifully term External Power. I pilfer the battery from my car and connect the leads from the LCD engine monitor. It cycles through its start up routine, and I set the Hobbs to 0000:00. The first and last time that value will ever be displayed. According to the readout the cylinder heads are already climbing through thirty degrees just sitting in the sun. The thermocouples snugged around the spark plugs must work.

Next item on the list - check everything for tightness. I run my hands over every fastener I can touch, but right now I'm too keyed up to do this properly and it's lip service only. I know it, but I can't bring myself to care - the process has taken over.

It's time to get fuel into the system. I bend down to the tank, and with horror discover liquid of some sort in the blue tubing. Christ there's water in there how the hell did that get in how am I going to get it out and quickly unplug the disconnect and sniff the end and it's petrol after all thank God must have just been pressure in the tank. There's a warning there but being a complete novice at this I fail to notice.

I squeeze the primer bulb and fascinatedly track the progress of the petrol up into the fuel pump, burbling through the glass-walled filters and over the top into the carburettors. Suddenly the bulb firms up and I am relieved because otherwise I wouldn't know for certain when to stop.

The other primer - the plunger - is located where I can get at it from the seat. A series of slow and even strokes suck fuel from the tank and direct it straight toward the cylinders. This is more hit-and-miss and when the fuel's made it as far as the carburettors I give it one more stroke and hope I've got it right.

Standing up I take a few deep breaths. The moment of truth.

Snap, snap - both ignition switches on. There's no longer anything to stop the engine firing.

I experiment for a few moments with bracing myself against the shock struts but give up, and resort to placing one hand on the mast while reaching for the starter rope with the other.

"Clear prop." I manage to inflect a certain studied calm into the time-honoured expression, but it still sounds wonderfully alien against a backdrop of early morning suburbia.

The first pull on the rope is an object lesson in the meaning of compression. The propeller jerks fitfully round a pathetic half turn and stops. On the second attempt I put some weight behind it, and am rewarded with a bang and sudden movement. Signs of life.

The third pull achieves little more than the first.

Clearly a two handed approach is needed and I release my grip on the mast. This time. A rapidly accelerating series of bangs which merge to become the surprisingly noisy rattle of a barely-running two stroke. I dive for the throttle to catch it, but after a few seconds it slows and stops. In the silence, the outraged barking of the neighbours' dog.

I prime it properly this time and deliver another two-handed pull, leaping once more on the throttle. Got it, and I transfer my attention to the tachometer, advancing the throttle to get the engine above two thousand RPM. The alarming rattling noises from the gearbox subside and the wall of sound aft of the seat is now reassuringly smooth, even if it does resemble a lawn mower.

After a short while experimenting with different throttle settings it becomes increasingly difficult to hold a steady RPM. I switch off and realise I probably have some troubleshooting to do.

In the next hour I will try to start the engine again, fail, and learn about fuel tanks, vacuum and the importance of vent caps. Before this realisation dawns I will overprime and flood, and expend a lot of energy pulling fruitlessly on the starter rope. A cheap but effective way to reinforce a lesson that has seen more than one pilot clambering out of the remains of their machine just beyond the airport fence.

Lesson learnt, I will strap myself into the seat, start the prop turning with a lazy downward pull and advance the throttle till the gearbox stops protesting. I remember just in time the engine still isn't broken in, and with considerable effort of will stop myself from finding out what the term Full Power really means.

Eventually I shut her down (four minutes on the Hobbs) and trek back upstairs, limp like a wrung dishrag. The three pent-up cats bolt for the door, all managing to give me an aggrieved look as I drag myself to the fridge for a drink.

Sometime in the next few days I must start on the final part of this journey, cutting drilling and bolting control tubes and cheek plates. Installing rudder cables. Replacing plastic cable ties with rubber-lined clamps. Exchanging the carelessness of wiring streamed in the dash to first start for a more disciplined installation worthy of flight.

For now though, it's enough to take a few days out and relax: She's alive.