"Speedsters Out to Pasture"
"Forgotten Dream"
"No Reservation Required"
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Sunday, September 07, 2008
MERFI's Law
When it comes to the annual-when-they-have-one-at-all Mid-Eastern Regional Fly-In, the acronym MERFI lends itself to comparisons with Murphy's Law. Last year the fly-in was hosted by Mansfield Lahm Regional Airport (KMFD) and Co-pilot Rick and I attempted to go, but we arrived over Mansfield ("No, I don't think I'll ever get over Mansfield") to find the worst of the clouds still below us when we were left downwind for landing at pattern altitude. After trying to catch even a small glimpse of what is a relatively large airport with scant success, and being unwilling to press our luck, we made an expedient 180 degree turn to retreat to Urbana for breakfast.
This year MERFI has been moved to Urbana, presumably because the weather's better. Fine by me, though, since it's practically right next door. I considered going on Saturday but The Mighty Ohio $tate Buckeyes were playing in-state neighbor Ohio University. It pays not to second guess decisions like these in the clear knowledge of hindsight, but... well, flying may have been the better choice over staying home to watch the game. It was a sloppily played game on the O$U on side of the ball, and it was disconcerting to see how dependent their offense is on one player. The defense carried the day eventually, but their porosity on 3rd down bode ill for next week's test against USC.
Today, the Weather-out-the-Window(tm) was adequate, but by no means inspiring. Low-ish clouds and cool temps, with the feel of rain showers somewhere just over there. And a promise of 11G17 in the early afternoon, but right down the runway where it would be in the no-harm-no-foul region. Not terrific, but with my having not flown for three weeks now, it would have to do. After a layoff like that it's important to make a flight or two to keep the skills, if not sharp, at least less blunt.
Urbana is, of course, a flight I've made many times so there wasn't much of concern there, but we were going to a fly-in. That always presents the issue of a lot of traffic, some with no radios, and is one of the reasons I don't go to them as I often as I used to. That said, the Co-pilot is always on board for an early go so we could hopefully mitigate some of the traffic complexity simply by getting there early, and the extra set of eyes scanning for traffic really helps as well. Some of you may recognize this as the same strategy I used when going to fly-ins back before I learned how to land. Back then I called it "getting there before the witnesses."
After not having flown for a few weeks, parts of the routine don't always feel, well, routine. Knowing that I might have to air up the tires, I got to the hangar about 15 minutes before the pre-arranged departure time. Just a glance at both wheels was enough to determine that they'd both need service. Because of the tight aerodynamic wheel pants, though, it's a little trickier to do that job alone than it is with someone there that can sight through the access hole cut into the side of each wheel fairing to watch for the air valve as I roll the airplane forward.
Having been through this before, I have spray painted a red strip on the inside of each tire to indicate the position of the air valve. That way, all I have to do is roll the plane out of the hangar until one of the painted stripes is at the bottom of the wheel. That seems like it would be an easy, routine thing to do, but every single time I rolled the airplane forward to align the paint mark juuusssstt sooooo, the plane rolled forward another few inches as I let go of it to move to the air hose and fill the tire. And I couldn't reach far enough back to stuff a chock in without it moving. Hilarity and somewhat painful contortions ensued, but I finally managed to get the plane to hold still while I aired the tires.
The tires having finally been serviced and the plane pretty much all the way out of the hangar as a result of its little game of Mother May I?, I got through a pre-flight with no problems. Good to know that at least my head was in the game. We mounted up and put the key to Papa, and he greeted us with a single turn of the blade followed by a nice loping idle. Papa's in the game! I called for taxi clearance, and replied back crisply with the appropriate "Bravo Alpha 22 for 6 6 papa golf" in response to the expected taxi clearance. Great, my tongue is in the game and I won't be tripping over it.
So, we worked our way down to the runway and made the final checks before committing to the sky. Switches fell to hand readily: hands are in the game. Cleared for takeoff and away we go, skipping and swerving down the runway. Feet in the game? Not so much. That remained pretty much the situation for the rest of the day. The witnesses were already at Urbana by the time we got there, but I don't think the kind of lapse in footwork that I see is very noticeable from a distance. The traffic wasn't very bad, either. There were just a couple of planes in front of us, but one of them was, unfortunately, the type that flies a tri-county landing pattern. Huge patterns like that really bugger up the works for everyone else.
Once on the ground, the arriving traffic was well handled by the volunteers that were working the flightline. There was no hunting around for a parking spot and getting in everyone's way here. We were met at the runway by a 'Follow Me' golf cart that escorted us directly to a parking spot. The same excellent service was in evidence later when we were leaving. We received another escort from the parking area back out to the runway, which is very welcome when taxiing a tailwheel airplane around groups of unpredictable spectators.
So, MERFI. Yeah, the pancakes were great, but I can get those at Bob Evans. No, the real reason you fly in to the MERFI Fly-In is to walk around and see what other people flew in to the Fly-In. That, and see what hides behind the normally closed hangar doors. For example, this B-25:
This is an A-26 that looks as if it might be waiting its turn for a restoration:
There's also a decades long restoration of a B-17 underway:
It's interesting to the Co-pilot and I to see the type of work they're doing. As he pointed out, it all looked very familiar to the kind of work that goes into building an RV. Or, in my case, taking A&P classes where I learned about sheet metal, avionics, and engines.
When they get it done, I know where they can get a Norden bomb sight:
"Since the Norden was considered a critical wartime instrument, bombardiers were required to take an oath during their training stating that they would defend its secret with their own life if necessary. In case the bomber plane should make an emergency landing on enemy territory, the bombardier would have to shoot the important parts of the Norden with a gun to disable it. As this method still would leave a nearly intact apparatus to the enemy, a thermite gun was installed; the heat of the chemical reaction would melt the Norden into a lump of metal."
Heh. Now you can find them unsecured and unattended in the seat of a Jeep. Technology is like that, I guess.
There were a few older planes amongst the fly-ins:
It's tiring walking around all of the planes, so it's nice to be able to rest a bit:
As mentioned before, the departure procedures were every bit as well handled as the arrivals, so we had no trouble getting out of Urbana to head back to Bolton. I reported to Bolton Tower as we crossed over Darby Dan airport as I usually to, but got a little wrinkle in the response from the tower.
I usually expect "report two mile right base to runway 22." Instead I got "enter right base leg 22, report two mile final." Those aren't the same thing, but I didn't know if he misspoke or if he really wanted me to get far enough out to the north to give me a two mile long final. As I got close to the base leg, I called that I was "two mile right base, but that will put me inside of a two mile final, if that's OK."
It wasn't.
There was a touch & go Cessna way, way out there on a left base to runway 22, and the tower controller needed us to head up north a bit in order to stay outside of the wide pattern of what was more than likely a student pilot. That was easy enough to do, but it did put us in the position of having nowhere to go but the roof of Lowes if we were to lose the engine. I prefer a tighter pattern, but you get what you get.
The flare felt like it always feels after a few weeks without flying, which is to say "very fast." It takes a few flights to get re-acclimated to the pace of things, particularly things that happen close to the ground and on those uncomfortable days when your feet still aren't in the game. There was just a little swerve on the roll-out, but it was still a below par performance. You'd better get with it, feet! There are no permanent starters on this team!
Absent the poor footwork, though, it was a pretty nice day of flying. The skies were very smooth. So smooth, in fact, that the question of sharing the flying duties with the Co-pilot was moot. There were no flying duties. Papa rode along like he was on rails.
We caught a little rain on the way to Urbana which, despite repeated experience to the contrary, I always hope will wash the airplane as we fly through it. It really just rinses the crud out of hidden nooks and crannies and spreads it across the skin, leaving you with a yuckier looking plane than you started with, but I never seem to remember that.
The Eternal Optimist, I am.
So, having run out of ado and therefore being unable to provide further, here's your (notably brief) moment of Fly-In eZen(tm):
This year MERFI has been moved to Urbana, presumably because the weather's better. Fine by me, though, since it's practically right next door. I considered going on Saturday but The Mighty Ohio $tate Buckeyes were playing in-state neighbor Ohio University. It pays not to second guess decisions like these in the clear knowledge of hindsight, but... well, flying may have been the better choice over staying home to watch the game. It was a sloppily played game on the O$U on side of the ball, and it was disconcerting to see how dependent their offense is on one player. The defense carried the day eventually, but their porosity on 3rd down bode ill for next week's test against USC.
Today, the Weather-out-the-Window(tm) was adequate, but by no means inspiring. Low-ish clouds and cool temps, with the feel of rain showers somewhere just over there. And a promise of 11G17 in the early afternoon, but right down the runway where it would be in the no-harm-no-foul region. Not terrific, but with my having not flown for three weeks now, it would have to do. After a layoff like that it's important to make a flight or two to keep the skills, if not sharp, at least less blunt.
Urbana is, of course, a flight I've made many times so there wasn't much of concern there, but we were going to a fly-in. That always presents the issue of a lot of traffic, some with no radios, and is one of the reasons I don't go to them as I often as I used to. That said, the Co-pilot is always on board for an early go so we could hopefully mitigate some of the traffic complexity simply by getting there early, and the extra set of eyes scanning for traffic really helps as well. Some of you may recognize this as the same strategy I used when going to fly-ins back before I learned how to land. Back then I called it "getting there before the witnesses."
After not having flown for a few weeks, parts of the routine don't always feel, well, routine. Knowing that I might have to air up the tires, I got to the hangar about 15 minutes before the pre-arranged departure time. Just a glance at both wheels was enough to determine that they'd both need service. Because of the tight aerodynamic wheel pants, though, it's a little trickier to do that job alone than it is with someone there that can sight through the access hole cut into the side of each wheel fairing to watch for the air valve as I roll the airplane forward.
Having been through this before, I have spray painted a red strip on the inside of each tire to indicate the position of the air valve. That way, all I have to do is roll the plane out of the hangar until one of the painted stripes is at the bottom of the wheel. That seems like it would be an easy, routine thing to do, but every single time I rolled the airplane forward to align the paint mark juuusssstt sooooo, the plane rolled forward another few inches as I let go of it to move to the air hose and fill the tire. And I couldn't reach far enough back to stuff a chock in without it moving. Hilarity and somewhat painful contortions ensued, but I finally managed to get the plane to hold still while I aired the tires.
The tires having finally been serviced and the plane pretty much all the way out of the hangar as a result of its little game of Mother May I?, I got through a pre-flight with no problems. Good to know that at least my head was in the game. We mounted up and put the key to Papa, and he greeted us with a single turn of the blade followed by a nice loping idle. Papa's in the game! I called for taxi clearance, and replied back crisply with the appropriate "Bravo Alpha 22 for 6 6 papa golf" in response to the expected taxi clearance. Great, my tongue is in the game and I won't be tripping over it.
So, we worked our way down to the runway and made the final checks before committing to the sky. Switches fell to hand readily: hands are in the game. Cleared for takeoff and away we go, skipping and swerving down the runway. Feet in the game? Not so much. That remained pretty much the situation for the rest of the day. The witnesses were already at Urbana by the time we got there, but I don't think the kind of lapse in footwork that I see is very noticeable from a distance. The traffic wasn't very bad, either. There were just a couple of planes in front of us, but one of them was, unfortunately, the type that flies a tri-county landing pattern. Huge patterns like that really bugger up the works for everyone else.
Once on the ground, the arriving traffic was well handled by the volunteers that were working the flightline. There was no hunting around for a parking spot and getting in everyone's way here. We were met at the runway by a 'Follow Me' golf cart that escorted us directly to a parking spot. The same excellent service was in evidence later when we were leaving. We received another escort from the parking area back out to the runway, which is very welcome when taxiing a tailwheel airplane around groups of unpredictable spectators.
So, MERFI. Yeah, the pancakes were great, but I can get those at Bob Evans. No, the real reason you fly in to the MERFI Fly-In is to walk around and see what other people flew in to the Fly-In. That, and see what hides behind the normally closed hangar doors. For example, this B-25:
This is an A-26 that looks as if it might be waiting its turn for a restoration:
There's also a decades long restoration of a B-17 underway:
It's interesting to the Co-pilot and I to see the type of work they're doing. As he pointed out, it all looked very familiar to the kind of work that goes into building an RV. Or, in my case, taking A&P classes where I learned about sheet metal, avionics, and engines.
When they get it done, I know where they can get a Norden bomb sight:
"Since the Norden was considered a critical wartime instrument, bombardiers were required to take an oath during their training stating that they would defend its secret with their own life if necessary. In case the bomber plane should make an emergency landing on enemy territory, the bombardier would have to shoot the important parts of the Norden with a gun to disable it. As this method still would leave a nearly intact apparatus to the enemy, a thermite gun was installed; the heat of the chemical reaction would melt the Norden into a lump of metal."
Heh. Now you can find them unsecured and unattended in the seat of a Jeep. Technology is like that, I guess.
There were a few older planes amongst the fly-ins:
It's tiring walking around all of the planes, so it's nice to be able to rest a bit:
As mentioned before, the departure procedures were every bit as well handled as the arrivals, so we had no trouble getting out of Urbana to head back to Bolton. I reported to Bolton Tower as we crossed over Darby Dan airport as I usually to, but got a little wrinkle in the response from the tower.
I usually expect "report two mile right base to runway 22." Instead I got "enter right base leg 22, report two mile final." Those aren't the same thing, but I didn't know if he misspoke or if he really wanted me to get far enough out to the north to give me a two mile long final. As I got close to the base leg, I called that I was "two mile right base, but that will put me inside of a two mile final, if that's OK."
It wasn't.
There was a touch & go Cessna way, way out there on a left base to runway 22, and the tower controller needed us to head up north a bit in order to stay outside of the wide pattern of what was more than likely a student pilot. That was easy enough to do, but it did put us in the position of having nowhere to go but the roof of Lowes if we were to lose the engine. I prefer a tighter pattern, but you get what you get.
The flare felt like it always feels after a few weeks without flying, which is to say "very fast." It takes a few flights to get re-acclimated to the pace of things, particularly things that happen close to the ground and on those uncomfortable days when your feet still aren't in the game. There was just a little swerve on the roll-out, but it was still a below par performance. You'd better get with it, feet! There are no permanent starters on this team!
Absent the poor footwork, though, it was a pretty nice day of flying. The skies were very smooth. So smooth, in fact, that the question of sharing the flying duties with the Co-pilot was moot. There were no flying duties. Papa rode along like he was on rails.
We caught a little rain on the way to Urbana which, despite repeated experience to the contrary, I always hope will wash the airplane as we fly through it. It really just rinses the crud out of hidden nooks and crannies and spreads it across the skin, leaving you with a yuckier looking plane than you started with, but I never seem to remember that.
The Eternal Optimist, I am.
So, having run out of ado and therefore being unable to provide further, here's your (notably brief) moment of Fly-In eZen(tm):
Monday, September 01, 2008
Three day weekend, beautiful weather, and where did I fly?
I didn't. Not at all. How could this be??
Well, Saturday was a football write-off. Ohio State football, specifically. Half the day gone right there. The rest of the day? Family in for a visit. Speaking of which, I made a mental note at the time to share "Things Not to Say Out Loud #32" with you. We were all sitting out on the front porch on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon when my sister noted that there weren't any planes flying into or out of Bolton Field. She asked me why that would be the case on such a flyable day. My honest (but ill-thought) reply was that it was a three day weekend and they were probably stuck at home with family. Well, I didn't really mean it that way. But just to cover all of the bases, I hereby absolve myself of any responsibility for any injured feelings by utilizing the now ubiquitous dodge, "I misspoke." What I meant to say, of course, was that there are often things more important than flying.
So with that in mind, the remainder of the weekend was spent on a ground transportation based camping trip to The Farm(tm) with co-pilot/co-camper Rick. The weather was nice enough to fly there, but loading all of the required and/or desired camping equipment into the RV-6 seemed a daunting task. Besides, it's a nice drive. I have a route that I've spent years refining; it's such a direct path that I often parallel it on my flying trips out there. The lion's share of it is comprised of remote country roads. I find being the only (or nearly only) car on the road to be much more relaxing than dealing with the trucks, cops, construction, and crowds on the highways. Except when, as happened this weekend, one of the roads is closed and no detour directions are provided. And with no GPS in the car, either. Sometimes flying is not only faster than driving, but easier too.
After blazing a new route on-the-fly (so to speak) we arrived at the camp site and started getting set up for fishing, eating, and lying recumbent in tents hoping (futilely, in my case) that fatigue and/or beer would mask enough of the physical discomfort to allow some sleep. I had attempted to prepare sufficiently for all three activities with a trip to Wal-Mart on Saturday afternoon where I procured a cheap sleeping pad and a new fishing rod/reel combo, after which I spent some time in the kitchen cutting up meat and veggies to make beef stew. Work before pleasure, so we got our tents set up, a fire started, and the stew stewing over the fire. Then, the fishing!
I had picked up a $9 microlight fishing combo from Wal-Mart and a pack of 6 light treble hook lures. After 20 minutes of trying to get it to work, the co-pilot repaired it and we were ready to go. An interesting thing about our little fishing area down at the camp site is that to catch a fish, you have to not want to. I hate catching fish because I don't like holding them and removing the hook. I like to blame bad parenting for it, but the truth is that I got stuck by a blue gill when I was a kid and still carry a grudge. So I caught four. Or the same two fish, once each. The jury never returned a verdict on that. But the thing is, well, Rick. He actually wanted to catch a fish, but was never able to land one despite a couple of close calls. Me, I'm perfectly happy just tossing the lure in and reeling it in, so I caught four. Just note, though, that another interesting thing is that the fish (at least the 2 or 4 that I caught) are aquarium size. Really, really small. If you measured them against the $15 worth of equipment that I bought, it would come out to $1 per centimeter.
Meanwhile, dinner was slow cooking over the fire, just waiting me to finish the job of getting all six lures stuck on underwater branches or rocks. Fishing to me is just like golf: it's always an open question as to which will come first, the 18th green or me running out of golf balls. After losing two of my six lures, I decided to save the remainder to lose in the morning. Pacing myself, as it were. All things in moderation.
Fishing done but dinner not, there was ample time to relax and have a couple of beers. It's nice sitting there drinking beer while listening to the symphony of the water, fire, and crickets, and not having to elect a designated driver. But I have to counter that with the night of getting in and out of the tent every couple of hours to water the weeds that would inevitably result if I didn't limit the number of beers that I drank. It's a balancing act, to be sure.
After dinner and a few more hours of feeding wood into the fire, it was time to hit the tent and see if I could get any sleep. Which, well, not so much. The low-cost sleeping pad from Wal-Mart earned the moniker The Discomfort Amplification Pad for its incredible ability to make hard, bumpy ground even harder and bumpier. Nope, not much sleep at all. Soon enough, though, the sun came up and I was able to get back to the job of losing the rest of my lures. That took less than an hour, so there was nothing left to do but get started on the most difficult camping task of all, getting the tent back in the bag it came in. I swear, it would be easier to push a calf back into a cow. After a protracted effort, I finally got the thing back in the bag, only to have to be re-do the entire operation when I got home and realized that I had left my watch in the tent.
A little more than a minute of camping eZen(tm):
Well, Saturday was a football write-off. Ohio State football, specifically. Half the day gone right there. The rest of the day? Family in for a visit. Speaking of which, I made a mental note at the time to share "Things Not to Say Out Loud #32" with you. We were all sitting out on the front porch on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon when my sister noted that there weren't any planes flying into or out of Bolton Field. She asked me why that would be the case on such a flyable day. My honest (but ill-thought) reply was that it was a three day weekend and they were probably stuck at home with family. Well, I didn't really mean it that way. But just to cover all of the bases, I hereby absolve myself of any responsibility for any injured feelings by utilizing the now ubiquitous dodge, "I misspoke." What I meant to say, of course, was that there are often things more important than flying.
So with that in mind, the remainder of the weekend was spent on a ground transportation based camping trip to The Farm(tm) with co-pilot/co-camper Rick. The weather was nice enough to fly there, but loading all of the required and/or desired camping equipment into the RV-6 seemed a daunting task. Besides, it's a nice drive. I have a route that I've spent years refining; it's such a direct path that I often parallel it on my flying trips out there. The lion's share of it is comprised of remote country roads. I find being the only (or nearly only) car on the road to be much more relaxing than dealing with the trucks, cops, construction, and crowds on the highways. Except when, as happened this weekend, one of the roads is closed and no detour directions are provided. And with no GPS in the car, either. Sometimes flying is not only faster than driving, but easier too.
After blazing a new route on-the-fly (so to speak) we arrived at the camp site and started getting set up for fishing, eating, and lying recumbent in tents hoping (futilely, in my case) that fatigue and/or beer would mask enough of the physical discomfort to allow some sleep. I had attempted to prepare sufficiently for all three activities with a trip to Wal-Mart on Saturday afternoon where I procured a cheap sleeping pad and a new fishing rod/reel combo, after which I spent some time in the kitchen cutting up meat and veggies to make beef stew. Work before pleasure, so we got our tents set up, a fire started, and the stew stewing over the fire. Then, the fishing!
I had picked up a $9 microlight fishing combo from Wal-Mart and a pack of 6 light treble hook lures. After 20 minutes of trying to get it to work, the co-pilot repaired it and we were ready to go. An interesting thing about our little fishing area down at the camp site is that to catch a fish, you have to not want to. I hate catching fish because I don't like holding them and removing the hook. I like to blame bad parenting for it, but the truth is that I got stuck by a blue gill when I was a kid and still carry a grudge. So I caught four. Or the same two fish, once each. The jury never returned a verdict on that. But the thing is, well, Rick. He actually wanted to catch a fish, but was never able to land one despite a couple of close calls. Me, I'm perfectly happy just tossing the lure in and reeling it in, so I caught four. Just note, though, that another interesting thing is that the fish (at least the 2 or 4 that I caught) are aquarium size. Really, really small. If you measured them against the $15 worth of equipment that I bought, it would come out to $1 per centimeter.
Meanwhile, dinner was slow cooking over the fire, just waiting me to finish the job of getting all six lures stuck on underwater branches or rocks. Fishing to me is just like golf: it's always an open question as to which will come first, the 18th green or me running out of golf balls. After losing two of my six lures, I decided to save the remainder to lose in the morning. Pacing myself, as it were. All things in moderation.
Fishing done but dinner not, there was ample time to relax and have a couple of beers. It's nice sitting there drinking beer while listening to the symphony of the water, fire, and crickets, and not having to elect a designated driver. But I have to counter that with the night of getting in and out of the tent every couple of hours to water the weeds that would inevitably result if I didn't limit the number of beers that I drank. It's a balancing act, to be sure.
After dinner and a few more hours of feeding wood into the fire, it was time to hit the tent and see if I could get any sleep. Which, well, not so much. The low-cost sleeping pad from Wal-Mart earned the moniker The Discomfort Amplification Pad for its incredible ability to make hard, bumpy ground even harder and bumpier. Nope, not much sleep at all. Soon enough, though, the sun came up and I was able to get back to the job of losing the rest of my lures. That took less than an hour, so there was nothing left to do but get started on the most difficult camping task of all, getting the tent back in the bag it came in. I swear, it would be easier to push a calf back into a cow. After a protracted effort, I finally got the thing back in the bag, only to have to be re-do the entire operation when I got home and realized that I had left my watch in the tent.
A little more than a minute of camping eZen(tm):
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
A recent Google search that found this blog:
They can at times be quite amusing. I'm going to go out on a limb and predict that The PapaGolf Chronicles was most emphatically NOT what they were looking for, despite being the very top link returned:
pure de papa de kentuky fray chiquen
Can't please everybody, I guess.
pure de papa de kentuky fray chiquen
Can't please everybody, I guess.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Back in the swing of things
I'll regret this during my annual winter bitchfest about the cold Ohio weather, but I'm going to say it anyway: it was too hot to fly this weekend. We all know, of course, that the heat alone cannot bear the full burden of the uncomfortable Ohio August and that the humidity is required to shoulder some of the blame. That's neither here nor there - it all came down to whether I could drag myself out in the muggy summer sauna to go flying. I could not. Besides the oppressive blanket of heat and haze, it is important to not that the co-pilot was out of town. Flying anywhere would have been all of the work, but only half the fun.
I had other stuff to do anyway. I'm behind on my game reviews, so I knocked a couple of those out. And I have a porch swing project underway that hit a snag last week. I fixed that. I fortunately had not glued the slats into place, so it was just a matter of unscrewing them and using a pair of more accurately cut spacers to reposition them as I reinstalled them. Sounds easy, but leave it to me ti find a way to make it hard. I broke one of the screws while I was backing it out. After the liberal application of the magical incantations I normally use in situations like this (refer to George Carlin's List of Seven Words You Can't Say on TV for the complete set) and some quality time spent with a pair of pliers, I got it removed and replaced. Here's the latest status shot:
The energy expended in vocalizing various combinations of the words soured my mood for woodwork, though, so I had to find something else to do on Sunday. I didn't want to be outside for any longer than it took for the promised thunderstorms to arrive, so I made a short road trip down to Circleville Raceway Park, my former go kart racing venue. I wanted to see what improvements they had made in the 15 years since I stopped racing, and to see if the older generation was still racing. I still have my old kart and engine, and I was curious as to what kinds of equipment I'd be racing against if I started again. Frankly, it didn't look like there had been any great advances since I quit. This venerable old European chassis might still be somewhat competitive:
Maybe a little refurbishment would make a good project once I get the porch swing done. I don't know if I'd ever get back into racing, though. I think that I might like to, but even with already having the kart and engine there would be costs. I'd need a trailer hitch for the Subaru to pull it around, a new helmet, and a new driving suit. That's close to $500 right there. Add whatever the kart would need - at a minimum that's a new set of tires. That's quite an investment just to find out that I'm older and slower and kart racing is behind me.
Now, a few minutes of 2-cycle Zen:
I had other stuff to do anyway. I'm behind on my game reviews, so I knocked a couple of those out. And I have a porch swing project underway that hit a snag last week. I fixed that. I fortunately had not glued the slats into place, so it was just a matter of unscrewing them and using a pair of more accurately cut spacers to reposition them as I reinstalled them. Sounds easy, but leave it to me ti find a way to make it hard. I broke one of the screws while I was backing it out. After the liberal application of the magical incantations I normally use in situations like this (refer to George Carlin's List of Seven Words You Can't Say on TV for the complete set) and some quality time spent with a pair of pliers, I got it removed and replaced. Here's the latest status shot:
The energy expended in vocalizing various combinations of the words soured my mood for woodwork, though, so I had to find something else to do on Sunday. I didn't want to be outside for any longer than it took for the promised thunderstorms to arrive, so I made a short road trip down to Circleville Raceway Park, my former go kart racing venue. I wanted to see what improvements they had made in the 15 years since I stopped racing, and to see if the older generation was still racing. I still have my old kart and engine, and I was curious as to what kinds of equipment I'd be racing against if I started again. Frankly, it didn't look like there had been any great advances since I quit. This venerable old European chassis might still be somewhat competitive:
Maybe a little refurbishment would make a good project once I get the porch swing done. I don't know if I'd ever get back into racing, though. I think that I might like to, but even with already having the kart and engine there would be costs. I'd need a trailer hitch for the Subaru to pull it around, a new helmet, and a new driving suit. That's close to $500 right there. Add whatever the kart would need - at a minimum that's a new set of tires. That's quite an investment just to find out that I'm older and slower and kart racing is behind me.
Now, a few minutes of 2-cycle Zen:
Saturday, August 16, 2008
The inexhaustable, incredible financial benefits of airplane ownership
This must be what it's like to live in southern California: the same great weather day after day after day... you could get sick of that after a few decades I'm sure, but I sure am enjoying the few weeks of consistently fantastic flying weather we're having here in Ohio. Today was another perfect day to fly, and a good thing that it was, too! I had a chat with Co-pilot Rick last night during which he expressed his concern that he was to be demoted from Co-pilot to some lesser status because the Co-owner had found out that it isn't pure torture to fly with me after all. "Not to worry," I reassured him, "the Co-owner doesn't clean the bugs off of the wings, help push the airplane around, close the hangar doors, or any of the myriad other helpful little things that the Co-pilot does. Your job is secure."
Today seemed a great day to make a trip to one of my favorite secret places: the hiking trail at Rocky Fork State Park, down by Highland Co. airport. I also ran out of canopy cleaner while cleaning up the mess from the bug-strewn flight to and from French Lick, so after our hike we'd lunch on free brats at Clermont Co. airport, home of Sporty's Pilot Shop.
It's only a 13 minute flight between the two, so it was practically in the neighborhood. Sporty's does a great job on the brats, too. They have two or three different types, they provide ketchup, mustard, relish, and my favorite, a jar of hot horseradish. The brats are cooked on a charcoal grill, and have that perfect balance between charcoal charring and plump juiciness. Yummy! And free!! I've said it before, and I'll be saying it long after people are tired of hearing it: I don't know how you can afford to not have an airplane! Free brats, and no shipping charges on the canopy cleaner.
But, we had to get there first. It looked like we might have to pass on the hike at Highland Co. when we were monitoring their radio frequency on the way there. I have never heard so many planes going into and out of that airport. It seemed almost as if we were flying into a fly-in, and I really don't like going to fly-ins anymore. The crowded landing pattern and the tendency for fly-ins to attract airplanes that don't have radios have soured me on the whole idea. I hadn't seen anything in the Notices to Airmen (NOTAMS) when I was doing my pre-flight research, but they aren't always NOTAMed. We decided to overfly the airport nice and high, above all of the fray to see what was going on.
It turned out that nothing special was going on, and I couldn't see more than a few planes down on the ramp. We went out a couple of miles and dropped the excess altitude on the turn back towards the airport. I made a fairly decent landing considering that I'm not a terribly big fan of their runway. It has a pronounced slope to it, and both uphill and downhill landings can be tricky. Today's wind had us landing into the uphill slope. That's nice on landing, in a way, in that you can get stopped pretty quickly once you're down. Of course, the opposite is true on takeoff: it takes a lot longer to get up to speed. That situation was even worse today as I availed myself of the comparatively low gas price and filled up. With full tanks, two pilots, and an uphill runway, it felt like we were rolling through a deep puddle of molasses on take off.
Once we got into the air, the short trip over to Clermont Co. was uneventful. The free brats at Sporty's can sometimes draw a pretty big crowd, but we lucked out in our timing at arrived to an empty pattern. We were slowed down on the runway soon enough to make the first turn off where we were met by a cadre of Sporty's employees to guide us into a parking spot. The service there is phenomenal and they really make you feel welcome. A couple of brats and a transaction in the pilot shop later and we were ready for the trip home.
The plane wasn't a whole lot lighter than it had been when it dragged its reluctant tail out of Highland Co., but at least it was a level runway. It became quickly apparent as we were climbing out, though, that the ride home was going to be bumpier than our smooth ride that we had earlier in the morning. The sun was heating things up, and the air was riled up in response. Hmmm, hot and bumpy: that can mean only one thing. Co-pilot Rick would fly that leg. You don't get that kind of help from a co-owner, mind you, so I think his job is secure.
Now that you've had to read through all of that, here is a video of the whole thing:
Next time you'll know to save yourself some time and just look ahead for the movie, I imagine.
Today seemed a great day to make a trip to one of my favorite secret places: the hiking trail at Rocky Fork State Park, down by Highland Co. airport. I also ran out of canopy cleaner while cleaning up the mess from the bug-strewn flight to and from French Lick, so after our hike we'd lunch on free brats at Clermont Co. airport, home of Sporty's Pilot Shop.
It's only a 13 minute flight between the two, so it was practically in the neighborhood. Sporty's does a great job on the brats, too. They have two or three different types, they provide ketchup, mustard, relish, and my favorite, a jar of hot horseradish. The brats are cooked on a charcoal grill, and have that perfect balance between charcoal charring and plump juiciness. Yummy! And free!! I've said it before, and I'll be saying it long after people are tired of hearing it: I don't know how you can afford to not have an airplane! Free brats, and no shipping charges on the canopy cleaner.
But, we had to get there first. It looked like we might have to pass on the hike at Highland Co. when we were monitoring their radio frequency on the way there. I have never heard so many planes going into and out of that airport. It seemed almost as if we were flying into a fly-in, and I really don't like going to fly-ins anymore. The crowded landing pattern and the tendency for fly-ins to attract airplanes that don't have radios have soured me on the whole idea. I hadn't seen anything in the Notices to Airmen (NOTAMS) when I was doing my pre-flight research, but they aren't always NOTAMed. We decided to overfly the airport nice and high, above all of the fray to see what was going on.
It turned out that nothing special was going on, and I couldn't see more than a few planes down on the ramp. We went out a couple of miles and dropped the excess altitude on the turn back towards the airport. I made a fairly decent landing considering that I'm not a terribly big fan of their runway. It has a pronounced slope to it, and both uphill and downhill landings can be tricky. Today's wind had us landing into the uphill slope. That's nice on landing, in a way, in that you can get stopped pretty quickly once you're down. Of course, the opposite is true on takeoff: it takes a lot longer to get up to speed. That situation was even worse today as I availed myself of the comparatively low gas price and filled up. With full tanks, two pilots, and an uphill runway, it felt like we were rolling through a deep puddle of molasses on take off.
Once we got into the air, the short trip over to Clermont Co. was uneventful. The free brats at Sporty's can sometimes draw a pretty big crowd, but we lucked out in our timing at arrived to an empty pattern. We were slowed down on the runway soon enough to make the first turn off where we were met by a cadre of Sporty's employees to guide us into a parking spot. The service there is phenomenal and they really make you feel welcome. A couple of brats and a transaction in the pilot shop later and we were ready for the trip home.
The plane wasn't a whole lot lighter than it had been when it dragged its reluctant tail out of Highland Co., but at least it was a level runway. It became quickly apparent as we were climbing out, though, that the ride home was going to be bumpier than our smooth ride that we had earlier in the morning. The sun was heating things up, and the air was riled up in response. Hmmm, hot and bumpy: that can mean only one thing. Co-pilot Rick would fly that leg. You don't get that kind of help from a co-owner, mind you, so I think his job is secure.
Now that you've had to read through all of that, here is a video of the whole thing:
Next time you'll know to save yourself some time and just look ahead for the movie, I imagine.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
A swing and a miss
I alluded to an update on the porch swing project, and here it is. It was time to add the back seat slats. There are 14 slats cut from 1x2s. The plans call for a 1 1/2" gap on each end of the cleat (the horizontal 2x4 that the slats are attached perpendicular to) and 1 3/8" spacing between each slat. The cleat is 42" long, so that should work:
14 (slats) x 1.5" = 21"
13 (gaps between slats) x 1 3/8 = 17.875"
2 (end space) x 1.5" = 3"
Total width: 41.875"
To get the spacing right, I cut 1 3/8" spacers from left over 1 x 2. I cut enough for the first seven slats:
Once the first seven were securely screwed in place, I used the spacers to position the second seven. That's when the problem showed up. There's not a 1.5" gap on the end of the cleat:
I checked the math a few times to be sure, but the fact is that I have spaced them incorrectly. The only way for that to have happened would be if the spacers I cut from 1 x 2 weren't the right size:
Uh, yeah, you think that might be the problem? Some of those were cut on the bandsaw, others on the table saw. I'm not sure which is worse, but I'm guessing the table saw. The width of the blade is such that there's a bit of a difference in each cut. I guess it all adds up. Easy fix, though: I didn't glue the slats, so I just need to unscrew them and try again with more consistently cut spacers.
Unrelated, Co-pilot Egg returned from three days at band camp this evening, and on my way over to the high school to pick her up, I made my normal reconnaissance of Bolton Field. It was the strangest thing. Out of the corner of my eye, and at a distance of over a mile, I could have sworn that I saw one of the vertical stabs of a B-24. That's impossible, of course, but the more I looked the more it seemed like it just had to be a B-24.
Insatiably curious about exactly this kind of thing, I dropped Egg off asap after picking her up at the school and headed to the airport. Lo and behold, my airplane spotting was, well, spot on:
Based on the sign they had hung on the fence, it seems that they are in town to sell 30 minute rides for a "tax deductible donation of $425." While I think it would be very cool to experience a ride in one of those venerable WWII work horses, that's a bit too rich for my blood. Now, if I were to get to fly from the right or left seat, well that would be different. I doubt if that option is available, though.
14 (slats) x 1.5" = 21"
13 (gaps between slats) x 1 3/8 = 17.875"
2 (end space) x 1.5" = 3"
Total width: 41.875"
To get the spacing right, I cut 1 3/8" spacers from left over 1 x 2. I cut enough for the first seven slats:
Once the first seven were securely screwed in place, I used the spacers to position the second seven. That's when the problem showed up. There's not a 1.5" gap on the end of the cleat:
I checked the math a few times to be sure, but the fact is that I have spaced them incorrectly. The only way for that to have happened would be if the spacers I cut from 1 x 2 weren't the right size:
Uh, yeah, you think that might be the problem? Some of those were cut on the bandsaw, others on the table saw. I'm not sure which is worse, but I'm guessing the table saw. The width of the blade is such that there's a bit of a difference in each cut. I guess it all adds up. Easy fix, though: I didn't glue the slats, so I just need to unscrew them and try again with more consistently cut spacers.
Unrelated, Co-pilot Egg returned from three days at band camp this evening, and on my way over to the high school to pick her up, I made my normal reconnaissance of Bolton Field. It was the strangest thing. Out of the corner of my eye, and at a distance of over a mile, I could have sworn that I saw one of the vertical stabs of a B-24. That's impossible, of course, but the more I looked the more it seemed like it just had to be a B-24.
Insatiably curious about exactly this kind of thing, I dropped Egg off asap after picking her up at the school and headed to the airport. Lo and behold, my airplane spotting was, well, spot on:
Based on the sign they had hung on the fence, it seems that they are in town to sell 30 minute rides for a "tax deductible donation of $425." While I think it would be very cool to experience a ride in one of those venerable WWII work horses, that's a bit too rich for my blood. Now, if I were to get to fly from the right or left seat, well that would be different. I doubt if that option is available, though.
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