A final scribble culled from This Way Up. It’s getting there.
I dodged another bullet during this escapade from October 2021. We had just returned from a squadron fly out to nearby Sabonnères, visiting the resident model club who gave us an impressive demonstration of their not-so-miniature craft. It was a poignant trip as my last flight to Sabo was with Gègè in his ill-fated Air Copter. That big machine was so amazingly light on the controls (even lighter than Delta-J) that I could hardly feel the rotor. It was an enigma to me. This time I was in company with a reduced but no less enthusiastic crew of Eric, Pierre and Gèrard, who had generously offered to burden themselves with my presence.
Being small and slow, they had us take off first. As usual there was little wind on this humid afternoon and what little there was of it drifted lazily towards runway 13, which meant an extended hammering for Delta-J, devoid of suspension with six-inch wheels. Taxiing to 31 is bad enough, but 13 is even further away and it takes an age to jolt down to the end. Thoroughly shaken up, we managed to scramble into the air after rattling along half of the runway, trying to get the rotors to show some interest. It was a relief to get aloft and find some lift, slotting into our alloted position as the bigger boys sailed past with nonchalant ease. Later, a repreat performance saw us unstick from Sabo’s rough downhill strip, having requested that Eric proceed us in order to harvest his prop wash and boost my lazy Dragon Wings. It never fails. We trickled back to the Gyro Club in line astern, Pierre formating nicely on our right axle. There aren’t many I would trust to fly that close – but it’s shame my action cam was fastened on the other side!
Safely back on the ground, I got the usual ribbing about flying ‘too high.’ Unable to enjoy the same performance and regular practice as my squadron mates, I don’t share their confidence and prefer to leave myself more of a safety margin. They fly too low for my liking – especially when crossing woods, lakes and rivers! Anyway, back at the club we had barely tethered our rotors before Jean Marie began rounding us up for a flight to his house. I felt obliged to join him. Mechanical gremlins had prevented us from flying together, but now we were both serviceable having finally fixed our respective problems the day before I had to leave. Jean Marie is always keen for us to fly together, but once airborne he doesn’t stick around and ‘together’ usually means a mad tail chase for Delta-J and me. It’s not the way I like to fly.
The warm breath that had earlier failed to encourage my rotor blades was by now non-existent, and Jean Marie decided on runway 31, reducing some abuse on my poor airframe. He was already heading for the threshold as I hopped back in after a rapid refuel, and turned the key. Nothing happened. Hardly surprising that the battery connections had shaken loose again, and a few minutes were all it took to fish out the on-board tool kit and tighten them up. Jean Marie can be rather impatient when he gets the bit between his teeth, and today was no exception. Intending to make good use of his prop wash, I thought he would at least wait for us to line up but he was off and away before I’d even strapped myself in. I had my suspicions this wasn’t going to be easy!
Arriving at the threshold, I pointed Delta-J’s nose down the runway and saw Pierre following us out. However, with our leader buzzing testily overhead I thought it best not to keep him waiting any longer. Bad decision. Everything vibrated horribly as I drove the rotors as hard as I could until they had a nice beat going, but I wasn’t fooled for a moment. It takes barely seconds to release pre-rotator and parking brake, and it took barely seconds for the rotors to visibly lose their momentum. Having done all my training by sight, sound and touch, I’m not a fan of relying on rotor tachs, but in times like these when you’re not entirely sure if the battering is due to rough ground or the rotor blades kicking off, I admit that a rotor tach would be very useful. Lacking such an implement means erring on the cautious side and accelerating probably more slowly than I actually could, rather than triggering blade sail which would really ruin the day.
So we rattled and bumped down to the halfway mark, eyes glued to the rotors for any sign of trouble, and still no nearer to flying speed. They were having quite a discussion between themselves: is it worth the effort of lifting the nose wheel before the last quarter of the runway, or more entertaining to wait until the very end and test the pilot’s reactions? At last I felt some lift beginning to gather and not a moment too soon, so I guess they had about much faith in the pilot as I did. Three-quarters of the runway was now behind us. Ride it out, or abort take off and subject Delta-J to another 10 minutes of horrible ground pounding while we taxi back? Seconds to decide or else we’d be going by road. I knew things would (should!) be better once clear of the sheltering influence of the trees on the other side, so with wheels several feet above the grass, I poured on the power. The response was somewhat underwhelming.
This sluggish excuse for a climb out was not to my liking, neither was our close proximity to the road that crosses the end of the strip. I made a rapid left turn across the neighbouring field and flew parallel to the power cables strung along the road, clawing for every inch of altitude. The anticipated improvement beyond the trees failed to materialise and we were really struggling. Pierre had caught up with us (granny on her bike could’ve caught up with us!), shadowing closely alongside and probably wondering why we were hedge hopping. I was wondering that myself. Engine temperature was rising rapidly but to ease its burden by more than a few hundred revs wasn’t an option, and had we been over anything other than the wide open plain ahead, I would have called it quits and gone back. Jean Marie was a distant speck – so much for taking a last flight together! Hoping for a bit of wind or a patch of lift to cross our path at some point, I settled uneasily into a delicate balancing act, trying to maintain what little height we had without cooking the engine. Pierre’s heavy rotors and huge propeller gave him plenty of lift and he could have easily gone on ahead, but my loyal wingman remained at our side. I miss Pierre.
By this time Jean Marie had completed the bombing run over his village, and I was relieved to spot him steaming back towards us at his usual rate of knots – and even lower than we were. Now we can put an end to this uncomfortable excursion. As soon as he had whizzed by, I checked on Pierre’s proximity and motioned that I was turning for home. We were only 15 minutes away and that was 15 minutes too many as the rotors laboured to produce anything useful from the lifeless air. The poor engine gave all it had, doggedly clinging to the measly 400 feet we had accumulated – ironically I was flying like a Frenchman! Needless to say we staggered home (with a few more grey hairs), and survived another close call. That was not pleasant and I really should know better.
Don’t give in to pressure.
Spinning on the Wind 