It’s very hot again here at the Gyro Club, with only a light breeze of no real use – pretty much the same as the last three weeks. Once more I sit in the shade of the hangar, waiting patiently for an opportunity to get my wheels off the deck without rattling down eighty percent of the runway. It’s no fun to stagger into the air for a butt-clenching slide across the sun-baked plain: full throttle barely sustains us as we claw for every inch of precious altitude, the rotors gasping for a breath of lift. I want to fly, not wreck my machine. My little bird wasn’t made for days like these, and so we sit and wait.
Mornings dawn delightfully fresh before the heat of the day, it’s a huge temptation to take wing – but the Armée de l’Air are out there! You don’t see them. They scream along the tree tops, tearing the sky asunder with an unearthly shriek. Just a few days ago, the jaw-dropping apparition of an A400M loomed over the chimney pots of neighbouring Peyssies at barely 200 feet. Okay, they’ve got four engines, but that was ridiculously low – even Jean Marie flies higher than that! Damn right I’m scared of the Armée de l’Air. And so, we sit and wait.
Only during the final two days of my last visit did the weather become suitable for Delta-J. Four months later on return, so far I’ve logged just 55 minutes over the course of three weeks. My total for this year could well be under 5 hours at this rate, with only two weeks remaining before I must leave for six months of enforced exile. Am I completely daft? Who in their right mind would spend £400 travelling for two days just to reach their airfield – not once, but twice per year! Very few might understand.
Light aircraft cruise overhead, rigid wings unperturbed by the tropical air and absence of wind. Point them down the runway, cram on the power and off they go. That doesn’t work for gyroplanes, especially those wearing Dragon Wings like mine. It wouldn’t end well! I can’t help but savour the irony of being grounded by the special way that I choose to fly – and so – we sit and wait.
Gyronaut pals take pity and share a backseat flight, their generosity greatly appreciated with a fleeting salve for the increasingly desperate need to get in the air. Even in these conditions, 9 Series engines have power to spare. Pre-rotation is a non-event, smoothly driving their big heavy rotor blades easily through the danger zone – and suspension is wonderful! What a contrast to the slow and painful scramble that my poor gyroplane endures, vibrating horribly with every raucous twist of the Bendix, shaking us to bits. Wind assistance is essential, or my lazy Dragon Wings just don’t want to know. And so we sit and wait.
The occasional ULM whispers into our circuit to shoot a few practice landings on the scorched and dusty strip. Would that our gyroplanes could be so quiet! Evening approaches, sultry and becalmed with no sign of improvement. A pretty white ULM makes a dainty arrival and stops briefly to visit. High winged with a bulbous cockpit tapering to a slender spine, it reminds me of a wine glass tipped on its side. The mercury remains stuck at 31C and the windsock barely stirs, yet the little machine takes off again without fuss. How jealous am I.
Just think, I could be up there too if I didn’t have to breathe life into my rotor blades. I could have an ULM or a light aircraft instead, but it wouldn’t thrill me at all. Only a single-seat gyroplane truly satisfies the craving. To feel the joyful rush of air all around as the rotors sing in my ears, transmitting their vitality through the controls, it fills every fibre of my being – there’s nothing like it! So me and my Delta-J – we just sit here and wait…
It’s worth it!
