Georgia on my mind

The mournful bluesy crooning of Ray Charles emanates from my computer’s speakers.

Georgia… Ooh Georgia… no peace I find…

No truer could it be. My mind is far from peaceful about Georgia, the site of the first SARL (Sport Air Racing League) race of the season. Far, far, far away—at one thousand two hundred and fifty-four miles as the Ercoupe flies—it’s shaping up to be a real humdinger of a race. There are four FAC6 planes in so far. A pair of Ercoupes, a Cessna 150, and a 7ECA Citabria. That means that, if I were there as well, there’d be a hundred and forty Championship Points on the table for me to take.

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Well, assuming, that is, that I beat them all. A tall order, of course, but I always assume I’m going win.

But beyond points (and don’t get me wrong, starting the season with that kind of boost would be great) that’s the largest collection of planes in my class that I can ever recall seeing at one race. I’m getting an adrenaline surge just thinking about how exciting it would be to fly in that kind of a close competition showdown.

It’s making me re-think, and agonize, over my original battle plan.

Because my original battle plan for the season had been to sit this race out. First off, it’s a long flight for a plane that’s been laid up with all manner of troubles one after the other for the last two years. Second, those aforementioned troubles have left the bank account dry. Financially, I’m already on the proverbial thirty-minute reserve.

Still, over the last two weeks as more and more FAC6 racers throw their hats into the ring, I’m drooling more and more over this race. So much so, that I went ahead and planned the cross-country flight to the race: The fuel stops, the overnight, hangar space, fuel availability. Then I calculated the entry and exit points of each pylon on the course in Google Earth Pro, and entered the coordinates in my flight pad. Now I’m sitting at my computer studying the weather, which—for a change—is perfect.

But there’s a problem, and it’s nothing to sneeze about. Well, actually… it is.

I reach for another Kleenex and blow my runny nose. Again. I wad up the used tissue, and throw it like a basketball toward the overflowing trash can in the corner. Yes. I’ve caught a cold, damnit. And, like the upcoming race, it’s a real humdinger.

The race four days out. I have no doubt, as another coughing fit ravages the inside of my lungs with razor-sharp claws, that I’ll be fit as a fiddle by race day. The problem is… oh hell, the Kleenex box is empty… the problem is that there’s a two-day all-day commute to get from here to there. And that’s not the end of my problems. Tess needs her prop dynamically balanced to smooth out some potentially damaging vibrations; it’s the airplane equivalent of having a car’s tires balanced. That was supposed to happen today, but I called to cancel it yesterday knowing I’d be in no shape to fly today.

But that’s not the end of my problems, either.

Tess also needs an oil change before a trip of that length. Maybe I could do both of those things tomorrow, leaving for Georgia the next day. But it would be tight. And it would require divine intervention from St. Theresa, patron of pilots, to have me well that soon.

Don’t think I’m not lighting candles.

But I know in my heart that I’m too sick, too close, to make this work. If the race had just been a few days later…

Still… Four other planes in my class… I might be well enough to fly to the prop shop and over for the oil change tomorrow… And better still the next day to fly from New Mexico to Arkansas? And better yet the day after that to fly from Arkansas to Georgia?

Yeah, I’ve got Georgia on my mind. In a big way.

Just this old, sweet song (of roaring aircraft engines) keeps Georgia on my mind…


Dressing for success

I believe in dressing for success. If you look the part of your profession—be it pilot, banker, or rodeo clown—you’ll feel professional. If you feel professional, you’ll act professional. If you act professional, you’ll succeed. It’s partly how the world judges you, but I think it’s largely internal.

The same can be said for airplanes. You don’t believe me? Consider how the P-40 Warhawk dressed for its job with the Flying Tigers. Tell me that iconic shark’s mouth didn’t make that plane look like the Zero-eater it became.


Image and product:

Of course, for those of us who own planes on the lower end of the airplane ecosystem, dressing an airplane for success was historically a problem. Because back in the day, ya’ pretty much had to dress an airplane with paint, and there aren’t any $89.95 Earl Scheib paint jobs in the aviation world. A paint job, even a simple one, can cost half again as much as the damn airplane did in the first place; and a real show-stopper of a paint job could easily cost more than the damn plane did in the first place.

A rip off? Paint shops taking advantage of us “rich” airplane owners?

Maybe to a small degree, but painting an airplane isn’t like painting a car. For one thing, you need to paint the bottom, as well as the top and the sides; and there are a lot of moving parts that have to be removed by a licensed mechanic before painting and then correctly reinstalled after painting by a licensed mechanic.

But we can still take a page from the Tigers. After all, they really didn’t re-paint their tan-and-green army planes to dress them for success. They just dressed them up by adding the shark’s mouth. And doing something like that today is even easier thanks to vinyl, which is sort of like a stick-on version of paint—which makes it faster, far cheaper. And has the added benefit of being easy to remove if you change your mind, or your plane changes jobs and needs a new wardrobe. You can purchase this durable, relatively easy to install material on eBay in a dizzying array of designs.

Including shark’s mouths.

But a shark’s mouth on an Ercoupe would be just… wrong. I’m sorry, I know someone out there at some point probably put a shark’s mouth on a ‘Coupe, but I think most of us agree that a smiley face would be a better fit. Oh, but speaking of Ercoupes, our Tessie has been having a wardrobe problem herself. Two giant swaths of Tessie’s skin were removed and replaced with naked aluminum during her recent repairs. As was her crumbling nose bowl. Of course, the shop claimed they could paint all the new parts to match their progenitors. We’d never be able to tell that the parts were replaced, I was assured. The colors would be an exact match.

Color me skeptical.

Because past use of densitometers for color matching has given us some very pretty paint indeed, but not anything that matches any of the 50 shades of blue on the plane. Nor has the local paint guy even been able to match her white in past repairs. On small items, it hardly matters, but these are big panels, plus the whole nose of the plane, and on top of all of that, painting them came with a big price tag. I tried to decide which would bother me more: Cheap naked aluminum or expensive piss-poor matching paint.

I went for the cheap aluminum.

But of course, I knew I had the option of dressing up the panels a little bit.

As I’ve said, shark’s mouths were out. They never even entered the running. Beside which, the part of the plane where a shark’s mouth would go was not the part of the plane that was replaced. The part that was replaced, on both sides, was the area directly behind where a shark’s mouth would go.

I kicked around a couple of options. I could have moved our race number gum ball forward. I considered some sort of race-themed nose art, as Tessie’s current day job is that of Air Race Airplane. Race flags or perhaps a racy pinup. But in the end, in a nod to her hot rod little-engine-that-could soul, I decided on classic race car flames. This was doubly appropriate, as the new naked panels are located right where the engine cowl comes across the body, which on an Ercoupe flexs outward on each side like gills—to let the hot air vent from the engine compartment in flight. Flames on the new panels would look like flames coming out of the engine compartment.

Very cool.

Very cool so long as the fames are art, not real. Real flames on any part of an airplane are bad news indeed. Not cool at all.

My first vision was for blue flames. Blue flames, of course, are the hottest. And the plane, as I’ve said, has about 50 shades of blue on her. I haunted eBay where I found literally hundreds of different flame designs. One looked like photos of real flames. Another was so stylized as to be almost Picasso-like. But it was the tribal tattoo-esque flames that set my heart on fire. They looked just right.

Of course, even within this genre, the options were nearly unlimited. I attempted using my limited photoshop skills to take an old photo of Tess, wipe out the paint, try to make it look like naked aluminum, then graft on downloaded images of the flame designs.

I guess I neglected to dress like a graphic designer. The results were a disaster. I had to stick with visualization.

Of course, as regular readers know, I needed to have some buy-in on decisions like this from he-who-will-own-the-plane next. Reminder: “My” plane is really my mother’s plane, which she willed to my son, I’m just the lucky caretaker. And as my son’s not beenthe most supportive of the race look in the past, I had some trepidation about bringing up my plans.

Surprisingly, he was on board with the blue flame concept, and we camped happily in front of the computer and scrolled through endless designs together until we finally found one we thought had the right look for our flying hot rod.


Our next problem was the color. The seller had two different blue shades to choose from. One was called blue, the other was called light blue. Neither shade of blue was one of the 50 shades of blue on Tess.

At first, I thought the light blue was the better bet. Rio thought the dark blue. As we tried to persuade each other of our cases, he won me over to the dark blue. Unfortunately, at the same time, I had succeeded in wining him over to the light blue.

The real problem was that we both knew that neither shade was quite right, so we were trying to figure out which was the lesser of evils. Actually, it was a matter or prominence. How subtle or how dramatic did we want the flames to be? I didn’t want them to be the only thing anyone noticed, nor did I want them so subtle that no one noticed them at all.

As we couldn’t make up our minds, there was only one thing to do. We called for his mother to join us.

She looked at the flames. Looked at the colors. Patiently listened to our over-thought-out arguments on both of the blues, and then she declared that white was the best way to go, not blue at all.

White. White hot white.



Back in the saddle again

The nose of the blue airplane kisses the waypoint on my flight pad’s display. “Race 53, Turn 2,” I announce, flipping the yoke to the left. Tess’s right wing snaps skyward. I pull back swiftly, keeping her nose from dropping. G-forces push me back in my seat. A gravity-fed rush of adrenaline places me in slow motion. It’s happening in milliseconds, but it feels like minutes. Calmly looking left, down along her wing, the ground below slowly spins as I pirouette around the tall, skinny storage tank that serves as the turn pylon. I’m right on target. I snap the yoke back to the right to level the wings, pushing in to nail her nose to the horizon. Time speeds up again, and I let out a whoop of pure joy.

I’d forgotten how much I love this kind of flying.

Of course, this isn’t for real. It’s only a simulated race. Practice. Practice for a rusty race pilot and a rusty race plane. Like out-of-shape athletes looking for a comeback, we’re back in training, Race 53 and I. How do you train for an air race? By practicing racing techniques and racing maneuvers. What gym are we using for this practice? Our own private race course.

A couple of years ago I laid out a “practice course” near our home airport of SXU to keep me sharp between races, and to test out speed mods. It’s like a mini-SARL race course, except it’s long on the turns and short on the straightaways. It’s just a hair over 33 miles in length, but with takeoff, two runs around the course, cool down, recovery and landing, it’s an hour’s flying with eight fabulous adrenaline-fueled race turns.


I record each practice session on CloudAhoy, an app that uses the plane’s GPS feed to create a highly accurate record of Tessie’s ground track laid onto Google Earth satellite maps, for post-game analysis of our “workout.” The most important thing, of course is to ensure that we didn’t “bust” any of the turns. The second most important thing is that the turns are tight and that each run is close to the run before.

Lastly, it makes me smile when two laps look like one on the download. That tells me that I’m flying precisely on the boring part—the straightaways—which is not my strength.

And speaking of flying, Tess is flying marvelously. Better than ever before. She’s fast. Really fast. Her engine is running strong and cool. And I’m not doing half bad myself, given that I haven’t flown much at all lately, not as much in the last two years as was typical prior to all our maintenance headaches, and I haven’t really raced for nearly two years. OK, well, it’s actually one year, nine months, nineteen days, seven hours, fifty-three minutes, and forty-two seconds.

Not that I’m counting.

The nose of the blue airplane kisses the waypoint on my flight pad’s display. “Race 53, Turn 3,” I announce, flipping the yoke to the left. Tess’s right wing snaps skyward. I pull back swiftly, keeping her nose from dropping. G-forces push me back in my seat.

Yeah, I’d forgotten how much I love this kind of flying.