The competition is with yourself. No one else really cares about
how you do except you. The other guys are there to tell you how well you could
do if you made all the right decisions. Hang gliding competition (or going for
records) is barely a physical process, and almost all a mental, intuitive and
psychological process.
No matter how much experience, reflection, or good thinking that you've put into
your flying, you have to be able to come up with the correct action and thought
in real time, under stress. Will that correct action or thought be there when it
is needed? How does it get into your head and into consciousness (or even
unconsciousness) when it is needed?
I despair when I reflect on the mistakes I have made during a competition
because they always seem to be the same or similar mistakes that I have made in
similar circumstances in previous competitions. They are part of my bad patterns
(the ones we see so clearly in others). Why didn't I come up with a new thought
or action given that I had already thought this mistake through before?
I have so much competition experience that I have a whole range of mistakes that
I can make that I've made before, so perhaps I shouldn't be that surprised when
they come around again. If the mistakes are just a catalog of disconnected
errors, then it is difficult to structure them mentally in a manner that would
perhaps allow me to have a better handle on the pattern and maybe have a chance
of getting outside it. I could use a coach.
I write here again as I have often in the past after a spate of competitions
looking at the errors and hoping to make sense of them as a way to provide you
with some information about these (common?) errors so that you can perhaps have
a chance to avoid them. How great a chance? I don't know.
On the last day of the Sportavia International Open (starting anti-chronological
when it comes to the litany of mistakes) the forecast was "scary." The idea that
was conveyed was that as soon as the ground temperature got hot enough to create
thermals the high moisture content of the air meant that the cu-nimbs would
form. Erick, the weather guy for the day, said that there would be a short
window for flying and that we would have to be on the ground soon. The sailplane
pilots wouldn't be allowed to go cross country on this day.
Now this is just a forecast, but it sure set the mood for me and for the safety
committee which seemed to want to wait, I guess until it got dangerous, before
letting us out to the setup area to get ready for the day. The point being that
I was taking on the fears expressed by the weather man, the fears of the safety
committee, and the anxiety of having to wait until late to launch. The feelings
were in command.
With the sky not reflecting the supposed danger that we faced (it was blue all
morning and early afternoon) we finally are allowed to set up just as a few
small cu's form to the east and start towering a bit. I get out there
first and setup ready to go right away because I'm afraid that it will indeed
blow up as the cu's are now forming and growing all around us.
I have a "strategy" but it just seems a reaction to the fear. It seems like the
task has a very good chance of being stopped due to over development and
dangerous conditions on the course and if I get out there early and get going I
could be the furthest out on the course when the task is stopped, winning the
day. But this means going alone and probably going before the first start window
(for which there is no penalty).
I launch first, making a statement that forget this hanging back and around on
the ground (about fifteen pilots including the highest placing ones aren't even
set up yet). It's time to get out there and get going. But again I'm pretty much
alone in this, which means I won't have any help out there.
I find 1,000 fpm on the upwind side of a black cloud that has just begun to form
over the runway. This is scary as well as great. Scary because the weatherman's
scare story is running hot and heavy through my head. This cloud could suck me
right up, especially given how hard it is sucking right now.
Unlike normally, I'm unwilling to get too close to cloud base. I'm looking
around for the edge of the cloud, seeing lots of other clouds right next to this
one and making sure that I have a way to stay out of the clouds. I pull out of
lift 1,000' to 2,000' below cloud base afraid to get any closer. Again, I'm
running on fear and thinking that I have to run away from these clouds that are
now forming all around me because they are dangerous.
There are no clouds out on the first leg of the course to the south. I notice
this as I fly southwest from the air field to the start circle which is filled
with dark clouds shading the ground below. I'm heading down wind (the wind is
light out of the north) and I'm not finding much lift, certainly nothing like
1,000 fpm. I am torn about whether this is a good or bad thing.
My plan was to just keep going south assuming that I would find strong lift to
get me near cloud base as I headed south but the lack of clouds past the start
circle on the first 30 kilometer leg and the lack of lift under the dark clouds
in the start circle causes confusion. I have to start searching around for lift
and I am unsure of my plans.
I do notice that things don't seem quite as scary as they did at first. With
light or no lift under the menacing looking clouds they don't feel as menacing
as they look. Now I wonder if my plan makes any sense. But I don't fully take
this into consideration.
I have to go back north and east a bit to find lift and slowly climb out at 200
fpm to almost 7,000' again over shaded ground and under dark clouds. To the
south southeast of me along the course line the ground is shaded for fifteen
kilometers by the same clouds that I am slowly climbing under. To the south,
there is a blue area in about ten kilometers with no clouds over it for the next
twenty kilometers, so it doesn't look all that inviting. In fact nothing on the
course line looks all that great and the lift is weak here in the start circle
and I'm alone. Time for reevaluation, sure, but is that possible for me?
I quit climbing and I decide to keep to my plan to leave early on my own in
spite of the fact that it looks bad on the course line. What am I expecting to
find? I could have gone back to the air field and got back up again where I
found the strong lift, but I was still thinking that the task would be stopped
and I should get out on the course to get the most points.
I fall like a rock as soon as I head south, southeast. Now I'm in trouble. I
turn east southeast to head toward some sunlight on the ground under the dark
clouds that I'm under that are shading all the ground around me. This does not
work out at all. The shaded ground is just not producing any lift, even though
it was only a short while ago that it was in the sun. I don't find any lift
before I land. Going from almost 7,000' to the ground at 400'.
For sure the feelings of fear were a deterrent to clear planning and thinking.
My mood and attitude (and that of the meet in general) has been a problem all
week. Changing a plan under duress seems difficult even when the circumstances
are crying out for a change. The fog of war.
Going alone when there aren't a lot of dots to connect out in front of you makes
no sense. The cloudy areas were huge and totally shading the ground (and
therefore cutting off the lift), and the sunny areas didn't have any clouds.
That's no time to be on your own.
Going back when it seemed that things weren't as dangerous as I had thought
would have positioned me with other pilots.
Still, overall, it was a dangerous day with some pilots landing in gust fronts.
Since I had a perfectly nice landing in a green field with an open gate into a
light wind, perhaps I should count my blessings. It could have been worse.
I'm pretty sure that I have learned things in my life. I'm also
pretty sure that I have learned things from books, or from people telling me
things. By learned, I mean actually incorporate into my "mind" and used to think
with or act with at a later point. These "things" are actually there inside my
head incorporated in my processes and available.
I've read lots of books so far, but now I read books for pleasure (books on
cosmology, quantum physics, thermodynamics, evolutionary theory, and code
breaking) and have no idea if I'm learning anything at all from them. I think
not in any meaningful way.
I have a general feeling that I didn't learn much in school, but I probably
learned more than I remember I did. I feel that school was basically an
anti-learning place. I feel that learning is natural and naturally pleasurable
activity, one that we just want to engage in. I'm pretty sure that that desire
to learn can be almost completely dulled by school.
I'm sure that I had to learn how to fly as it sure didn't come naturally. I'm
not sure that I can learn to fly better. I hope so, but I don't know. I'd like
to see myself making less mistakes.
I can hear the stupid voices in my head, voices that really are not giving me
good or appropriate advice under the circumstances. Where is that sage coach
connecting me to what is the truth at that point in time? Truth is probably too
big a word at that point (I did learn that from a book, lately).
I have made the decision to no longer produce or sell the Linknife
Tow Release at this time. This is purely a financial decision that reflects
market forces. It'd cost too much for too little return to continue making and
selling them one at a time. I will continue to support those who own one or more
by offering to replace the blades if needed (though it should never be needed).
The Linknife project was great fun and personally rewarding. More than 1000 were
produced which FAR exceeded my initial expectations - I had wondered if the
first batch of 100 would move. But it appears that most every pilot who saw its
benefits and wanted one now either has it in-use or tucked safely away in the
gear bag.
The endeavor has allowed me the privilege of making many, many new friends from
all around the world. The Linknife has been sent to pilots in Australia, New
Zealand, Canada, Uruguay, South Africa, Poland, Croatia, Switzerland, Hungary,
France, Brazil, the Netherlands and, of course, all over the USA. This part of
it has been a most rewarding experience.
I have only four left as part of static line bridle kits which are reserved for
my personal use and for local pilots only. Good news is that Mojo's Gear
(1-325-379-1185) has a dozen in stock.
Thanks to all who purchased or expressed an interest in the Linknife for this
fun - and safety-oriented - project. It will continue to be my exclusive release
for both static line and aerotowing. But I'm not closing the door completely...
should there be sufficient interest (like if an order of 50 or more comes in)
I'll seriously reconsider this decision.
Special thanks to Donnell Hewett for his enthusiastic support of the concept.
In 1999 I wrote for the SHGA newsletter and website:
The glider stalled as if at the top of a failed loop. It then backslid and
snapped around, breaking my grip. In the ensuing tumble my Wills Wing Z-5
harness suspension lines caught in the CSX wing pullback latch. The left
shoulder of the harness ripped open when I slammed into the rear keel, bending
two of the three spreader bars in the harness almost 45 degrees. I found myself
a passenger in the rear of now upright and intact glider - it was mushing
backwards with me entangled in the keel pullback clasp at the trailing edge. I
could reach nothing but the tops of the two rear flying wires, and thus had no
control over the glider. I looked around and saw that I was several thousand
feet above the foothills, and the glider was pointing generally west.
On Monday July 5th, 1999, 10 pilots
and I launched Horseshoe Meadows in the
Owens Valley.
With light conditions and
a ceiling below 14,000 feet, many people stopped flying near Big Pine. I was
behind many other pilots, so I finally left the Sierra Nevada Range for the Inyo
Mountains nearly five hours after launching. There was gentle lift in the valley
while crossing to the White Mountain range. In the 15 attempts to cross from
the Sierra to the White Mountains, I had made it only half the time. However,
this was one of those few times, so at Black Mountain I climbed up the west
face as it baked in the late afternoon sun. I rose over the top of the west
ridge and dove north for what I hoped to be the afternoon glass-off near
Flynn’s.
In southeast winds there exists a
convergence zone north-northeast of Black Mountain. There the prevailing winds
and expanding air from Owens Valley meet and mix. This area is known to have
gusts of turbulence as well as strong lift, and is called the “Death Zone” by
those familiar with the mountain. If you can fly through this big air, the
slightly less hostile Inyo foothills beckon to the North.
Flying straight north through that zone at 9,000
feet, an unexpected gust rolled my Moyes CSX almost 90 degrees. I pulled in to
dive out of it and a second gust hit, inverting the glider with me still hanging
on. With my feet against the undersurface I was straight armed, and forgot to
try to climb back up over the control bar to bring the center of gravity
forward. The glider stalled as if at the top of a failed loop. It then backslid
and snapped around, breaking my grip. In the ensuing tumble my Wills Wing Z-5
harness suspension lines caught in the wing pullback latch. The left shoulder of
the harness ripped open when I slammed into the keel, bending two of the three
spreader bars in the harness almost 45 degrees
I found myself a passenger in the rear
of now upright and intact glider - it was mushing backwards with me entangled in
the keel pullback clasp at the trailing edge. I could reach nothing but the tops
of the two rear flying wires, and thus had no control over the glider. I looked
around and saw that I was several thousand feet above the foothills, and the
glider was pointing generally west. It looked like I had a few moments, so I
radioed a Mayday and my location to my buddy Powerline Mike, who was drinking
beer at Klondike Lake at the end of his flight. I repeated my location, and
after a moment’s hesitation to reflect on the enormity of what was next, I threw
my chute.
The opening parachute twisted me and the glider
around. I struggled without success to move higher onto the glider. The canyon
walls rushed up, and I was delighted to see a steep rocky hillside with a few
boulders instead of pointy and steep cliffs. I closed my eyes and relaxed for
impact.
The shock was lessened by a strong wind up the
canyon, which slowed the descent rate of my recently repacked 12-year-old High
Energy Sports parachute. Once on the ground, however, the parachute threatened
to drag me across the canyon and over a cliff or something, so I pulled in the
billowing chute bridle and grabbed enough suspension lines to deflate it. It
took 30 minutes to get out of the harness, call to Mike to say I was OK, and to
vector him close enough to see me on the hillside. I folded the Moyes CSX , and
found that neither the crossbar nor the leading edges had broken in the tumble
and impact. Then I started hiking down into a canyon where Mike said the Black
Mountain Road was located.
Although I had started flying with a full liter
of water in my Camelback, after the five-hour flight there was only one little
gulp left. I begin to get very dry while I stumbled down the 100 degree
mountainside for two hours, trying to reach my team. Suffice it to say that I
was very dehydrated, confused and overheated when Mike and Ilona found me and
the harness in the canyon near the Black Mountain road. However, after resting
and drinking two liters of Gatorade, Mike and I then went back for the glider,
and we returned with it by flashlight. They had to get back to Las Vegas by the
next morning, so by the time they left me in Lone Pine I was one tired and beat
up dude. But alive.
According to (e)(2) above, only ELSA used for flight training fall
under the January 2010 timeline for use in that capacity. There is no apparent
corresponding ruling regarding ELSA used for towing. Thus, if I am reading the
FAR's correctly, we will be able to continue to use the current fleet of light
sport "tugs" after January 2010.
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The Oz Report, a near-daily, world wide hang gliding news ezine, with reports on competitions, pilot rankings, political issues, fly-ins, the latest technology, ultralight sailplanes, reader feedback and anything else from within the global HG community worthy of coverage. Hang gliding, paragliding, hang gliders, paragliders, aerotowing, hang glide, paraglide, platform towing, competitions, fly-ins. Hang gliding and paragliding news from around the world, by Davis Straub.
