Maniototo (NZ Landscape)

Big Big Sky

I reckon Kate Bush has been to Maniototo, in Central Otago. That’s where she got her inspiration for Big Big Sky. Janet Frame wrote passionately about the place and Graham Sydney has brought it alive on his canvases. Giving us an audio, visual and bookish insight into the big wide-open country.

Late afternoon.

From my vantage point I have ineptly tried to capture it in digital pixels. I will fail. I can use the full memory card in my camera and still not get that sky in. A photo misses the quality of the air, the fine definition, and its emptiness. The vast 3 dimensionalness is beyond my limited vocabulary. Perhaps this is why the Health Board built this Sanatorium here for TB patients. To give them lots of fresh air and something vast to look at. The complex we are staying at is perched on the Southern foothills of the Maniototo plain. It has an awesome panorama, 270 degrees of it. I know why I am having trouble capturing this view. It’s because I haven’t anything I can compare it to. It is so different, that’s its weird beauty.

I look across a wide-open plain. A patchwork of greens and browns. Dotted with miniature trees like a model railway. Somewhere down there beyond my eyesight is the old path of the railway. Snaking its way across the flat. It used to be a pathway for trains now it is a main vein for tourism. The mountain bikes pulse along it like red blood cells. Replenishing the cafes, pubs and B and Bs with valuable gold. It was a stroke of genius to take an old disused line and turn it into a rail trail. The main artery supplies from the heart. Clyde, all the way down to another major organ, Middlemarch. I noticed vehicles in Maniototo don’t carry spare tyres they carry spare bikes just in case you run out of fuel I suppose. It’s very likely because it’s a long way between stations.

A tiny dot races across a backcountry road leaving a rooster tail of dust. The sun is creeping across the plain illuminating the paddocks one by one. Like the last of a wave sneaking up the beach to your bare feet… knees, whilst you’ve got your back turned. In the centre of the Plain is a gathering of English trees sprinkled with a cluster of houses. Their windows and metal parts reflect the suns intensity, star like. In fact at night they make their own constellation against the total darkness of the black velvet plain.

In the middle distance the foothills are rounded and smooth. As the sun sets they are a study of contrast. Dark and light, a fawn silk sheet crumpled and exhausted, lying peaceful after a frantic day of high-energy sun. The foothills are a gentle introduction to the jagged range of bare rocks trying unsuccessfully to hold up the Big Big sky. The Mountains are steely gunmetal grey. Now in Summer sprinkled only at the very tops with the merest hint of snow. The grey against the blue defines the crisp skyline. More impressive than any cityscape man could try to imitate.

Then there is just Sky. A full two thirds of my view is filled in with Big blue sky at first a pastel starling egg blue leading up to a darker azure highland blue. The sort of blue that speaks of clarity and pureness. Heavenly.

This morning.

Scattered through the big sky is only a handful of clouds. None of them look like Ireland today. Today they are pristine white wispy stringy high-speed stuff. Lower down they are clumpy browny grey threatening but not really meaning to rain. Unlike yesterdays curtain sheets that ran across the plain gobbling up the landscape then spitting it out the other side, washed, rinsed and sparkling.

The quality of the light is amazing. A new sort of focus like getting new glasses. The light plays games. It falls and creeps across the plain like a slow rolling wave or it punches through clouds and acts like God's spotlight. Or it hides in the folds of the foothills only revealing little bits at a time.

It is entirely that quality that makes this place so attractive to poets, writers, painters and dreamers. Kate knows but even she fails to catch the essence, Graham knows but he is stuck with 2D. You’ve got to come see and feel for yourself. Bring your bike and Kate's CD it’ll get you in the right frame of mind.

 

Big Big Sky by Kate Bush

They look down

At the ground,
Missing.
But I never go in now.
I am looking at the Big Sky.
I'm looking at the Big Sky now.
I'm looking at the Big Sky.
You never really understood me.
You never really tried.
That cloud, that cloud--
Looks like Ireland.
C'mon and blow it a kiss now,
But quick,
'Cause it's changing in the Big Sky,
It's changing in the Big Sky now.
We're looking at the Big Sky.
You never understood me.
You never really tried.
This cloud, this cloud--
Says "Noah,
C'mon and build me an Ark."
And if you're coming, jump,
'Cause
We're leaving with the Big Sky.
We're leaving with the Big Sky.
And we pause for the jets--
hup! hup!--in the Big Sky!
You want my reply?
What was the question?
I was looking at the Big Sky.
Tell 'em, sisters!
"Rolling over like a great big cloud,
Rolling over with the Big Sky!
Rolling over like a great big cloud,
Rolling over with the Big Sky!"

Open Air Concert (Flying)

I wrote this after a trip to Omarama to watch gliders. The music that is mentioned in the text is supposed to fit with the action taking place at that time. If you don't know the music try listening to a few of the pieces and you should get the flavour.     

 

Open Air Concert

 

Some people just take to classical music. Others prefer rock and roll or country or Jazz. I have always admired classical music and I have gone to the odd concert or two. I usually embarrass myself by clapping in all the pauses rather than recognising the end of the piece. I can name popular pieces that advertising companies hammer to death but to date my CD/MP3 collection has only about 10% of its music that dates back earlier than 1960.

Classical music involves hard work, it is more complex and more three dimensional than modern music. It certainly needs a team effort. I have a huge respect for anyone that can play a musical instrument having made a dismal attempt in my youth and given it up for the sake of humanity.

 

Several years ago I was at a Christmas picnic at Omaka when the late Ray Lynskey preformed a glider demonstration to a piece of classical music. It was awesome. I didn’t know gliders did anything but float back down to earth like sycamore seeds. The display was fluid and moving. It was a wonderful example of conservation of momentum. I was impressed with what could be done without a motor. Rays flying talent, perfect choreography and a well chosen piece of classical music made for a jaw dropping experience that I can still visualise in my minds eye today.

Some people get bitten by the gliding bug and yet others prefer powered flight or helicopters or ballooning. I tried gliding once but was most disappointed by the lack of excitement, speed and noise. Back then I preferred Pat Benatar. We got a tow up circled the local rubbish dump a few times and landed again. It was more a pop for your buck rather than bang. Then my bucks got diverted into fuel for powered flight. Four bangs per buck.

 

I went to Omarama this Christmas. The first attraction to gliding was the late starts. Glider pilots go to a briefing at 10am to suss out the weather and therefore the activities for the day. This suits me far better than balloon pilots who I see landing while I am munching my way through breakfast still in my dressing gown. The second thing I liked was the community feel to the campsite. Achievements were recognised and applauded, sometimes with a surprise bucket of water to boot. There was an extended family feel, especially in the kitchen. With the international guests and cooks hovering over a communal stove it felt like a cross between the three tenors and the Muppets Swedish cook. Yes Chaos. New years eve was a combined BBQ and an ooh-aarh display of fireworks (1812^th).     

 

Glider pilots are constantly reading the sky like musicians read sheet music. Interrupting the notes/clouds for the tune of the day. The key clouds giving them a clue to the frequency and tone of the wind. It is said that old pilots can read the weather like a newspaper. Lennie, the weather guru, was a master. Lennie started 10am sharp and watching glider pilots trying to get breakfasted and showered in time was funny William Tells overture, Rossini. I think of Lennie as the conductor giving guidance and order. Some cloud shapes seemed to get great excitement out of the glider pilots, lenticular wave cloud was a favourite. I suppose musicians prefer some musical pieces to others. 

 

Once the weather was right all hell would break loose on the start grid with everybody wanting to get into the air at once. “The flight of the bumblebee” by Rimsky-Korsakov. The tow planes, Pawnees, would set a rhythm. Up, drop their glider and back in to collect another glider in around seven minutes. Like a metronome constantly ticking in the background.

Then the gliders would all collect over a ridge, turning around and around to gain height like circling vultures. Once enough height was gained they’d swoop for the next up draught. Arrival of the Queen of Sheba, Handel. I’ve always found Handel uplifting. They use thermals like steps to get up to, if they are lucky the wave. The climaxal piece, O Fortuna Carmina Burana Orff. If they get too high and start getting ice on their wings “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, The Nutcracker by Tchaikovsky”

its time to start descending. Dance of the Hours, Ponchielli. (Yes I see a toilet roll ad, it should be outlawed).

Sometimes there are out landings. A powered pilot would call it a forced landing. Pilots run out of lift and have to land in a paddock away from their home field. Glider pilots seem unfazed by this inconvenience. I imagine them serenely listening to “sheep may safely graze” by Bach while they are waiting for their pick up crew. They may have to put the ipod on repeat it could take awhile. I’ve heard some pilots chose to adjourn to the local pub until said crew turn up. Hungarian Dance No5 Brahns 

Then there are the soloists. The stand out performers. Vanessa Mae, Warm Air, Nigel Kennedy L’estate (Four seasons, Summer). Kiri Te Kanawa soprano, Pavarotti tenor, They are recognised for their skill and stamina. They play long solitary pieces and make records that capture the attention of the public bringing fame, fortune and recognition to the classical sport.

 

At the end of the day if we were lucky we got treated to a fitting finale by Terry Delore in his majestic glider showing once again what can be done with momentum. Ravels Bolero.

 
This summer I was content to sit on the ground enjoying the performances, admiring the talent needed to fly these plastic pterodactyls. Next year I might take my ipod for a fitting musical cues to the visuals. Vangelis 1492, Conquest of Paradise perhaps, though it’s sort of been done to death by some rugby team. If I get lucky enough to be taken aloft I think perhaps Piano Concerto No.21 by Mozart would keep me calm about not having a motor. If we make it to Mount Cook I’ll switch to Ave Maria Schubert I figure I’ll be soaring with the angels by then.

Published Sport Flying Spring 2010

Master class (Flying)

Early (January/February) each year the Marlborough Aero club run a STOL competition. This is my write up on the event in 2013.

Master Class

Charles Blomfield was my great great Granduncle. Charles was a landscape painter probably best known for his paintings of the pink and white terraces before they got blown to smithereens by Mount Tawawera. I have a print of the terraces and another less known picture of a grove of kauri trees titled “Natures Cathedral”. The original is enormous and lives somewhere in the dungeons of the Auckland war memorial museum.

Charles painted this masterpiece for a competition near the end of his painting career. It was apparently loved by the public and won the peoples choice award. The judges unfortunately were looking to promote more modern styles and passed it over. This broke Charles heart who had poured his soul into the work. The picture was taken home and hung at the foot of the stairs and all the family and friends delighted in the illusion of walking into the forest through this portal. A little like a Cessna180 can transport a pilot into another world.

The healthy bastards bush pilots competition was similarly entered by masters in the art of precision, short takeoffs and landings. The entrants were a who’s who of outback flying. The aircraft ranged from DMF, the Marlborough Aero Clubs faithful Tomahawk to Sounds Airs Cessna Caravan.

To a casual spectator it was entertainment up there with a Red Bull air-race. Constant action, pilots verses gravity, conveniently right in front of our eyes. Like an artist going to an exhibition the devil is in the detail. Pilots will critic far more rigorously than the general public. The styles were numerous. There were the fast and furious, the low and slow (stalkers), the throttle fiddlers, the dumpers, the skidders, the ground kisses, the arrivals, the under-cookers (short), the over-cookers (long), the wheelers, the flap bouncers, the tail smackers, the glide-slopers and the bounders. The winners didn’t necessarily present the prettiest flying techniques but I now know who I’d trust to get me in and out of a bush strip with all my organs still in place.

The framework (rules) were clear. Anything before the line was disqualified. As it should be. If you misjudged your landing during the real thing and ended up in a tree it would be game over. Bounces of more than 10 metres (horizontally) were taken from the second bounce. The touchdown point was judged on the main wheels. The STOL (short takeoff and landing) was the combined length of takeoff and landing. All competitors got two shots. I am pleased to say no aircraft was harmed in the name of competition by nosing over under brakes and falling out of the sky due to zero airspeed. Overall ALL of the landings I saw were amazing. Most of the landings I would have been mighty proud to have called my own. All credit to those willing to front up and strut their stuff. I certainly wasn’t game to fly my colours. In saying that a Bolkow would have had just as good chance as a Piper cub in the precision landing. A lot of pilots landed very close but just short of the mark, disqualifying themselves. Perhaps I’ll enter next year (yeah right!).

The competition was run with military precision. With 67 aircraft entered and the typical pilot time adverse behaviours it was a credit to MAC personnel that it just seemed to flow. There was the usual compulsory coffee caravan, food and ice cream trolley. The commentators Ray Patchett, Willie Sage and, Craig Anderson were informative and funny keeping us entertained throughout proceedings. Rays hospitality extended into the evening with the dinner, prize giving and dancing being held in his hangar. He reckons it’s a great deal. Once a year all these people turn up and help him clean up his hangar. A party at Rays is never complete without music. He excelled again in his selection. We had music with actual words and real instruments.

The necessary swop of runways at lunchtime was filled in with radial entertainment in the form of a fleet, a beautifully restored Cessna 195 and the rumble of Bill Reids Anson. Fittingly the main sponsor Doc Dave was taken for a fly in her. Other sponsors included, Sounds Air, Spy valley Wines, Simply Avionics (lets not go spreading at rumour Lester) and the Marlborough Aero Club.

 

My peoples choice vote goes to the Bearhawk for looking like the business. The aeroplane was so new the paint still looked wet and the pilot didn’t look much older. Despite low time in the aircraft Jonathon Battson came a very respectable third in the STOL heavies category. If I was a betting woman I’d put my money on him for next year. First and second in the heavies went to the 180s. John Richards in BKG and Micheal Tapper in BJU.

The microlight category was dominated by Zeniths who took out the two top places. Deane Philips first in JUG. Second went to Jock Struthers in ZMX. The fit for purpose Carbon cub CSS with Robert Gray was a very close third. The light touring class was dominated by the PA-18 cubs. BOY (Nigel Griffith), BTX (Bruce Coulter) and ERB (Innes Bint) in that order.

The standout pilot performance to age ratio has to go to Jack Griffith. A pre-PPL 17 year old lad who would put 80% of NZs CPLs to shame. He reckoned he cheated by practicing! What does he think all the old boys have been doing for the last 50 years?

There were a few salubrious shelia’s competing in the precision landing. Jan Chisum in her mini-cab RJK and Karen MacDonald in a Tomahawk DMF. 

 

The pilots and machines were as varied as pictures in an art galley. Like art, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. A judgement on style, colour, strokes, depth, subject matter can all be made by the observer. At the end of the day none of that actually matters. To the artist or pilot it is all about them. Most pilots outwardly were competing with each other (and for the prize money) but inwardly their harshest judge and biggest competitor was themselves. Putting their heart into a project either on canvas or into fabric and metal.

The competition was called the healthy bastards bush pilots champs. It was where the bush pilots came to town to show us townies how it’s done backcountry style. It’s given me a new respect for short dumpy planes with large wheels and big capacity engines. I have this image of them in their campsite cuppa in hand, freshly caught fish frying on the open fire, their object of desire parked on the only patch of flat dirt for miles, living temporarily in their own bubble of serenity. New Zealand is famous for this spaciousness. Long may it be available for all to enjoy. Weather it be tramper, mountainbiker, jetboater or pilot. Who knows one or two may even take up painting a masterpiece.

Published Aviation News March 2014

The Mistress (Flying)

SAA (Sports Aircraft Association) have a fly-in every Waitangi weekend (February). It alternates between the North Island and South Island each year. The southern event is held in Ashburton and is called the Great Plains fly-in which is appropriate as Ashburton is on the Canterbury plains. I attended the 2007 event and this piece came to mind. 

The Mistress

There is a curious thing that happens to men when they realise age is catching up on them. In order to recapture their long gone youth they find someone much younger and prettier than themselves to compensate. Makes them feel young and virile again. Its not new it’s an age-old phenomenon.

Normally sensible, conservative, quiet men start giggling like teenagers. Set up secret bank accounts. Slip out after dinner for a couple of hours “to the shed” and are gone until 2am. They suddenly have business meetings in out of the way towns all weekend. They get secretive and cagey about where they’ve been and who with. They come home with odd smells, fibres and substances on their clothing.  Worst of all is the constantly grinning like Cheshire cats.

Normally this activity takes place with just two parties involved at a secluded low-key location where they are not likely to be caught by anybody who knows them. This weekend I’ve uncovered a whole swarm of them brazenly throwing caution to the wind and openly flaunting their mistresses for all to see. What’s worse they are exposing the good people of Ashburton to this flagrant behaviour. If we are not careful it will catch on and more men will take up this activity.

It’s a kind of temporary insanity where they will spend hours planning the get away. Looking anxiously at the weather, booking a motel under Mr and Mrs Smith, coming up with excuses why this weekend isn’t a good weekend to mow the lawn (because the lawnmower is broken), fix the lawnmower (because they have to get a special part from the States), putting up that new trellis or going to the mother-in-laws for Sunday lunch.

My observations at Ashburton were nearly more than I could bear. When they thought nobody was watching PDA (public displays of affection) occurred. Constant massaging with essential oils until their mistresses skin simply shone. Much touching and stroking of the prop, gently running the fingers over the instruments and almost audible cooing. Some of these men tried to make other men jealous by removing coverings and exposing prominent parts of their mistress’s physique.   

I noticed that they basically fell into two camps. Those that threw a cover over their object of desire and pretended they just happened to have business in Ashburton and those that took to the skies and unashamedly showed off their new toy. Some would sneak away for an hour at a time and come back looking just a bit too pleased with themselves. Bit like a seventeen year old who thinks he’s got away with having his girlfriend over for the weekend while his parents where in Queenstown.

If this wasn’t enough there was a certain COW who hardly appeared in public only to vanish again into the skies. This had to be their first weekend away. One fella had his maiden mistress out for her first outing. A bit shy staying well out of sight for most of her showing. One churlish girl threw her cheap ring away and demanded a new more expensive one. A Starlet was duly dispatched to Cust and a brand new glossy rubber ring was placed on a delicate appendage within the hour. See what I mean they’ll do anything to impress.  

Some brave blokes think they have a handle on this game and dare to bring both wife and mistress. Juggling the affections of both. Sometimes blokes will let their wives have a mistress and  things gets really confusing when their real mistress brings the other mistress.

Most sensible wives see this mistress phenomenon coming and recognise there is no winning. They   over vital issues (like where the lawnmower key is) and she knows his friends will make sure he doesn’t make a complete fool of himself. Besides they come back in much better moods.
either join in or take up golf. They also are rather pleased because as one wife said in blokes and their sheds “saves him coming in and lifting the lids of the pots in my kitchen”. Generally fly-in locations are well advertised, cell phones mean instant communication

 
Generally women who fly to these events are far more grounded and don’t need to prove virility or youth so we can just sit back and watch knowingly, laughing at the strutting peacocks and admiring their young beauties.

Published Sport Flying Autumn 2007

Yellow Duckies (Flying)

In April 2007 I attended the Australian Women Pilots conference in Mudgee. It was a real eye opener. The conference had lots of interesting speakers, delicious food and ran like clockwork. The one outstandingly memorable event I took part in was the ditching practice in the pool. I'll let you read on.
  

Yellow Rubber Duckies

The programme for Thursday said ditching procedures. I always thought the procedure for ditching was joining the nearest religion when the engine starts to cough over water. I figure any religion will do as long as it has satellite coverage for your present location. A yellow lifejacket, an axe and if your over more than a puddle a life raft will probably assist as well.

 

We were told to bring togs (bathers) so maybe we were going to start with a baptism. John started the session off with a series of slides showing that miracles do happen. Good news stories of people that have ditched and had a God on their side. He pointed out that a large majority of people survive the actual ditching only to die in the water. The lesson, conserve energy and don’t lose the faith. Easier said than done, as I was about to discover. John made a roomful of friends by also suggesting that a bit of body mass was also advantageous.

Next it was too the pulloo (pool). The idea of public displays of flesh may be fine when all the participants are 20 and 50kg but in my older wiser years I wasn’t so keen to have spectators or photographic evidence. Having the local newspaper reporter was pushing my exposure boundaries. I would have hidden but having a bright yellow collar around your neck kind of makes you stand out.

Once standing on the edge of the pulloo we were instructed to pull the ripcord. This went against the norm. I usually put my life jacket on to cross Cook Strait then try not to pull the ripcord. Flying in a cockpit smaller than a 152 there just isn’t room for an inflated lifejacket and a voluptuous pilot. Pulling the ripcord gave me a bit of a start. With a sudden gush of air my neck was encircled by a yellow brace that would have made a bullfrog jealous. Pulling the second ripcord only amplified the problem. Now looking like a yellow bullfrog in togs and completely blinkers from seeing behind me and mostly deaf from ears enfolded in yellow I turned to watch John indicate how to enter the water without torpedoing to the bottom by stepping in legs apart. I watched a formation of ducks land on a pond the next day and they were much more graceful.

 

Thirty odd women with yellow neck braces doing the ministry of funny walks leaping into a small pulloo started a wave of laughter as well as proving Archimedes theory about displacement of water. Some spectators who’d listened at school retreated to higher ground.

 

Now we had to float on our backs and pull our legs up into a foetal position (to conserve the body core heat) and hold that for two minutes. Two minutes was long enough I was starting to get a picture of how hard it would be to stay in that position for hours not minutes. Then we were instructed to form a huddle. We collected together all the yellow floating duckies and formed a circle. A small circle was easy enough but to include the whole group complete with injured people wrapped in large plastic rubbish bags in the centre of the circle just brought on another round of riotous laughter. The process was a bit like forming a Congo line. Being only able to see forward 100 degrees also made collecting everyone difficult. Eventually the frayed ends joined up and we held the circle for a couple of minutes.

 

So now you have a mental image of thirty or so yellow duckies floating about in a small swimming pulloo making as much noise as a bunch of bullfrogs on a rainy night. Add in a few whistles and the noise of the spectators who were falling about in hysteria as well.

With the aid of a megaphone John added the toys into the bath and tried to get our attention. The toys where life rafts, four and ten person rafts. 4 + 10 ¹ 30. John gave us the instruction to enter the life rafts he gave us no clues or hints as to the procedure so there was just a free for all. Arms and legs everywhere. A mass stranding comes to mind with bodies half in half out of the water and the rest in shallow water about to risk a similar fate.

After a lot of splashing John called a halt and told us how it is supposed to be done. Two of us per raft got in with someone holding the opposite side of the raft to stop it flipping.

Then we sat astride the pontoon and dragged someone in. Easier said than done. The two per raft got ourselves in looking like four ducks fishing the bottom of the pulloo floor for duckweed, arses pointing skyward. Once in we grabbed a victim by the arms bounced them three times then pulled them in. Unfortunately some of us were a bit over zealous with the dunkings I don’t think the idea was to completely submerge our victims. I was going for the baptism thing.

With the first person we pulled in one of Newtons law came into play. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. As our victim got pulled into the raft and I exited back into the water. The other law of physics is that when an object is moving it wants to continue moving in that direction. So having got over the edge of the raft it was very hard not to exit out the other end. Only the wall of people already in the raft stopped the forward flow. Getting back in backwards I was just over the edge when someone gave my legs a helpful flick I went in with an unladylike back flip nearly drowning in the water in the bottom of the raft. John finally had us shift from one raft to another. By now we had a handle on the fluid stability. Things were going well until we had six in the four person raft and four in the ten person raft. The smaller raft was about to sink to the bottom when John called a halt. Either his training aids was about to be trashed or he was about to loss one of us to drowning through ingesting water whilst laughing so hard.   

The whole session was hilariously funny. If you missed it find a kid and twenty yellow duckies throw them into a bath together add some yellow whistling bullfrogs and you’ve got half the picture.

 
Much as this was the most fun I’ve had semi-clothed for a long time and the spectators said what they would have done for a video camera. It was a very sobering lesson to think that this was done in a controlled environment. Flat heated swimming pool where we could always reach the side. We were in the company of friends, no broken bones, no unconscious persons, no sharks, and no panic. We used typical GA type rafts, which we spent ten minutes in max. The real thing would not be such child’s play. I for one will be better prepared and in a more positive frame of mind if I ever do ditch my plane.

I am thinking of adding a yellow rubber duckie to my survival kit just to remind me of the ditching procedures session at Mudgee. When they find me they will think I’ve lost my mind but it’ll just be that I am remembering and laughing at how thirty women can dress up in yellow jackets and become instant comedians.

Published Sport Flying Winter 2007

Long reach (Cycling)

Longbeach is a property out towards the coast from Ashburton. Each year they have a mountain bike race/challenge. I talked a couple of my co workers into riding in the race/challenge as a team. Needless to say we weren't a threat to the front runners.  


Family Support

There are some things in life you just can’t change. Your parents, the town you were born in and your position in the family order. I was and always will be “the little sister”. I had two older brothers who in turn tried to, drown me, throw me out of trees and generally use me as the crash test dumbie for their various contraptions they built.

The drowning wasn’t intentional. I just happened to be tagging along behind and as the water got deeper they didn’t notice me disappear. AS a result I now swim like a fish, sink or swim. The trees usually had a flying fox attached and as I was the lightest I got to try it out first. Hence I quickly learnt what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

The Longbeach Coastal Challenge is a warm, country, family focused event so it was appropriate that I attended with my pseudo brothers. It helps that the older bigger pseudo brother has the same name as my actual brother. The other one even though younger than me oscillates between acting older and younger. They both still treat me like a little sister.

The first part of the race I spent trying to get used to the traffic. We then settled into a pattern. The two of them would coast on ahead calling back encouragement and I’d pedal flat out to catch up. They’d stop and wait for me and just as I caught up, out of breath, they’d cruise off again, argh! I was back to feeling like the little sister running to catch up. I even fell into the water trap game again, following them trustingly across streams. Though I am taller now so drowning was only an option if I fell into the stream still clipped into my bike and talking (a distinct possibility if I hadn’t been so out of breath).

I HAD been training. Back in Christchurch on the MacLean’s Island track I could comfortably do 30km, so I figured 23km pha! I’d be sweet. What I didn’t realise was “this ain’t Kansas Dorothy”.

A 28 degree day out on the open plains was the first indicator I had that this might not be a cycle in the park. Number two, grassy meadows may be good for cows but they are energy sapping on bike tyres. Thirdly there were the little uppy downy parts to transverse the many ravines. I made that mistake once before with waterways. The Buller half marathon is not down a river valley. The Longbeach ride is not along a nice flat beach. I am still learning. Don’t judge an event by it’s name.

After 10km I stopped talking, always a bad sign (both sets of brothers probably disagree). That whining noise has stopped where is she now? I kept giving the boys the option to go on ahead without me but they loyally waited. With my real brothers it was because they’d be in big trouble with mum if they lost me. With these two I suspect it’s got to do with the increased workload if I don’t front up Monday morning at our shared place of employment. So they waited and waited and waited some more. They said they were enjoying the scenery. Animal, mineral or vegetable scenery, I didn’t ask.

After the 15km mark I was willing to admit that the 35km, which I’d originally entered (and been talked out of) would have had me out after dark. Hi-jacking the marshal’s quad bike looked like a viable option at this point. There was something they’d said at the briefing about broken bikes being picked up. Did that include broken unfit city dwellers who’d been duped into a nice Sunday ride in the countryside I wondered? Besides as I’d suggested we do the ride in the first place I’d never hear the end of it if I faked a breakage of me or the bike.

At the 21km mark with the Longbeach farmyard in sight and only 4kms of road riding to go (or so I thought) I found another gear. The boy with the refreshing water hose was just what I needed to cool me off and clear my head. What a little angel.

Then came the cruellest part of the course. Another river crossing just when you thought you were on the home straight. Once more into the breaches. Dismount, walk, and remount. Then I saw the finish line tents yippee!

We crossed the line together. Well ok they let me go in front just for a change. Brothers can be nice like that. I got them a round of drinks and then collapsed in a heap. After stacking the bikes on the truck and finding some dry socks, we hunted down the famous steak sandwiches, Yum.

Sitting on the hay bales rehydrating and reflecting on the ride I had to admit it had been a challenging day out with a couple of top blokes. The whole event was friendly and relaxed. The army of volunteers were helpful and cheerful. There was a real community feel to the day, the family focus was refreshing and did I mention how delicious the steak sandwiches were?

 
Apparently my brothers tell me we’ll be back next year to do the 35km ride. Best I do a bit more meadow/ravine training before then. Nothing like a challenge, and a bit of family support. Cheers Bro’s 

Neil, Geoff and myself
Photo credit AshburtonOnline.co.nz

 

Ms Pit (Flying)

Whilst at a fundraising event at Rangitata Island to raise money for Brent Thompsons trip to Aussie I brought a couple of raffle tickets. I was pleasantly surprised to discover some weeks later that I'd won a 20 minute flight in PIT with Andrew Love. She has got to be the sexiest plane I have ever flown in. This came to mind afterwards. 

Ms Curvaceous Pit.

In a hangar not too so many miles from me lives a creature of divine seduction. She is small in stature but big of heart. Walking the line she struts her stuff swaying her hips from side to side drawing admiring looks. For her diminutive size she has relatively large double wings. Her fuselage slims down to a tidy tail-wheel which can be a little tricky to control (not unlike high heels). Her tail feathers are beautifully rounded and fully effective. She is unflappable and goes about her business proudly with her head held high and nose skyward.
In the air she is in her element. She moves with the grace of a ballerina. Nimble and responsive to a pilots wishes. Her manoeuvres are so smooth and fluid that her smoke trail looks like a continuous white satin ribbon danced across the sky. Handled correctly, within the rules, she is a pleasure to fly. She wraps her fuselage around you and takes you for a joyride like you’ve never experienced before. Be prepared to be rolled and looped and turned every which way until you don’t know which way is up. There will be yelps of excitement and screams of sheer delight until you cry enough. Then she will gently bring you back to reality. Letting you catch your breath and get your heart rate back to normal.    

Her return to the strip involves a curved approach with a long side slip and a sharp eye out for other competitors vying for a position on the strip or taxiway.              

She demands attention every second you are in her presence. Right up to the door of the hangar. Be warned she has been known to snap if mistreated or if you show any sign of disrespect.    

Her company is often desired to impress. She prefers the arm of a handsome pilot but any pilot with a gentle touch will be acceptable. She can be hired at an exorbitant rate for an hour or if you’re really rich you can take her away for a whole weekend.

She is a quality tart, full of fun and a barrel of laughs.

You don't know how hard it is being an aeroplane looking the way I do.
You don't know how hard it is being a pilot looking at an aeroplane looking the way you do.
I'm not bad. I'm just built that way.

Slightly adapted from Jessica Rabbit of Who framed Roger Rabbit fame.

Published Sport Flying Winter 2014

Strip Flying (Flying)

After a recent short introduction to strip flying this parallel came to mind. It’s about how we sometimes with age get a bit complacent and let things slide. I thoroughly enjoyed the challenge the course gave me and I am keen to go back for more.

I can’t speak highly enough for Sharn Davies, the new CFI at Marlborough Aero club, who gently encourage me to attempt and land on strips that my normally sane mind would have only ever entertained in a dire emergency (like being on fire). 

 
Stripping
 
Ask any engineer that’s been around awhile and seen a few aircraft and pilots and they’ll confirm the truth.

Aircraft and pilots gain weight with age.

Whether it’s the build up of grime, the addition of more and more toys/avionics, the noise reduction padding or that fifth layer of paint, slowly but surely over the years they build up the flab, get heavier and less responsive.

There’s only really one sure method of reversing the process. It’s taking out all the unnecessary toys, and stripping the aircraft and pilot back to bare basics, back to the raw material. Now depending on what paint was originally used and how many years it’s had to harden, will depend on how stubborn these layers will be to remove.

Once the aircraft is in its natural state there can be some nasty surprises in the form of corrosion and wear and tear. Sometimes these parts that have gone bad can be fixed by a little sanding, bead blasting, grinding or in the worst cases replacement. Pilots can suffer from a similar effect in the form of bad habits but be reassured, a little encouragement and retraining can recover the situation. If left corrosion and bad habits can be fatal to both pilot and aircraft, sometimes simultaneously.

We all know the real reason for a good paint job is not to make the aircraft look flashy (maybe for resale) but to protect the airframe from the environment. Good training like a good paint job will also save the pilot from the environment. Fences, trees, farm sheds, hillsides, ponds and rivers.

First thing you have to do is accept you’ve got a problem. Secondly you’ve got to be prepared to commit some time and money to this refurbishment project. Weather can be fickle so you’ll need to schedule in a block of days. Your strip, retraining and repainting will need just the right conditions. Not too much humidity, wind or dust. Not too cold or too hot. Mostly you’ll need the will to learn, brain engaged and patience.

The secret to a good paint job is preparation. The most laborious task is the stripping back of the old paint. This can be done at the aerodrome and has to be done thoroughly again and again until you are back to the bare metal. The original skin might not have seen the light of day for maybe forty or fifty years. On the pilot side getting rid of all that extra flab is going to require a bit of exercise. Circuits are the answer. A confidence course of short field takeoffs, unusual attitudes, tight turns, low level, running at hills, slow, fast, degrees of flap, then a quick push up on “the spot” and away you go again. It is draining both physically and mentally. You’ll build up a sweat even in winter.

It’s not a good idea to leave an aircraft naked or a pilot exposed. Not even indoors. Especially if it’s a little older and more fragile. It would be advisable to move on to the next phase as promptly as possible whilst there’s still a feeling of optimism.

Once you’ve established the basics and sprayed the etching primer on, your ready for the undercoat. Remember the Etching primer is the foundation that everything else sticks to/hangs off.

To get depth into your paint job you need layers. Building up thin layers is much better than plastering on one thick layer. This can be done by introducing you to a variety of relatively easy strips first, building up your confidence slowly. Then you can progressively increasing your workload and skill level to the more difficult jobs.

As with painting you set yourself up for a stroke, do a practice sweep (with no trigger pulled) then once you are happy with the entrance, exit and speed you lay on your first coat. As aircraft are expensive items its best to follow the advice of your instructor. Too fast and the paint will splatter, too slow and the paint can run (the pull of gravity works equally well on paint or flying objects). If you’re not happy, its far better to hold off the trigger and go around without laying down anything.

Once you’ve applied a few layers in several directions covering all the possible angles it’s time for a clean up, review the job so far and have a well earned break for lunch. You’ll be exhausted from all the extra mental exercise and sharp intakes of fresh air.

The next stage requires a step up in skill level and judgement. This is the top coat. This is the one that’s really going to show how much you paid attention earlier on and what sort of craftsman you are. You may choose to let someone else more qualified do the next coat and come back with a bit more experience under your belt later. The advanced part of instruction really requires you to be on top of your game and mistakes can be very public, bad for your health, stress levels and no claims insurance rebate.

If you’ve listened well, had a good basic grounding, followed instructions, got to know your chosen aircraft intimately, you’ll be as good as gold. If you’ve choosen the right paint scheme, applied the right techniques, paid attention to the environment and concentrated on the detail you’ll have a stunning piece of work that you’ll be proud to call your own. You can now go and show off your pride and joy to all the paradise ducks, sheep, cattle and farmers in the district. Being much trimmer and lighter in the frame you’ll be healthier and happier as well.