a r c h i v e d i a r y

1 August, 2011
Laragne, French Alps

Belgian Open competition,
Pilot no.13 reports
(doesn’t want to be 13 again!)

wing:
Avian Cheetah Evo

European health card expired
on 31 July, 2011

photo of my xray showing the pinned humerous, the break is vague diagonal line near the elbow.

‘forearm he-art’ shaped by nature, or rather my accident?! Curious little abrasion, the only bit directly visible to me.

my damaged helmet which struck & dented/cracked the keel, as I swung through the a-frame. Lucky not to have seriously injured my neck/back.

flash photo reveals the fracturing pattern spreading out from the main impact area, across the shell.

close up on the main impact area where the shell has broken away to reveal the fibre weave.

arm scar as of 11 September, 2011. You can see the red areas above and down the inside where I lost the skin surface, proving to be the most painful and weepy of my wounds. Photo courtesy of Vero

a bit closer, odd bulges and shapes but healing. Photo courtesy of Vero

This diary entry has evolved in stages, following my recovery to what is my most serious injury todate ever. I have split it into its 3 main parts, the first and last to be written is the actual flight report as below. The two text links just beneath then reveal my humorous revelation of the build-up to my holiday, and the next my first and somewhat less chirpy initial review.

my flight report!

...till now (3 week anniversary of crash) its seemed the least relevant part of my tale that day. However, my encouraging experience during my first phsyio review, confirmed my growing feeling that the old robust Ennbog is alive and well. Also, melded strangely to the new feeling that somehow, my flying self is back too!

A feeling I proved to myself and regained that very flight, as hugely ironic as that seems not least to me and despite the landing, this has stayed with me.

The take-off felt good, hard to be sure without seeing it in detail from the outside, but I ran her into the light air and had excess energy to climb as I eased out. Wings level, balance good, I soared across the slope away from the launch area and unfortunately, some tempting lift. As I opted to be a gentleman and clear the launch area for others.

I had the advantage over several others down the ridge, who were grovelling in the same place but lower. Looking further down the ridge with others struggling, it looked as light and scrappy as it felt. I cautiously worked all I found, watching those below for signs of something better.

After some scrabbling and a little climbing, I joined those who had been thermaling further down the ridge, who had seemingly followed it over to the area I was myself trying to work. Perhaps the small and scrappy cycles merged at this point if only for a short burst, and the gaggle formed.

It was rough and bullety with cores moving and shifting and I danced about with a class-5 for some time as we each sought to tame the ride. Above us, the gaggle seemed to be doing better but actually they never pulled away, and below never caught up. Instead we all seemed to maintain relative positions amidst gains and losses.

It was all hard work despite promising core moments, and realising the slow net gain to around just 5-600ft ato, yet already drifting some way North of the Charbre, the gaggle began to fragment. Some pulled back to the Charbre or hunted sideways, I certainly did both myself. Watching an area of promising looking cloud drifting South of the ridge I gambled some height gliding back into wind to try contacting it. Alone, I struck good lift and was very pleased with myself, yet it soon seemed to revert to the same horrible mess again and I found myself back mid valley at a similar height, wondering what the lift was doing, or where it had gone.

Having tried one strategy I eyed the next ridge North and decided to make progress. I had the height to get to it just about on top, and felt I might as well hunt there as waste what height I had going backwards again. I also recall hearing my alarm that I’d crossed the start threshold, and with no great promise of height gains where I was, pushed on.

Contacting the ridge at a promising looking rocky area I found nothing and soared Easterly, back towards the main valley area and routes I knew might produce some lift. Almost at the end I found a light hint which I worked, and was soon rewarded with a good steady climb as it evolved itself.

I was joined by another topless, who had followed me over from the Charbre. We thermaled up quite high before an easy transition across to Beaumont, where climbing gliders and a sailplane worked the lift underneath strong looking cloud sign.

Before reaching the main climb area I’d encountered even better lift and happily climbed strongly, and was rejoined from below by the same topless who’d pushed on to the others and then come back to me. I was soon high in the wispies having seemingly outclimbed the others and before total whiteout, set off on a glide on to turnpoint weaving through the blue/clearer patches.

At this time it was all so easy, no need to address the ground anymore, I went directly to the turnpoint feeling out the air and passing through a lot of lift. A topless with a tailpiece – new Combat? – reached it just ahead of me but well below and cruised the area seemingly below ridge height.

Though above ridge height my comfort zone was now somewhat reduced, and all too soon it seemed I was grovelling for lift sign again. Cruising the ridge East, towards the main valley and Aspre turnpoint, I worked some light and elusive lift which promised much, but delivered little. Again. Standing on a wingtip in tight punchy cores, flattening as they faded it was back to the hard work for little height.

I climbed enough to consider a leeward dash to a next likely looking trigger and again make some progress, rather than waste what little height I’d gained in fruitless searches. A little concerned, I eyed the badlands around me and just below, but encountered no rotor and easily made the rocky corner, sun-baking and into wind. And found nothing!

Switching to as hands-off and light as I dared, soaring closely against this edge I found only one tiny area producing any sort of lift. I was tempted to push on around the woody ridge corner, but this looked no more promising and wasn’t into wind either.

So remembering Gordons advice to persist, be patient and work the bit of promise as it may be about to release, I did just that, and it did! It wasn’t booming, but it was upward, though tight and moving in a very odd pattern of surges, sticking, then surging again then sticking. It was tiring but it got me up and on top of the ridge, though the odd surges were infuriating and exhausting.

I’d also noticed my left winglet breaking free during this moment, and briefly considered landing prematurely to rescue it. However, my newly applied string failsafe encouraged me to persist on task, hoping it was enough to prevent its loss. But not the awful dragging affect it then inflicted on my flying.

Now above this ridge area, I could see at its furthest end on track to Aspre, a promising looking cloud shadow. Drifting as it was on track it took little to tempt me over to it, leaving the hard work acrobatics I was wrestling with. Nevertheless, I was grateful for the dynamic little cycle as it had brought me back into the game.

Cruising under the shadow I was quickly rewarded with relatively widespread and more defined lift. It looked good above me beneath the cloud formations I was climbing towards, whereas Aspre was blue with struggling gliders barely above launch. Nevertheless, it took some patience to linger in the slow drift that I was in, but with no obvious signs of lift elsewhere I had to reign in my wish to push onwards. I watched 3 topless Combats with the new tailpieces (Belgian comp pilots I think), join my lift from way below. But during the long drawn out drift they must have pushed on at some point, as I lost track of them before Aspre.

Sensibly, prioritising the lift over immediate task gains I lingered around Aspre and its frantic looking locals, as the lift eventually fizzled. I searched up and down the ridge before snagging the turnpoint at an optimum moment when it was close by. I’ve found Aspre difficult to climb away from before, on all but the Pic de Bure flight, and today was no exception.

I also found some very aggressive pilots here, who seemed to be territorial or something and object to my dropping by, one in particular – topless just like before – proving a real menace and asshole during thermaling. They were very quick to scrabble for any lift signs and seemed almost desperate in their flying, certainly not entirely safe or considerate of gaggles. I quickly reverted to my old ways of unobvious 360s and moving away from pilots to work lift by myself.

After the long tiring scrabble previously, I was rewarded with a nice climb to base once again, all by myself! Certainly a smug grin graced my face, before I resumed my task objectives. However, I’d had plenty of time to experience the affect of my dragging wingtip which dug in on left hand turns and certain wind directions, or dragged my turn wide when going to the right. It was a nuisance to say the least, making hard work of already challenging thermals, but the worst affect was yet to come.

The drift at base was still Easterly, that is from the West, but this was now the wrong direction for my 3rd turnpoint track. The Southerly lower down seemed to be strengthening too, which would make my SE objective more tricky. I didn’t wait long before breaking out on a glide, but I was conscious of now heading into, or over tricky areas I have yet to successfully transit. I swung around the edges of the high ground of the valley in a vague arch, often encountering strong bubbles of lift, yet struggling to obtain a good glide in either speed or angle.

It was with some surprise I quickly realised I couldn’t improve on a 8:1 best glide situation, even going through lift, nor could I achieve or maintain anything like my usual speeds. I still wasn’t convinced it was entirely the winglet, but on reflection dragging a mini drogue chute off one wing tip can’t have been a good thing for performance, especially with speed.

So it was I seemed to get sucked towards my 3rd unsuccessful attempt to round the corner near West Aujuar, trying to use the ridge in the Southerly, but just finding a sinking head wind veering from the East. One day I’ll over fly this place with height and try to master it, it should have been this day given an intact winglet.

On my way down into the bowl I flew through some thermals too low and fleeting to feel comfortable to use, and resigning my tired body – after 3 hours of flying – to a landing. I flew 2 or 3 distinct 360s in different places, as I tried to define the wind direction. The thermal drift seemed to be from the West and I confirmed acceleration from this direction on my gps, but the actual into wind part was more confusing.

I watched a tree in the open with a glider parked beneath shake momentarily then stop and figured the thermal influence that I was flying through, but not confirming a distinct direction. I eyed a tractor a few fields away kicking up dirt, but it wasn’t dry enough to show any descernible drift. Two gliders on opposite sides of the main field parked in opposite directions. A tree line shake then go quiet, just like the solitary tree, again no clear direction sign sustained.

All the time I’m getting lower adjusting my 360s for various landing options across the fields and between obstacles, for various directions. Whilst trying to gauge a clear sign of drift.

As my height and time ran out I went with the best I could discern, and I was wrong. Though this didn’t become clear until the last 10 feet, when the acceleration was quite alarming. Though at first a promising fast final turn seemed to slow up in a headwind, I lifted through a thermal transferring to uprights, got nicely down low. And then suddenly, everything ground-wise sped up. I kept bar in got fast and low, tried feeling ground affect to slow but if anything seemed to be going even quicker.

It was fast, very fast, I was skimming just above the blur of a green field feeling the energy leave my wing, knowing a flare would amount to a crash. A fast crash at that. I opted to try flying till nearly on my belly, then drag feet and ease down as best I could.

My memory of the event was the fast green blur, then tumbling and ending up atop the wing, with a horribly, wobbly left forearm. Which I instantly knew was broken. That sorta held my attention for the next few moments, as I was kindly assisted by a young Dutch pilot, his girlfriend and a Spanish pilot. I saw the Dutch lad carrying back my wing and marvelled that both uprights were perfect looking – assuming a general undercarriage mashing as I struck-in – and then saw the basebar with a savage upward bend, which baffled me for some days.

Later the great amount of sandy dust and debri up the front of my trousers, harness, inside my boots and underpants, indicated that I’d had more success with the initial belly landing than I’d assumed. The bending upward in my tail also suggested this, and between bouts of pain, drips, fatigue, sleeplessness and ward challenges, it began to dawn what the likely reason for the basebar mystery was and all that followed.

Seeing the basebar later out of its bag, part straightened and split – no doubt for derigging purposes – I saw clearly the violence of it and how it aligned beneath my left elbow. Such a violent brake would have thrown me through the a-frame and into the wing, pivoting over onto its back as it went. Thus my destroyed helmet and bashed keel.

Investigation with my Engineer brother revealed no descernible impact on the basebar, but more likely the transferred energy from a wheel lockout. Thrown to the left side the upright could have easily been the arm breaker, as I passed through the a-frame. What is certain, was that the belly landing on wheels didn’t work. Would a mushing flare have been better? The Dutch guy was adamant it wasn’t an option with my speed. But others faired better doing this, although the outcomes looked equally uncertain for injuries and worse.

At the time, I quickly got my helmet and harness off with assistance – saving it from the scissors I knew was coming – and lay down under the shade of the solitary tree, bracing my arm across my side. I managed some chuckles and wincing laughs with the lovely Dutch girl, but her boyfriend was distracted with at least 2 further pilot landings making my mistake landing the same place, tail wind.

One with a drogue chute overshot us all, and needed a very high flare before some buildings. But neither seemed to have broken themselves too badly, employing staggered flares and stumbles before whacking in fast and high. I at least could take some small comfort, that this place had misled others as well as me, but it was very small comfort.

But the final irony is this, I’d flown well despite annoying limitations. I was tired but not shattered, after the 3 hours of technical flying not even any cramp, I could have happily continued. A goal flight felt frustratingly close with that final into wind ridge run just out of reach, to snatch the next 2 turnpoints, then the reliable St. Genius for finals to camp.

I’d finally proved something to myself during this flight, which I’d come to doubt during recent years. How ironic that it ended in my worst injury ever, and I will now have to hurdle yet another barrier before I’m able to see if indeed, I am back from my own personal dark ages. Time will tell.