Tag: RC

Burn’n’Crash

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography2 Comments

Right, for the uninitiated – and noticeably unwashed from those of you who I’ve met – in all things silly modelling, this is the business end of a glider than thinks it’s a proper aeroplane. With the sort of low cunning we’ve come to expect from marketing types, they offer up a flighty solution to days when you’re short of time/wind/appropriate hillage.

Fire it up, chuck it, make it a speck up in the sky somewhere, shut the engine off and glide for a bit. Run out of height, lean on the noisy stick and start again. Great idea, and absolutely necessary for me to add such a niche to the ever expanding mass of winged foam in my workshop.

But this one is special because it has been on fire. A late night chuck should have brought twenty minutes relaxing stick twirling, followed by a cushioned landing in the field of wheat a nice farmer has provided as my makeshift runway.

What actually happened was a perfect launch, a fast climb and then… well… nothing. The motor turned off, the transmitter was no longer talking to the receiver, and my frantic twiddling had all the effect of asking a ten year old to finish their homework. Unlike recalcitrant children, the glider was blissfully serene at this point – merely heading off downwind from a height of 100+ feet, and destined to crash into some poor innocent minding their own business in a spot of cow tipping. About four miles away.

A gust of wind changed that and gravity rapidly brought on terminal velocity, which thumped the model hard into the crop and cartwheeled previously attached parts to all corners of the field. This crashing been happening rather a lot lately, but in this case it wasn’t my fault.

Not that I was much cheered by such thoughts, as I trudged through waist height wheat heading for the scene of the accident. After some searching I found that the model mostly undamaged due entirely to the springy, vigorous crop cushioning the impact. Honestly we’re taking a vertical dive at high speed followed by significant deceleration trauma, and most of the bits were still the same shape.

They should make airbags out of this stuff. Anyway things were not so good up the front with the small, yet eye wateringly expensive, motor controller on fire and – until I took swift action – in danger of setting alight thirty acres of uncut crop. The smell was terrible, and that was just from my shorts after they’d be on the arse end of a thought process that ran something like “How the fuck am I going to explain setting fire to a field?”

Anyway it’s easily fixed. When I get time. Which I have none of, and even should some magically be presented, it’ll be eaten up by pond dredging*, removing broken forks, hammering the transmission straight on the cross bike, peeking inside the budget spreadsheet and fixing myself. With a large G&T.

It’s nice to know my “skills crossover ” from MTB to models is so seamless. Crap building? Check. Excuses? Lots. Rubbish ability? Oh yes. Crashing? Big sodding tick.

That’s a comfort of sorts.

* This weekend I’ve been up to my armpits in smelly, rank and sticky mud. I’ve had terrible flashbacks to riding in the Chilterns.

Confusion

On By AlexIn Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

I’d like to start with a complaint. Not from me, although while you’re asking my left hamstring is giving me serious grief, my knee continutes to move in odd directions and the old shoulder war-wound is not short of random gyp-age.

You appear to have nodded off, sorry am I being boring?* Anyway we traditionally revere complaints down here in the bowls of the hedgehog. It shows people are at least paying attention, and there is nothing worse than desperate attempts to be annoying being met with nothing more than an apathetic shrug.

But this is different, someone complained there wasn’t enough drivel on the site, rather than too much. This wasn’t some back handed compliment that the quality of output has improved, rather the frequency has decreased. There’s a reason for that, I am bloody busy trying to spin plates marked “work”, “family”, “house” and “hobbies”.

Currently I’m metaphorically sat on the floor surrounded by shattered crockery. So rather than face up to the reality that something has to go**, I bought a few more gliders and parked them in trees. That one up there is branded as a “fusion” because, apparently, they couldn’t get away with calling it “the pig ugly bastard”. From every angle it’s a munter, wing too thick, fin to big, fuselage too small.

Reminds me a bit of an aeronautical representation of my own oddly shaped form. Chucking off a slope just to protect your eyes doesn’t help much, except it becomes slightly less ugly – but only because it is further away. Anyway there are all sorts of rituals and nonsense around “maidening”*** a new glider.

Some shit about how it flies, fiddling with complex knobs (which may be where the word “maiden” comes in) and declaring how it will very much improve your flying/sex life/general cool hunting prowess.

Not for me. I cannot really consider a model “maiden’d” until it’s been in at least one tree. This one I hit twice with the ugly stick, one tree to my left, one to my right. And I can say – without fear of contradiction – that this 60inch foam monster is signifcantly harder to remove from a Hawthorn than its smaller, and marginally less gopping, brethern.

I spent time I had none of lassoing trees with hosepipes, and risking a life of which I only have one edging nervously toward the edge of branches. All the time being punctured by vibrant thorns and significantly distressed by vertigo.

So not really the relaxing interlude I was looking for. Neither is this, so I’ll leave you with airy promises of further missives discussing a milestone for the mad dog, a hole in the ground that needs much filling, and some lies around my awesome preparation for the CLIC-24.

For which I need anotherΒ£170 sponsorship if I am to get the firm to match it. So any further donations would be much appreciated.

* In Al’s list of the most boring conversations, other peoples’ minor ailments slots in just behind some vicarous arswipe telling you how clever their children are. Top of the list is – currently – anything involving paintbrushes.

** Generally me. To the off license.

*** There are some obsessives out there that I believe take this verb a little too literally. Still they can’t arrest you for it. As long as you’re not outside.

What goes up…

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography4 Comments

… must hit a tree and then explode into a thousand sad little fragments. But, before we get to that, I need to explain the level of detailed planning that precedes creating a window of time into which you can smash what used to be money.

Kids Easter Egg hunt starts at 12:30sharp. Flying starts at 10. So roll out of bed at 8 and:

08:01: Release mad dog and receive traditional greeting of big slobber and 30kg of misplanted paw on my foot.

08:05: Engage in daily re-enactment of “attack of the killer chickens” as you release the hungry, fat peckers , and then run away as they hunt you down assuming there is a hidden lettuce about your person.

08:08: Complete removal of chicken poo from beju poultry residence. Count chickens and sum only three. Recount does not magically produce another chicken. Notice dog has helpfully nosed gate open through which “free range Willy” has motored through.

08:09 Corner chicken and attempt to catch through use of approved “double arm grab”

08:14 Decide whoever approved that technique has clearly never dealt with Killer Chickens before. Examine bloodied peck marks while Mexican standoff breaks out. Dog attempts to break back in by herding escaped bird using an approach best described as “Bottom Sniffing”

08:16 Dog joins human on the bloodied side of Mexican standoff having been chastised by the beak of doom

8:17 With a “fuck this, it a sodding chicken not a bloody grizzly bear“, successfully apprehend squawking pray using “big wing” arm movements followed by swift Rugby tackle.

8:18 Flushed with success, don’t notice chicken flushing herself as she squeezes out a line of shit, perfectly aimed at my recently (as of 30 second ago) pristine new fleece.

8:19 Look into mad eye of the Chicken and know it’s laughing at me.

8:20 Return chicken to POW side of fence, attempt to clean up fleece poo but merely marinate remainder of clothing with liquid shit. All chickens now pissing themselves laughing.

8:25 Stalk out, return to house, stick both model batteries on charge, decant entire truck full of spares, wings, God knows what else from one room into the 4×4. Congratulate self on remembering to actually pack same number of wings as fuselages*

8:40 Wolf down breakfast. Embark on walk with domesticated Wolf.

8:41 Notice key component of Dog Walking missing, namely Dog.

8:45 After some frantic searching, discover Murf in the pond with his “oh it’s me you wanted was it? Sorry I thought it was the other Murphy you’ve been shouting at desperately for the last five minutes” look.

09:20 Return with Dog. Wave in general direction of family and promise imminent return from amazing flying session in which the repaired Boomerang will once again aspire to aviation.

10:30. 20 hours repair, 20 minutes flying. Let’s just leave it there should we. Okay let’s not, it was another TREE, ANOTHER ONE. One day I’ll have a proper accident where I crash into the ground or myself. But no, I just clipped a tree on the final approach. Final being the right word. Plane is wrecked, completely. I’m setting fire to it later.

11:50: Completed my first ever landing with a proper engine-y plane. Well second if you want to count 25 foot in a tree as a “landing”. Second training aircraft is nowhere near as nice to fly, but at least it still looks like an aeroplane. Amusingly everyone was commenting on what a great repair/recover/rebuild job we’d done on the boomer. Makes smashing it into a million pieces so much more easy to bare.

12:30: Return home. Sweep out sorry remains from the truck.

It’s still there. I can’t bring myself to sort it out. What you probably won’t believe – and I know I’m struggling – is apparently, my flying is actually pretty damn good and not many people make their first landing after 8 training flights. Loads of people have been in that tree. Think of it as a rite of passage they say.

I’m thinking of a beer πŸ˜‰

* Ask me why. Go on, ask.

Kneed to know

On By AlexIn Other stuff2 Comments

Well the prognosis from the lovely – if quite headteacher scary – physio is that I’ll probably live. I much prefer her deep knowledge of all things mid-leg bendy, than the doctor whose diagnosis could best be summed up as “you’re old, now get out and stop wasting my time”.

It’s not all beer, skittles and bikes. Apparently the muscles surrounding the knee are weaker than a metrosexual southern cup of tea. This is probably due to the complete lack of conditioning I undertook after beating it with a spiky rock a couple of years back. I idly wondered if treating the inflammation with lager, and then riding the crap out of it while pretending it didn’t hurt counted.

Apparently not. Anyway I’ve a whole load of silly exercises to do, many of which I’m performing at my desk much to the amusement of the rest of the office. You see, to tighten all the appropriate muscle group seems to require a full on “pushing out a big turd” facial malfunction. A gurn if you like, but even more comedic.

Anyway dignity is nothing more than a long discarded relic of younger times, and if this means that I’ll be avoiding the man with a drill and a huge invoice, I am prepared to march naked around the office while sexually troubling the photocopier*. The next set of exercises are allegedly even sillier but I’m struggling to see how. Unless it involves the aforementioned photocopier.

To celebrate, on Friday I’m going to go and ride a mountain bike. First time for three weeks, but I’m sure I’ve lost none of my fabled fitness or awesome trail skills. You never know, I might even find some. This evening I indulged my other passion and walked up a big hill so I could park my glider in ANOTHER tree. Hawthorn if you’re interested.

The kids seems to think this hobby is actually nothing more than travelling the county to fall out of difficult trees. Still the bleeding will likely stop before the weekend, and to show my luck is on the turn, my other – newer and rather expensive glider – disappeared downwind before arriving at ground level well out of sight, but with an expensive crump.

Amazingly it survived unscathed which I am taking as a portent that in terms of divided medical opinion, I’m on the righteous side of the undrilled. At least for now πŸ™‚

* I may have slipped this into my objectives for a bit of fun come year end.

Being Silly

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography4 Comments

It’s official. In the differently shaped world of the Hedgehog, silly is the new serious. Maybe it’s because I never really got around to growing up, or as I have kids of my own, or even – after 40 – days fast forward into weeks and weeks into years, and you have to fill the rushing time with something.

But whatever it is, I have inaugurated Rule#3* into Al’s approach to dealing with the real world. And it is simply “Every week I shall do something properly silly“. There is already quite enough doom, gloom and despondency waiting for a mouse click, or the flick of the paper. What’s needed is some balance, a sense of the stupid, and a reason to giggle.

Today this took the form of trying not to be punched backwards by a gale force wind, whilst being seriously inconvenienced by a wing shaped lump of foam. We waded through damp bracken to crest a high point on the Long Mynd, before being properly bested by Mother Nature.**

Waves of weather washed over us, hail – driven on by screaming wing – piercing any unprotected skin, occasionally clear patches rushed past at the speed of stupid, only for the next front to surf the slope and break right over our heads.

I broke the Wildthing on the second flight. Although that’s an inaccurate statement because a) it was already a bit broken from smashing into a brick wall last week, and b) because it wasn’t flying, it was merely travelling backwards and out of sight while I pointless twirled the sticks.

It took me a while to realise it was broken, as I’d lost it in about fifty acres of featureless bracken. Amazingly I found it nearly HALF A MILE AWAY by twitching the controls and listening for echo of staining servos. Now a non silly person would have taken one look at the damage, the weather and their lack of ability to fly in such difficult conditions and gone home. Sulkily and unfulfilled.

Being silly, I taped the fuselage back together, grafted some further botched repair to prevent the wing from flying free, and headed back to the ridge. Feet soaking, jeans sodden and fingers frozen, I tried again. And again and once more, as the model cartwheeled backwards adding more damage without really ever properly flying.

Being really silly, I kept on going and was rewarded with ten minutes of brilliant fun as the air smoothed out with distance from the edge. Silly possibly went to stupid as practising rolls with a wing held on by parcel tape possibly was taking the whole thing slightly too frivolously. But the model held together long enough for me to see the next weather front rolling up the valley.

We quit then, because two hours of this kind of silliness is really enough. Tea and medals followed and we couldn’t keep the stupid grins off our frozen faces. It reminds me of riding Mountain Bikes when clearly staying inside was the sensible option. Or setting off for an extra loop when light and tired legs are against you.

So it seems I found another way of being silly. And that can only be a good thing. Rule#3, er, rules.

* Rule#1: Life is too short to drink with arseholes.

Rule#’2: If the answer isn’t “a big glass of wine and a sit down” then re-phrase the question until it is.

** Who was clearly having a bad hair day.

Splinter Groups

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff3 Comments

There is a cost per use issue here that I need to air. My cheap’n’cheerful glider has seen a few hours flying – intespersed with spectacular but non debiliating crashing – for a lump sum of sixy quid. The two planes with proper noisy engines have amassed a cost about six times that for, oh let me see, six minutes flying.

This ratio has not been any way balanced by the sad splintery remains for the Boomerang which suffered a mid air collision at the hands of my instructor. Hardly ever happens apparently, and while that’s a comfort of sorts*, it failed to prevent a furtive scoot into Hereford with a scribbled list of the exotic wood and glues that may fashion a repair.

And so into the model shop, which is mainly configured for those lonely souls who have failed to put away their childish things. A point much demonstrated by two men – showing no external evidence of a recent escape from a high security loony bin – rifling vigorously through the model train accessories bucket searching for two matching sheep.**

This is under the fond gaze of the three proprietors clearly plucked from the all Herefordshire final of “Least chance of ever getting laid” competition. This surreal pastiche of badly skewed humanity was enhanced by an extremely venerable old lady, laden down with a tea tray, hobbling carefully from kitchen to till in a time period best measured using the term “epoch”

I hurried out before being Borg’d by cardigan, and hid the geeky balsa under my coat. Honestly, I’d rather be caught reading “Hardcore Poodle Sex” by my mum that trying to explain to anyone I’ve ever met why I’ve been shopping in a place where strange, unwashed men get excited when discussing train gauges.

Which was pretty much my experience of climbing a big Welsh hill last weekend after bagging up the remains of my Boomerang that ended yet another unfulfilling flying experience. I stuck the Wildthing under my arm and made slow progress up half a mile of vertical hill to be met with a view that had CGI written all over it.

And a bunch of men – although as they were all dressed by their mum and sporting bobble hats and goggles, I’m making a bit of an assumption here – who could be best described as somehow positioning the Hereford Model Shop misfits as sexually charged Brad Pitt lookalikes. They ignored me, on the grounds that I wasn’t sporting food in a beard or my own carefully cultivated selection of warts, and I ignored them right back while trying to work out how to fly a light glider in 35 MPH winds.

Unless flipping upside down before firing it off behind you like an unguided missile, and then burying itself in soft peat counts, I’m not sure I quite got it. I went back to riding bikes which feels familiar, safe and really not that stupid. Which tells you everything you need to know about the shadowy world of the Aero Modeller.

Love the flying, really do especially the glider which is a mere 5 minute drive away from being chucked off a decent slope. It’s mentally quite absorbing, technically interesting but peopled with a group of aliens who somehow tuck Mountain Bikers in the middle of the sanity bell curve.

Bit of a worry if I’m honest.

* Not really.

** Full size, that’s fine.

Oh Shit.

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography4 Comments

That is all.

Well not quite. Don’t pretend you’re not all laughing. Because I can hear you. One year on from the last time I deposited it into a tree, and after all that extra time flying, the hours on the simulator, the apparent occasional element of control and it only bloody well ends up there again.

50 feet up there to be precise. I have found I am not much good at throwing sticks. And, when I became very bored of not being very good at that, I tried climbing a tree. I was even worse at this.

It was all going so well. Circuits, landings even a loop. And then a combination of fading battery and a panic turn the wrong way saw the plane land undamaged. Fifty foot in a tree.

I have no idea how I am going to get it down. I am considering setting fire to the tree.

I am now off to ride my bike hoping that my tree hugging tendencies stop at crashing RC aircraft.

Fly like a…

On By AlexIn Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

.. Turd. Although not your common in the garden average pooper. No, what I am attempting to describe here is an organic-mineral cross that gives the sinking feeling of a bare footed encounter with some utter smelly horridness, matched with the flying characteristics of a shot brick.

That’ll be my glider then. Looked ready for action, flew ready for a bin bag. There was a proper, grown up aerodynamic reason for that which has little to do with the build instructions, and much to do with my inability to follow then. I’ll not trouble you with the plane-crash journey from childish enthusiasm to traditional despair, but this kind of little mistake could happen to anyone.

Of course it happened to me. Starting with A trudge up a muddy slope with three family members who wore that look of disappointment once “come on, let’s all go it’ll be fun” turned out to be anything but. Even the dog looked pissed off as we wouldn’t let him go and chase sheep*

A friend took my flying wing under his, and attempted to introduce it to aviation. It bit back with the resolute terror of those afflicted with proper vertigo. Instead of leaping into the air as a randy salmon, it performed a fast half roll and embedded itself in some innocent bracken. We tried again, only this time with more enthusiasm, and amazingly that did make a difference.

Matthew - Wilding Flying (14 of 15) by NADMAC Photo Matthew - Wilding Flying (3 of 15) by NADMAC Photo

It was harder to get out of the ground. I’d not built a glider, I’d built a hand powered drill. Some comflaggerated-fluffage later, wiser men than me kindly pointed out my stupid f*ck up and – in a moment of temporary insanity – let me fly theirs instead.

Matthew - Wilding Flying (6 of 15) by NADMAC Photo Matthew - Wilding Flying (9 of 15) by NADMAC Photo

At which my frustration took flight, and I spent a number of extremely focussed minutes playing chess with the air. I have to admit to being rather smitten with the whole thing – it’s not a boy’s toy full throttle power sport, more a slightly less sedentary hobby than, say, fishing. The glider does most of the work, while you just give it an encouraging nudge in the right direction**

Matthew - Wilding Flying by NADMAC Photo Matthew - Wilding Flying (12 of 15) by NADMAC Photo

I had to give it back as a) it wasn’t mine and b) it was far over a valley at about -100 feet. My flying pal effortlessly brought it back while I wondered how cheating could beat experience and hand/eye co-ordination. If it is the same as bikes, pointless upgrades are probably not the answer.

Worth a try though would you say?

* He’s not a Yorkshireman, therefore he’d do it all wrong,

** Which after this week, is going to be my new approach to work.

Wildthing

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography2 Comments

Hobbies, strange things aren’t they? Somewhere between mere displacement activity and a serious mental illness. And even at the not completely bonkers end, fierce debate rages over the classification of how one spends spare time.

Not being good enough to fly real aeroplanes is a representative example. It’s not a hobby, it is sport* so told to me by a humourless middle aged man, wearing a non ironic Christmas jumper and a serious expression. Really? Oh yes, it was reclassified in 1987 by the association of Who Gives A Shit, when a bunch of fat, pointless people really cared about it.

I may have paraphrased a bit there; unfortunately while my face was performing conversational normality, my mind had wandered off on a flight of fancy. Not actual flying because so far that has been denied my by the weather, my engineering skills, and some cruel acts of fate involving spending hobby time trying to get interested in wooden floors.

I’ve broken one model twice before it ever even got off the ground. Possibly trying to fix a key component β€œ the throttle β€œ with a wheel spoke was complicit here. All my repairs are now sponsored by Mr Heath and Mr Robinson, after a real effort to impress involving balsa wood, scribbled drawings, and appreciative beard stroking by those who know lasted all the time it took to say Hey look, you can do this… ah.. it’s broken

The other plane finally flew, although it did exhibit the handling characteristics of a food blender powered by a Saturn Five rocket. This vertical take-off was lengthily preceded by two men β€œ one who knew everything and the other who knew nothing β€œ standing in a muddy field willing the recalcitrant little bugger to start. Eventually the traditional incantation of Start you sod, otherwise I’m emptying this tank of nitro fuel over you and fetching the blowtorch! generated the sound of an angry wasp miked up to a sub woofer.

So I’ve** built the Wildthing which, you many notice, has no engine and is therefore configured for me to crash without any help from a willing instructor. But that’s not the thing really, the best bit is these flying wings are specifically designed for combat. Yes that’s right, the simple concept is to take out your opponent by playing airborne chicken.

My one skill is flying into things. The ground mostly, but let’s not worry about such technicalities β€œ I’m confident of some kind of success this weekend. Not in my local Hills though, because the self appointed nitwits who apparently care for the Malvern’s are specifically chartered to ensure nobody can have any fun at all.

That’s a rant for another day, but come Sunday a magnificent gladiatorial battle shall play out in the skies above the Long Mynd. A location where a few of us will be attempting to kick the shit out of each other’s models, while protecting our own. RAMMING SPEED MR SULU shall be my battle cry.

Now THAT sounds like a sport.

* I’ve spent the thick end of ten years riding round in a muddy field being told Mountain Biking is a real sport. Maybe the guys on TV count, but the rest of us are just delusional. The acid test is to ask a complete stranger and they’ll tell you EXACTLY what it looks like.

** Carol.

Going Spare.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff1 Comment

I am. They didn’t. Next time I will. Even looking ever backwards to my fortieth birthday, I have yet to achieve a level of calm when multiple failures pile up on my personal highway. It all started with good intentions, as such disasters invariably do.

Firstly a slow puncture highlighted a problem with my spare tubes, of which there were many and the number that held air, which were none. Slackness personified, my standard approach of decadently replacing old with new was stymied by a lack of fresh rubber.*

An hour later, the kitchen floor was awash with a tidal wave of water, my entire patch collection had been deployed, and four tubes now leaked a little less air than before. Flushed with success**, I spent some time worshipping at the voodoo of the front mech, before retiring satisfied a pro-active maintenance regime would be rewarded by trouble free riding.

Which made the horror of an abandoned ride at 8am this morning all the worse. Firstly my cranks basically fell off, when the drive side bearing stripped itself of a thread and made a break for freedom**. My riding buddy responded with patience, a quick return to base plan and – almost immediately – a aurally impressive exploding tyre. Luckily he’d not flatspotted the tyre, unluckily he’d flatspotted the rim.

No time to fix any of that as I was under orders to be initiated into the local flying club at 11am sharp. I arrived ready to go with flight box, fuel, trainer, a whole shit load of funny shaped stuff for which I still cannot divine a purpose and a cheerful expression.

Which lasted as long as the first engine start took, which in turn took the prop and flung it across the field. The only modification I’d made to this pre-loved trainer was changing the propeller. Ahem. Things didn’t improve much as fixing that merely broke something else. I can’t say I quite understood the exact cause, but symptomatically opening the throttle sent all the control services into a St. Vitus Dance.

Apparently this isn’t good unless you’ve the plastic bag ready. I do have a spare plane but decided to leave it at home. My reasons are now as cloudy as this beer I’ve been forced to drink. Yes, forced you heard me right, because after having no ride to speak of, no sleep beforehand and no chance to marmalise balsa in the presence of experts, it seemed the right approach to the rest of the day would be to back away from anything expensive, and get drunk on the sofa.

To get my own back on fate, tomorrow I’m commuting by bike for the first time in three months. Unridden bike, uncharged lights, unused climbing muscles. But I’m confident that nothing can go wrong, because HAVEN’T I SUFFERED ENOUGH ALREADY?

I’d be pulling my hair out, if I had any.

* I did consider the obvious alternative, but even fixing tubes was better than sewing condoms. You experience may differ πŸ˜‰

** But not for long. They were all flat again this morning. So I ate them to teach them a lesson

*** I’m going with awesome power of my thighs. Although it does explain why the fromt mech was a bit out.