World Heavyweight Aerobatics
Introduction
Competition aerobatics is a physically tough sport. The pilots used to be stronger than their aeroplanes. That changed about 30 years ago when serious built-for-purpose machines became available. The Sukhoi 26 first appeared at the 1986 Worlds and its performance and manoeuvre capability was obvious. The 30⁰ reclining seat does make a significant difference to pilot g tolerance, and the stated ± 9g limit is well within the aircraft’s capabilities.
This was written in 1994 for a couple of aerobatic magazines. I’d already had a few flights in the Sukhoi 26.
PUSHING (and pulling) THE HUMAN LIMITS IN THE AIR
I wonder if anyone else experiences the same sensations as myself when they start to read those excellent neuro-physiological articles by Fred DeLacerda and John Firth about the effects of aerobatics on the human body and brain. The instant the subject matter has registered my sense of consciousness feels confused, my feet start to tingle and my toes curl. I have to put the magazine aside and come back to it when I’m mentally prepared to accept what I think it’s going to talk about. The experts might attribute this feeling to (something like) ‘the result of a stress-induced-blood-sugar-imbalance leading to quasi-seizure’ (a fainting fit to you or me).
This wimpy response isn’t quite so surprising when you consider what we of the British Tiger Club (mecca of sporting aviation) used to witness around 25 years ago when John and a colleague from London’s neurological centre were pursuing their research into the effects of positive and negative g. After a working week of heavy brain surgery they would spend Saturday lunchtime happily rigging up the Zlin and themselves with assorted recording equipment, and then go and fly a planned programme of manoeuvres. All jolly stuff, you might think, but then they would land, taxy up to the hangar, sit on the grass and take distinctly noticeable quantities of blood from one or the other (or both, maybe). This was gruesome enough but it would usually happen round about the time when we aerobatters, formaters or just aeronautical eccentrics were ready to confront the generous English-type afternoon tea that was waiting for us in the steamy tearoom.
These were the days when the balance between the strength of the human frame and that of the machine lived at a lower level than today. Generally, aerobatic battles were fought out in +6/-4 low-powered trainers, or their direct descendants. Induced drag was called upon with discretion – energy was at a premium. The stable and often heavy-to-fly aeroplanes made the pilot work hard physically and mentally, and tried to protect the structural integrity of both in the process – with variable success.
Famous 30s stunt flyer and longtime US jury member Mike Murphy was well known for his pronouncements from behind the judging line. In the cold 1970 wind of Hullavington I heard him cry “Cognac! I need Cognac!” causing the chief judge to send me scurrying to the Officers’ Mess for a bottle and lots of glasses (Judging Rule One – keep the judges happy). Two years previously he had declared “Ground effect saved that boy” after witnessing the famous low Winternitz pushthrough; and two years later I heard him shout “Ma arm’s achin’ for ya, boy!” while watching a valiant struggle with an unsuitable machine. Sometimes the aeroplanes came apart.
The modern state-of-the-art aerobatic machine is a masterpiece of strength and manoeuvrability by comparison. A big engine means that induced drag can be squandered like a B17 gunner hosing bullets. Figure for figure the aeroplanes are much easier to fly, so the pilots do much harder things in them – cornering included.
In the sixties the European monoplane world with its wings of bendy metal or splintery wood looked askance at the S1-S Pitts with its hard corners and fast flick rolls. ‘Is this trend a good idea?’ some people thought. In 1976 I heard the Americans say “We want to see some of this graceful European style”. Things have changed a lot since then. It’s progress (evolution).
One day at WAC90 I was remarking on how physical the Sukhoi flying looked. Guido Lepore agreed. “That’s right; when you come down from a practice flight you don’t get debriefed; you go and lie down on some special beds they have there”. “They don’t need a trainer”, suggested my assistant Randy Reinhardt, “more like a corner man with a bucket and sponge”. The boxing analogy seemed very apt. If you go to Borki you will see the beds – a good idea; rest is essential between flights – but the Russians are emphatic in their advice about throwing punches. “Be very careful”, they say.
The US Navy Topgun school has a good motto – ‘Fight like you train”. It applies well to aerobatic competition, but is easier said than done. The flight-with-audience feels different, even for the experienced; but mentally rewriting your own rules between competition flights is not a good idea. It’s difficult to resist this temptation, however; ‘Everyone else is flying more aggressively than me – much more zap. I’ll have to give it more welly than usual, otherwise I’ll look like a beginner’. Wrong! If you are tempted to make a fortissimo start you could have a few surprises to cope with. Everything will be different; stick forces, pitch rates, amount of box and sky used, sense of timing, and G! It’s likely in a modern machine that you will smite yourself a heftier than usual blow to the head.
Actually, because of over-eagerness, nervousness and the adrenalin factor, you walked into a punch you didn’t see coming, and in the first round – how embarrassing. A zeroed figure here will count as a knockdown, of course, and a break for re-positioning represents a standing count, a chance to remind yourself of what you are supposed to be doing up there.
Even if the show stays groggily on the road the usual response to a surprise in the first round is a dramatic change of style during the next two or three figures; keeping the guard up, clearing the head, reestablishing a feel for your normal style, careful not to make another mistake. Harry Carpenter and Jim Watt would talk about settling down to his work, boxing himself in, getting rid of butterflies. The US Navy gets the snakes out of the cockpit.
Unknown programmes usually produce the greatest impression of a rushing-into-the-ring, arms-flailing-wildly, no-guard style; perhaps with a return to grogginess and indecision halfway round the programme when height runs out. It never seems to happen in programme one; but first round knockdowns (overzealousness) or mid-flight surprises (loss of focus if things are going well, or mental exhaustion if they’re not) are not uncommon in programme two, the pilot’s own routine. Sometimes a competitor seems sufficiently hyped-up that a blow capable of felling an ox goes unnoticed. At Yverdon (1990) a good new pilot sent her g meter off the clock at the corner out of her first programme two figure, officially rendering her machine unserviceable for the remaining figures. She won the programme and stirred up a hornets’ nest about dangerous judging (dangerous judging? – my parasol and MFI lounger emerged unscathed, at least).
Conversely, we also witnessed one true knockout – classic GLOC. This occurred towards the end of a rather stressful unknown programme, and happened to a tired, sick and dehydrated pilot who insisted on doing his bit for the fatherland anyway. He just ran out of fight before he had stopped pulling. Fortunately he was pointed skywards when the breaker tripped and a large number of seconds went by before a sufficient level of service was resumed so that a long circuit and landing could be made.
At the other end of the scale a bit of bad luck (eg an over-rotated spin or snap) might be adjudged a knockdown (zero) rather than the slip to the canvas that it obviously was, bearing in mind the sensible nature of the flying.
From the ground it is sometimes difficult to be sure what is going on up there. Are we witnessing a master riding on the edge, accepting the risks (mostly technical) that go with 110% effort?: or are we seeing reckless determination without the experience or judgment to go with the occasion? Maybe we are watching a resilient slugger who might fall over now and then; but is unlikely to get hurt (like the tough Afrikaner who struggled to the end of the unknown, battling away, rolling with the punches, finishing exhausted but correctly slow and inverted, only to spin off his wing rock, but that didn’t matter).
For whatever their causes serious mistakes observed in the modern high energy sport could lend themselves to the following typical gross error summary: ‘Knockdowns in the first, ninth and tenth, a standing count (and a public warning for low punching) after ten and a slip-over in five (wrestled to the canvas) – could go either way.’ This, of course, means that figs 1, 9 and 10 were zeroed; 5 may or may not come out as a zero; and an interruption penalty applies between figs 10 and 11. Low penalties are likely in figs 9 and 10.
High performance aeroplanes are dangerous in the wrong hands. Of course there is a place for one-design competition for example, compulsory g limitation, power limits, or anything else that protects the vulnerable; but there’s something magnificent about the unlimited Titans giving it their all. It’s voluntary, after all; nobody makes you do it.
‘Seconds out! Figure one!’