Tue, 13 Jun 2017
My friend A. came over the other day to test-ride motorcycles with me. He's been riding a modified Harley 883 Sportster for either most or all of his motorcycling life, but is considering moving to a V-Strom 1000 soon. I have a Ninja 250 and an SV650, and the SV in particular seemed like a useful thing to ride before getting into a V-Strom, being based on the same engine.
We started him off with the Ninja, on the theory that it makes more sense to radically shift riding position without having to worry about a motorcycle that would also like to leap into action. He found it reasonably comfortable, obviously not overpowered, but also not underpowered. The idea of an engine that spends its entire life revving faster than his own bike's redline was a bit mindblowing, but we did a good circuit around Ballard, and it worked well. He appreciated how easy it was to negotiate turns, and how generally effortless the bike was to ride.
There's a stretch of interesting, twisty road from Golden Gardens to the ridge above it, and we rode that several times as he got a feel for the bike. We pulled over on Crown Hill to switch mounts, and he went off for a quick low-speed toddle around some neighborhood streets on the SV, to get a feel for it before we launched into traffic. Upon his return, he said, "It feels like an angry demon between your legs!" I grinned and said, "Yup." The SV is a considerably hotter bike than the Ninja.
We did the same route, going through some traffic and stop-and-go, and then up the road above Golden Gardens. Again, repeating several times. After he'd done that a few times, we swapped back again, and he re-rode the road (say that five times fast) on the Ninja. I thought his comment at this point was very interesting: "The Ninja takes a lot more work to ride the same route."
The reason that's interesting is that to me, the Ninja takes less work. You certainly have to plan a bit more, and it doesn't have the effortless handling of the SV, but the SV is much more willing and ready to get you in trouble if your attention lapses for a second. If you want to ride around with traffic (the vast majority of my riding), the Ninja is a far easier bike to control. If you want to blast along twisty mountain roads, I still think the Ninja is easier, though it's probably my decade-plus familiarity with the bike that gives me that feeling.
We finished with some freeway riding, including a delightful long on-ramp that gives you a chance to unwind a bike safely -- something the SV absolutely requires if you want to experience its engine's full potential for a few seconds. This is another reason I have long preferred the Ninja: just getting on the freeway with spirit requires more or less 100% performance from the bike, and you're going 60. Using the same control inputs on the SV would rocket you up to 100 MPH before you were sure what was happening. If you're not paying close and careful attention, the SV is deadly. The Ninja is a bike you can wring out on a regular basis, and still be going more or less safe traffic speeds.
We rolled back to the house, and A. got on his trusty Harley to head for home. Before he did, his comment to me was, "Time to get back on the pig..." He sent a text later describing the ride home as feeling like he was trying to guide a drunken friend along the sidewalk -- you're pretty sure he'll make it, but have to hope he won't make too big a fool of you. I'm sure A. is going to enjoy his V Strom when it arrives.
Mon, 01 May 2017
I have just finished the first physical part that is very nearly a real airplane part, in my nascent project to build a Marquart Charger biplane.
As I mentioned last time, I'm going to start on the ribs. In the intervening time, I've gotten the floor painted, built my (first) worktable, and started moving stuff in to the garage. I also acquired my welding equipment, but that's a topic for a different post.
The worktable, conveniently, is built with a 3/4" MDF top surface. It's 33" by 8', so there was a convenient strip of MDF left over from that project. I've now measured and marked the airfoil coordinates onto a piece of that MDF for the rib jig, but lacking 1/4" wood, had to set it aside for a moment. I am not going to print out the rib from the plans at full scale, since I've already found a couple of minor drafting errors, and will work off the printed measurements instead. To some extent, the exact dimensions of the internal structure of the rib isn't very important, and long as it's consistent between ribs. I will naturally be striving to be as close to plans as possible, but there's likely to come a time when I'll have to choose between how it's drawn, and how it's measured.
In any case, lacking the capstrip, but having the MDF, I decided to proceed with the rib nose template. This ended up being (like probably every single thing I do on this project) easier said than done.
First, I grabbed a sheet of graph paper, and measured out the coordinates of the airfoil, as far as the nose would go, and drew it out with the help of a somewhat precariously grasped steel ruler to approximate the curves between points. I also discovered that my graph paper grid was neither quite exactly straight nor quite exactly 1/4" per square. So, marginal. Still, it looked nice on paper.
One problem quickly presented itself, though: what was up with these notches? The nosepiece is notched with 1/4" by 3/8" cutouts, for stringers that run along the leading edge, supporting the sheet of thin aluminum that makes up the leading edge of the wing. But the stringers called out in the later plans were 3/8" by 3/8", not 1/4" by 3/8". Hmm. I asked the question on the Biplane Forum, and the general consensus was that since I was planning on plywood leading edges anyway (generally stiffer and more resilient than aluminum, though probably a touch heavier than the very thin Al called for in the plans), I could just omit the stringers. The plywood would be plenty strong enough to support itself without stringers. Also, bonus: one less order of expensive spruce to buy.
So, that bit of mental gymnastics out of the way, I decided to draw out the nosepiece in CAD, so I could be 100% sure I had the airfoil shape right. One of the comments in the thread pointed me to airfoiltools.com, which gave me a plot of 80 points of the NACA 2412 airfoil that the Charger uses. I saved that list of points to a file (here if you want it), and wrote a quick Python script, which turned into a quick FreeCAD macro (here, but you'll need to modify the file location to suit your installation) that draws out the airfoil for you. If there's enough interest, I may update that macro to handle other airfoils, but at the moment it just does the one.
Anyway, I now had a way to quickly and easily draw a correct NACA 2412 airfoil in FreeCAD, but making the nosepiece shape was more complicated. I ended up spending about 5 hours farting around trying to make FreeCAD do what I wanted, before I figured it out (email me if you want details, it's too far into the weeds for this post). Of course, now that I've figured out how to do it, I can make the nosepiece in about 10 minutes.
All that work resulted in this PDF file of the drawing, which, if you print it out at 100% scale (it slightly overprints on Letter size paper, but the nosepiece is all there), gives you a 100% size, accurate drawing of the nosepiece.
Finally, finally, I was ready to make the MDF template. I carefully cut out the template from the printed sheet, and glued it down to the MDF. The jigsaw took away most of the excess, except on the inside edge, where I couldn't quite turn quickly enough, and had to leave a big chunk. I busted out the files, and started the long, tedious work of filing down the last little bit of MDF to exactly match the printout.
Two hours later, I was the comparatively proud owner of one rib nose template, lovingly handcrafted out of artisanal fiberboard.
This will be the master template, from which I'll use the router to make a copy in MDF, which will then be used to cut out actual rib nosepieces. The master will get locked away somewhere safe, so that if I mess up the copy template, I can make another one that will hopefully be exactly the same. It's a good theory, anyway.
It's nice, finally, to be making airplane parts (or very nearly airplane parts). The build feels like it's almost started. Only 11 years after I first started thinking seriously about it. As occurs to me every time I ponder it, if I had only started then, I'd be done by now!
Tue, 18 Apr 2017
I recently had the opportunity to level-up my airplane game: changing a tire.
I've changed many a tire on motorcycle, bicycle, and once or twice on a car, but changing a tire on an airplane was a new experience. I can see why the FAA allows pilots to do it: it's surprisingly easy.
On a motorcycle with a tubeless tire (which has been a lot of my experience), you have to employ a distressing amount of force to unseat the bead, and getting the tire fully on the rim can be a surprising amount of work as well. Seating the bead is an exercise in "Will it explode and kill me?" as you apply 80 PSI to a tire rated for 40, and it slides into place with two loud BANG! noises.
An airplane, on the other hand, is a gentle, simple affair. You jack up the landing gear leg (simple on the Champ I was working on, my 1956 Champion 7EC), undo the axle nut, and pull the wheel off (carefully placing the bearings to the side, to be cleaned, inspected, and repacked with grease). The tire is deflated first, just in case the axle nut was the only thing holding it together. Then you undo the three bolts holding the wheel halves together, and pull them out of the tire. No force required, it just all gently comes apart.
In my case, I was missing some key components, so the process took much longer than it should have. I didn't have replacement cotter pins (special aviation cotter pins are required, though at 17 cents apiece, they don't exactly break the bank), so I had to walk over to the maintenance hangar and spend $1.80 on 10. After I took the wheel halves apart, looking over the bolts that hold the halves together, I wasn't entirely convinced they were aviation-grade hardware, so another walk to the maintenance hangar, and $20 later, I had a complete set of replacement hardware for both wheels.
As it came time to re-assemble the wheel with the new tire in place, it became obvious that I was missing a torque wrench, so I toddled off to Harbor Freight to blow $22 on a small clicker wrench in inch-pounds -- the one I have at home can't be set to a small enough value to deal with aviation hardware, so I hadn't bothered to bring it. I switched on the air compressor that came with the plane, and.... nothing happened. Poked around a little bit, but it wasn't obvious what was wrong, so I drove up the road to a bike shop and bought the fatty-est floor pump they had, and now I've got an air source that doesn't make any noise or need any power.
Fortunately, I had the appropriate grease (AeroShell #5) on hand, and greased up the bearings as I reassembled the whole mess in the afternoon sun, wishing the rain clouds would come back so I'd stop overheating. The axle nut is a weird one, just a round section of pipe, appropriately threaded and with holes spaced every 30° around its circumference: it should be basically finger tight, then you throw a cotter pin through it to keep it from coming loose.
Unfortunately, I discovered that the axle nut cover has two of three screw-holes stripped out, so I'll be taking it to someone for some Helicoil action. I'd hate to see my lightweight hubcap spinning away from me on landing some day.
In all, though, the experience of changing an airplane tire was gentle and lightweight compared to dealing with motorcycle or even bicycle tires. It was delightful in how easy it was. I can't wait to tackle the next one, particularly now that I've got all the bits and pieces read to go.
Wed, 05 Apr 2017
I'm nearly done with building the garage that will house my future airplane-building shop, and one of the final steps was to finish the floor. For this job, I decided to use Rust-Oleum RockSolid Polycuramine floor paint. It was reasonably well reviewed, and seemed to be at least as good a choice as straight epoxy, but allowed a much wider lattitude of temperature for application, which appealed to me as the Northwest weather has not been warm.
I prepped the garage, taping off the bottom of the walls, and over the threshold for the big door. The citric acid etch was reasonably easy to apply and deal with, although I suppose I won't know how well it worked until I've been beating on the floor for a few years. Certainly once washed off, the floor was completely clean.
The paint itself was easy to mix, and the "burst pouch" that holds the paint made mixing quite straightforward. I squished around the paint as directed, both before and after mixing the two sections together, and the first coat seemed to go on reasonably well. I bought the two-car garage kit, intending to put two coats of paint on the floor (and there wasn't a one-car kit in the store that I could find, so why not).
Unfortunately, the instructions about working in a series of 4x4' sections were hard to follow, as the first time I set down the pouch full of paint, it fell over and spilled paint into a three-foot puddle before I glanced over and noticed the problem. Of course, that puddle was at the back of the space, far from the door I'd eventually be exiting, so I ended up painting in two long strips with a clear path down the middle so I could get back to the paint puddle to refresh my roller. Ironically, that may have saved me some trouble on the first pass that I only encountered on the second pass.
The results of the first pass were decent, but far from perfect: lots of pinholes in the paint, and a few patches of discoloration where some contaminant was clearly present. Even so, when I looked in on the paint the next day (when it was clearly done curing, assuming the instructions could be trusted) I thought it was still wet, it was so shiny. A touch confirmed that it was cured, though. Impressive! Pity about the pinholes, but the finish quality was amazing.
I let the floor sit for a couple days while I waited for time in my schedule to apply the second coat. It's ok to wait up to 7 days for the second coat, so I was well within the recoat time limit.
I had noticed on the first coat that the foam roller cover they supply with the kit was pretty terrible at staying on the roller frame -- it would worm its way off the frame as soon as I started rolling, and I pushed it back onto the frame at least fifty times over the hour that I was putting on the first coat. It was even worse on the second coat.
For the second coat, I got clever, and dropped the paint pouch into a 2 gallon bucket to keep it from flopping over and repeating the paint-puddle experience. This worked perfectly, and I recommend it as a good practice with this kind of paint container. I was able to follow the directions, and put down a ribbon of paint every 4 feet, trimming in the edges with a cheap-as-possible chip brush, after the nice synthetic brush I'd used the first time completely failed to clean out with mineral spirits as they suggest. I threw that brush away, as it was clear I'd never get the epoxy out of it, and it would be (ahem) RockSolid in a matter of hours.
Unfortunately, the ability to follow the directions made it harder to finish on time. I would have been better served by keeping a roller tray full of paint, as the ribbons from the pouch were hard to spread, and resulted in thick lines that took a lot of time to smooth out. I was rushing toward the end, to avoid working past the rated pot time of the paint (one hour for the temperature I was working at).
Unfortunately again, the roller cover that liked to inch off the tool continued to do this, but I must have tapped it too hard at some point, trying to re-seat it, and the cardboard tube, soaked in paint, just turned to mush and started shedding pieces into the paint as I rolled. This further increased the time I was taking to cover the floor, as I kept stopping to pick out shreds of roller cardboard. The shredded roller cover, in addition to losing pieces of cardboard into the paint, soon lost structural integrity, and a large flap of loose foam was flopping around as I rolled into the final quarter of the job.
There's no question in my mind that my technique was at least partly to blame, but I don't think I'm unusually incompetent among the target market for this paint. The decision to make the roller cover based on a cardboard tube was no doubt a very good one from a cost standpoint, but it made the resulting experience for me pretty frustrating. A fiberglass cover (even the super-cheap latex roller covers are based on a fiberglass tube) would be less likely to inch off the roller, would not be at all susceptible to decomposition in the paint, and would add a dollar to a $200 kit, a price I would gladly pay to not experience the aggravations I went through last night.
It appeared, from my painting last night, that the first coat was surprisingly prone to scuffing. I'm not sure what was doing the scuffing, but I came across a number of scuffs on a floor that I had literally only walked on gently, in carefully cleaned Converse hightops, for a few minutes. Hopefully I'm wrong, and I was seeing wet paint that I misinterpreted as scuffs, but that's not consistent with how I was spreading the paint. I'll know in the next week or two, and hopefully the paint will cure and get harder over time so I'm not just walking around on a two-hundred-dollar scuff-fest. It won't be the end of the world if that does happen, but it will serve to invalidate Rust-Oleum's claim that this stuff I just laid down is "20x stronger than epoxy."
When I peeked in this morning, I was surprised to discover much stronger patches of discoloration than I'd seen in the first coat. The roller marks were still pronounced (I'd been hoping the second coat would be smoother than the first, where I was flustered from the spilled paint at the beginning of the job), and the pinholes were no better than they had been on the first coat. I followed the directions carefully, and did what they said, though I can only assume the problem is in my technique and not in the product. Perhaps I didn't mix the paint thoroughly enough the second time around, after the first time worked out pretty well.
Based on what I know at this point, having not yet walked on the second coat or given it more than a cursory look, I'd make the following recommendations to anyone else wanting to use this product (some of which are probably standard practice that I'm deducing through my mistakes):
I don't know yet if the final coating is any good or not, though I don't have any reason to suspect that it will be bad. The wide application temperature seems like a good thing, but I wonder if painting onto a 45° concrete slab, despite being inside the stated temperature range, might have contributed some to my problems.
The kit was overkill for how I used it. If I could have bought the etch and paint separately, I would have been happier to save money on the paint chips I decided not to use, the second bag of etch I didn't need, and the terrible, disintegrating cardboard-based roller covers. I'm sure the company is happier to sell me a kit than individual pieces, since they get the profit whether I use the whole thing or not, but I found myself annoyed at the wasted money and materials.
I'll put up an entry in a few weeks or months and report back on how the floor covering is working out at that point.
Wed, 22 Mar 2017
I am finally making some forward progress on actually building a biplane, instead of merely thinking about it, and doing activities that prepare me for the eventual build.
The first thing to figure out about the build -- about what happens the first time I take a piece of wood or steel and try to turn it from raw wood or steel into an airplane part -- is where to start. The Marquart Charger has so very many parts.
So, I fell back on a couple of reasonably simple tests: 1. What can I do that will not be a huge committment (in case I hate it and realize it's a waste of time)? 2. What do I already have the skills to do?
The answer to #2 is simpler than #1, so I'll address that first: I know how to work with wood. Although I've had a class in welding, and I was reasonably happy with my progress there, I currently lack equipment to perform welding, and my skill level at the end of class was clearly... beginner. There's work needed before I want to honestly assemble any airplane parts with my welding skill. So, woodworking was a logical starting place.
The only parts of the plane that are made of wood are the wings. The wings are made of these parts, when viewed simplistically: wooden ribs, built up out of little sticks and epoxy; 12 foot long spars that cost hundreds of dollars each; and some steel cables, fittings, and welded parts. The ribs need to be built before the wings can be assembled, so ribs are a fairly obvious starting place.
The rib is built up of 1/4" spruce sticks known as capstrip. The general idea is, you build a jig to hold the various pieces in place by cutting out a piece of plywood or MDF, then screwing blocks or inserting pins, then you cut out a bunch of capstrip to the appropriate lengths, fit them into their locations, and glue the whole thing up with epoxy. Those little squares are made of 1/16" thick aircraft plywood (don't even ask how much aircraft plywood costs), and are also glued on, then stapled in place. Once it's all held together with staples, you can pull the rib out of the jig, flip it over, and glue down the plywood gussets to the other side, and start on another one. There's also the plywood nose-piece which needs to be prepared beforehand.
So, then my list of things I need to acquire before I start goes like this:
As you can imagine, not every store in town carries aircraft certified plywood. There's no market for it. So, that has to be ordered from a specialty supplier in Illinois. Ditto the 1/4" capstrip: specialty supplier. Fortunately, the epoxy and supplies are easy to find locally. The special stapler (a Senco SFT10XP-A/D) wasn't available locally that I could find, but was available online. Special staples from Senco are ridiculously priced (mostly because they come in quantities sufficient for building 100 airplanes), so cheap Chinese Ebay staples are on hand for a trial, and if I don't like them I can order the name-brand ones. The MDF I'll be using for a jig hasn't been acquired yet, but is easily available at any lumber yard for not very much money.
The fancy wood has been ordered, but I don't yet have a delivery date from the supplier.
Of course, I have a stumbling block: the garage isn't finished yet. I've been dragging my heels on getting out there and tackling the final steps, which are to clear it of everything and paint the floor, then to move all my workshop stuff into the space and build a work table for the plane.
There's also the unacknowledged missing tool: how to cut out the nose pieces? I can do it with the jigsaw I already have, but really a bandsaw is the right tool for the job. I don't want to put theater-quality parts into this plane, I want aircraft quality parts. So there may be a major-ish tool purchase on my path before I can really start.
Even with the impediments and stumbling blocks in front of me, it's pretty cool to be getting close to actually sawing wood on the first part of my very own biplane build!
Mon, 06 Mar 2017
The following story is true, to the best of my knowledge.
A group of pilots were sitting around shooting the breeze one morning recently. The coffee was hot, the room was warm, and the sole politically liberal pilot was sitting with a group of Trump supporters. This took place a week or two after the 9th District Court of Appeals returned a preliminary ruling upholding the stay on Trump's travel ban executive order.
The conversation turned, as conversations do, to the subject of politics. One of the Trump supporters eventually made the assertion that, "80% of the decisions handed down by the 9th District Court of Appeals are overturned by the Supreme Court." After mulling this over for about 2 seconds, the liberal pilot looked at the speaker and said, "No they aren't." The Trump supporter was quick to defend his position: "Yes, they are. I read about it on [a right-leaning news website, the name of which I've forgotten]. It's absolutely true."
There was a round or two of "No they aren't" and "Yes they are," then the liberal pilot cut this useless tactic off with, "I'll bet you a hundred thousand dollars you're wrong." This caused the conversation to pause. His tone clearly indicated he wasn't kidding, and in a group of retired people who can afford to own airplanes, it wasn't outside the realm of probability that he actually had $100k to back up his bet. The pilot who'd suggested that 80% of the 9th Circuit's decisions were overturned (an obvious falsehood on its face -- there are only a fraction of 9th Circuit decisions which go to the Supreme Court, much less than 80%) eventually responded, "I can't do that," his tone suggesting he was just a trifle hurt the bettor would make such a suggestion.
Then why did you say it in the first place?! railed the liberal pilot, to himself. He didn't say anything out loud, though, for the point had been sufficiently proven.
The following story, as far as I know, is also true (and to be clear, the terms Seattleite and Montanan are only used for identification purposes, with no negative sentiment expressed):
A 30-something Seattleite was visiting his old stomping grounds in Montana, and was in conversation with an old friend who had stayed in Montana, when the topic of the upcoming election (this was several months before the November 2016 election) was raised. The Montanan said, with absolute sincerity, "You know, there's going to be some kind of a false-flag terrorist attack around the election, so that Obama can declare martial law and install himself for a third term, and eventual dictatorship."
There was that familiar pause, and the Seattleite said, "No way." "Definitely," responded the Montanan, explaining briefly the somewhat convoluted logic which supported this view. The Seattleite extended his hand for a handshake and said, "I'll bet you a thousand dollars that won't happen." The Montanan demurred, but the Seattleite persisted, "Come on, you just said this is guaranteed. This is easy money, why won't you take the bet? I'll give you a thousand dollars when martial law is declared in November." And yet the old friend from Montana wouldn't take the bet.
These stories, to me, suggested a new and interesting tactic to combatting the kind of false news and conspiracy theorization which seems to be running so strong on the right side of the political spectrum these days. It's not a tactic that will work with a group. It's not a tactic you probably want to try on social media (betting is illegal in most jurisdictions, so leaving hard evidence around that you're engaging in it isn't the best idea). But one on one, with people who have a sufficient level of trust to honestly place this kind of a bet, it seems foolproof:
When someone makes a clearly absurd assertion that is easily disproved and yet they seems to stick to it, call that bluff. Make the wager, and make it big enough to be a scary amount of money (or whatever commodity may be offered) if they lose. If they take the bet, you (seeker of the truth that you are) get their money. If they don't take the bet, then you get to have the conversation we're all itching to have: Then why do you persist in this madness if you don't really believe it?
Thu, 09 Feb 2017
Should you find yourself wanting to send a message to someone, perhaps the person currently infesting the White House, perhaps on March 15th, 2017, I have generated some useful files for you.
Download the appropriate PDF files here:
The "front" and "back" files are single pages, allowing you to print with just about any printer -- do a sample print to see which way you need to turn the paper when flipping it into the printer's feed tray. The "front and back" file is both pages in one file, to facilitate printing on duplexing printers.
When printing, print onto pink cardstock. Any cardstock should be fine, but to strictly qualify for the 34 cent postcard stamp, it should be between .007" and .016" thick.
I highly recommend US Flag postage stamps for those of you mailing through the US Postal Service.
Thu, 26 Jan 2017
I must, regrettably, break my long, long streak of not discussing politics on this journal.
With the arrival of Trump as President (I still shudder when I associate those words together), there is no more time to pretend it will all be ok. We're only five days in, and already he's issued executive orders to:
He continues to natter on about voter fraud, for which there is no evidence. He has repeated on live TV that he thinks waterboarding and other torture methods are acceptable, and should in fact be used by US authorities. The list goes on, and as time passes and this post ages, this will most likely look like a tiny drop in the ocean of evil that he attempts to enable.
The refrain I hear over and over again, and which I repeat myself, is, "But what can we do about it?" Fortunately for us, a group of people who lived through the Tea Party years has assembled a handy guide for us:
I will be going through the Guide, and seeing what it has to offer. The time to sit back and let the politicians sort it all out is over. If we want to continue to have a country as we currently recognize it, you and I and everyone we know needs to act, now.
Sun, 08 Jan 2017
I was invited to play with the band in 14/48 this weekend, and gladly accepted -- I've never been invited to be part of the show before. I've photographed, but that doesn't feel the same, since that job has no impact on what actually happens on stage. It's not one of the Five Disciplines (acting, directing, writing, designing, band).
I didn't know what exactly I'd be in for, but was excited to find out, and glad to have my friend Kenna in the band with me. I was also apprehensive: although I've been playing cello since the age of 8, I am not really fluent with the instrument at this point in my life. I've played a number of shows in the last few years, but those were situations where I had a month or two to practice and get the music down before I ever showed up on stage. The nature of 14/48 is such that you don't even know what music you might play until part way through the day. There's literally no way to be prepared other than to have a willing attitude and reasonable skill with your instrument.
As it turned out, I was the least skilled instrumentalist in the band, which was a good thing. Everyone around me was fantastic, and I was able to pick and choose my moments to concentrate on; I could really add the cello's voice where it mattered, without having to worry about supporting the whole show. Our keyboard player is, for his actual day job, a music director in musical theater. He is the choral master at a church, supporting (if I understood this correctly) three different choirs. He is skilled at keyboards, the same way that I am skilled at computer programming. Our guitarist, likewise, is absolutely proficient at his instrument. Also the drummer. Also the multi-instrument woodwind player I sat next to. They were an unbelievable crew, and I was humbled to be in their presence, but also so glad that I could allow their skill to shine through when the music was beyond me, or simply inappropriate for cello.
The first show, on Friday, went quite well. I flubbed my solo in the first show of the night, but nailed it in the second. There were some good cello moments, and the whole process was enjoyable (setting aside my own feelings of inadequacy, which are just par for the course).
The second show, on Saturday, was shaping up to be just as good, though there were fewer clear moments where a cello was called for. We had a good rehearsal, and were much more comfortable with each other as a group. I even had the fortune to contribute the seed of an idea that grew into the opening song.
We set down our instruments as the stage manager called out that she wanted to clear the stage so they could open the house for the 8:00 show and let the audience in, and all looked good. We filed back to the Bullit Cabaret, which was serving as a huge greenroom for the festival. It was that interminable wait between when you've finished preparations for a thing, and the actual doing of the thing.
A few moments later Lesley, the multi-woodwind player, came up to me with a slightly worried look on her face, and said, "There are cello pegs on the ground!"
I had a long moment where I tried to decide if she was joking or not -- she didn't seem the type, but the idea of my tuning pegs just falling out seemed preposterous. I decided she was joking, and said, "Ha! Funny joke!" but her expression didn't change. She repeated, "There are cello pegs on the ground. I think you should go take a look."
In a way, I had been prepared for this. On Friday, the C string on my cello had just come completely loose. I figured it was the cold, dry air outside interacting with the very warm stage environment. In that case, I'd just re-tuned and all was well, if a bit disconcerting. No further problems that night, though.
I got to where I could see the band area, and sure enough, there were two tuning pegs lying innocently on the ground under the cello, and three of the four strings were hanging loose. No problem, we still had five minutes, and it wouldn't take that long to re-tune. I walked out on stage, grabbed my cello, and prepared to head back to the Bullit.
Oh right, the cord. I'd forgotten that we'd plugged in the electric pickup for tonight, so I leaned over to pull it out without applying much critical thought to my actions. The C string, the only remaining taut string, came loose as I tugged on the tight connection, and there was a clatter as the bridge fell to the ground. Crap, thought I. Jen, one of the singers, had been hovering in the wings to see what was up, and I called her over to give me a hand as I disconnected the cable with a bit more care and gathered up the pieces to try to salvage the situation.
It was as if the cello had simply gone slack, like one of those toy figures where you press in the bottom of the base and it all falls over bonelessly. I found myself thinking of gelatin that suddenly de-gels and goes all sloppy.
There was no damage done, but you generally try to avoid completely releasing string tension on a bridged instrument like this, to avoid any chance of the soundpost falling over; that's the piece of wood that spans inside between the belly and the back of the cello, which keeps the belly from cracking inward under the pressure of the strings. If it falls over, you're pretty much done unless you've got the special tongs luthiers use to manipulate a soundpost, which I do not.
I carried the pieces back into the cabaret space and sat down with the cello on my lap, and started stringing the C back into place, trying to line up the bridge where it was supposed to go. The little lightbulb went off in my head though, and I stopped and peered through the F-hole, trying to spot the soundpost. Uh-oh. Flashlight came out, and confirmed: the soundpost was down. I almost laughed with actual delight: this was a completely new experience, and one over which I now had absolutely no control. It was very freeing, in a way. I was never worried, just trying to fix problems as they arrived, which is a very comfortable place for me.
By this time, a small crowd of concerned bandmates and performers had gathered around me, and I tried to explain what was happening, and that, essentially, I was done for the night. There was no recovering from this. I think they were expecting grief and agony, and I just sat there smiling at the universe's joke.
We conferred for a bit, and I ran through the runsheet that Nathan, our keyboardist, had so helpfully put together. We determined that there was nowhere that the cello just had to play (and which would therefore require that actors be notified), and Jessamyn, the stage manager, ran off to get things rolling again. The one cue I'd had that would have been important to communicate to actors had been cut by the director just before we went on, which turned out to be a stroke of good luck in the event of Cello Catastrophe.
I debated what to do with my bandmates, and we eventually decided that I'd come out anyway, and as soon as possible, we'd get Jason's bass guitar from storage and I could continue on that (I played bass guitar for a while in high school, and although I hadn't touched a bass for 5+ years, that would be better than just sitting there occasionally clapping or singing into the complete absence of vocal mic in front of me). Kenna handed me her tambourine, and I made some half-hearted taps when it felt right, but the first act I felt pretty naked just sitting there with no instrument. The band is also the source of many sound effects, to which I was contributing, but half my sound effects were based on having a cello in front of me.
Fortunately for me, Jason and Dan, the drummer, were on the ball, and produced the bass out of thin air at intermission. I had an instrument to play, even if it had been ages since I'd played it. Why not have my reintroduction be on stage, in front of 150 people, for songs I'd never played in my life? Sure!
It actually worked out pretty well, all things considered. Nathan was already playing a bass part on the keyboard, so I was able to come in and contribute to the sound when I could figure out which notes I needed to play. It turns out, to my unwarranted surprise, that "I Wanna Be Sedated" by the Ramones is basically played on open strings on the bass. It's super easy.
Between the 8:00 and 10:30 shows, I was able to scamper off to a quiet part of the theater and practice a couple of the other songs so I would be slightly more ready, and the 10:30 show did feel a bit more solid.
One thing that I found myself explaining over and over to people after the shows were finished was that although the cello explosion was a disaster as far as being able to play during the show, it's a more or less trivial operation to have fixed once I get it into the violin shop. Resetting a soundpost is a matter of a couple minutes for a skilled luthier, and restringing the cello is similarly very easy -- I would have done it myself if the soundpost had still been in place, and it would have delayed the start of the show by less than five minutes.
One advantage of explaining the situation over and over was I gained some cool insight into how a cello is constructed. The body of the cello is made of a particular type of wood (actually several similar types, but identical for the purposes of this discussion), and the pegs are made of a different type of wood. I think the soundpost is also made from a different type, but I'm less sure of that. I'm guessing that the materials are chosen such that the pegbox (where the pegs hold the ends of the strings, just under the scroll at the top of the neck) will expand faster than the pegs themselves. This means that the pegs should never have an opportunity to crack the pegbox where they pierce the sides, resulting in an expensive repair. Likewise, the soundpost material is probably chosen so that it won't elongate, or will elongate at a slower rate than the belly and back of the cello, so there's no chance of it accidentally cracking one of those huge pieces of wood.
Repairs to the belly and back are regularly made, because they're such relatively vulnerable pieces. Most repairs end up making the instrument sound better, although they negatively impact the value because they're visually ugly (where "present" counts as ugly, even if the luthier did a perfect job with the repair). So it would make sense to pick materials that would tend to prevent these kinds of damage. I'll be interested to chat with the luthier when I bring my cello in next week. (Conveniently, it needed to go in anyway, to repair a bruise in one edge.)
Several people commented that I have a very good 14/48 story now, and that's certainly true. We were asked to sign the wall with other 14/48 artists who have appeared at ACT Theater, and I signed as Ian "Cello Exploder" Johnston.
14/48 was a great experience for me, and I'm glad that I was invited, and actually had time in my schedule. It was fantastic meeting my new bandmates, a couple new theater faces among many familiar ones, and to have been part of an ever growing history of Very Quick Theater in Seattle.
Now, to get this pile of cello parts in to the shop...
Fri, 30 Dec 2016
As I am extremely unlikely to fly for the remainder of the year (all one and a half days of it), I decided to tally up my flying hours.
Just a sliiiiight jump there in 2016.
Tue, 27 Dec 2016
This year, Kwanzaa-bot brought me a Stratux box, which is a little Raspberry Pi-based ADS-B receiver. Neat!
So, I hooked it up and set up Avare, my aviation app of choice, to read the data. Totally works. Neat!
But, what the heck does it all mean? There are these hard-to-see dots, and small text, and although it's cool to see other airplanes flying around, it seemed a bit obscure and hard to understand. So, I ended up digging into the source code, and figured I'd write up a quick document to let other folks know what the ADS-B display is actually showing you in Avare.
Decoding the ADS-B Data in Avare
ADS-B traffic data in Avare is represented by a colored dot with a line extending out of it, and a small text area beneath the dot. The dot moves as updates are received, but if an update is missed, the dot will not move.
Dot color: The dot is colored to indicate the vertical position of the traffic. The colors are as follows:
Barb direction and length: The line extending off the dot (called a barb in the source code) shows the velocity of the traffic. The longer the barb, the faster the traffic is moving. The direction it points shows the indicated heading of the traffic.
Text info: Each target has text associated with it, in a small box below the dot. This consists of two pieces of data, separated by a colon. The first is the callsign of the traffic (such as ASA1234 or N12345), and the second is the target's altitude.
If your altitude is known, the altitude will be displayed as a + or -
value (eg, +5000 or -120). If your altitude is not known, the target's
pressure altitude (ie, altitude above sea level) will be displayed,
NOTE: when you see
I'm looking forward to flying with ADS-B In on my tablet, and I'll be glad to know what I'm actually seeing on the screen. If I find changes to how it works, I'll try to update this document.
Thu, 22 Dec 2016
I went out to visit a Champion 7EC in person today, which I was considering buying. The ad sounded good as far as it went, but I knew that it had been somewhat neglected by its current owner, who wants to get out of flying. So, I was going with the theory that it might be a bit rougher than what I was looking for.
In case you're feeling lost: the Champ 7EC is a 2-person airplane, this particular example built in 1957. I'm looking into Champs as being the kind of plane I might really enjoy owning -- I love flying the 7AC Champ at Harvey Field, and the 7EC is basically a 7AC with an electrical system (which means no hand-starting, yay!).
The drive out to Eastern Washington took a bit over three hours, and I chose today because it looked like the last day where the weather and my schedule might coincide in the near future. I stopped in town to grab a burrito before I continued on to the airport.
I was greeted upon entering the office with the information that the man I wanted to speak to wasn't around, as he was out for lunch, but the logs were there on the table if I wanted to look them through. Look them through I did, and the picture which emerged was not exactly positive, but was good enough that it would be worth checking out the plane itself in person.
When my man arrived, we talked for a minute or two, and the subject of the airplane's current owner came up. They described him as "Mr. Magoo-like." If you're not familiar with the reference, Mr. Magoo is an old man character, famously short-sighted to the point of blindness. Further conversation revealed that our owner only had an annual on the plane every 5 years or so, probably didn't have a medical cert, etc. For obvious reasons, I'm not putting anyone's name anywhere here, since I don't want to get any of these fine folks in trouble.
We walked into the hangar to look over the plane.
This particular Champ started life as a 7FC, which was the famously reviled "Tri-Champ," a tricycle-gear Champ that most people disliked, simply because Champs have always been taildraggers. Bellanca issued a Service Letter on how to convert a 7FC to a 7EC, and this letter was followed to make the conversion.
My first impression of the plane was mediocre, and unfortunately it didn't get better from there. The paint was patched and faded, though not badly so. We approached from the right side of the tail, and my man explained that he'd taken the gear legs off to repaint them -- I had told him I anticipated coming next week, but the weather forecast convinced me to come early, and so I caught him somewhat unaware. He'd also removed the upper cowling, and those parts were sitting off to the side, stripped and ready for new paint. It looked like he was doing a good job with them, so no complaints on those touch-ups.
The interior was as I'd seen from the advertising photos, with no real surprises. The inside of the plane was the best part of it, with clean instruments, if not the most lovely panel. The seats appeared to be in good shape, including the wide rear seat, which would fit two skinny people. It was interesting to see the extra frame tubes that were installed to support the nosewheel, and which would render the frame more sturdy in a crash, though probably also a bit heavier than a real 7EC.
We walked around to the engine, and that's where things went downhill for me. Although the engine was rebuilt about 20 years ago, it was in rough shape. Rusted rocker covers were the worst sin that the engine itself indulged in, but aft of the engine, the battery was covered by a distressing coat of white acid damage, there was exposed wiring, frayed insulation, and the baffle seals looked like they'd been salvaged from the Titanic before being installed and left in the sun.
The starter is the old pull-type, where you pull a handle in the instrument panel, which engages the drive gear and completes the connection all at the same time. Nothing wrong with this on its face, but the unit itself had chipped paint and rust showing, and just generally looked like it was halfway to the scrap pile. The pull mechanism appeared to work, but was loose on the starter -- possibly normal, possibly not, I'm not familiar enough with them to know.
I ran my fingers over the leading edge of the metal McCauley prop, and was pleased with the first blade, but the second blade revealed a heavily dressed area 1/5 of the way from the tip that is probably perfectly legal and safe, but gave me real pause. I noticed the wing root fairings (and later the elevator trim tab) had badly peeling paint, and the gap sealing rubber at the wing root was ancient and cracked. The landing lights and nav lights looked to be in good shape, and strobes had been added to the wingtips.
As I continued my walk-around, I noticed that the ailerons were quite stiff, and moving the stick confirmed that both ailerons and elevator felt like I was fighting ancient oxidized grease, or possibly rust, on the pullies. Not encouraging at all. At the same moment, I tried the carb heat knob, and realized that it had probably not been pulled in years, and certainly wasn't about to start moving now. Master switch on, and the radio lights up, but has no display. Mr. Magoo probably hasn't used it for years; no idea if the transponder works or not.
The tailwheel was trapezoidal in cross-section, as if the mount were permanently rolled to the left, though it looked alright, and any misalignment wasn't visually obvious (helped by the fact that the plane was rolled ~10° to the left to facilitate the gear leg work). The tail looked like a standard Champ tail, though the numbers on the port side of the tail were peeling badly.
In general, the plane felt like one of those situations where you mentally read over the ad again in your head, and realize that although it was accurate, and although the pictures you saw were correct as far as they went, there was an awful lot they didn't say. The advertised price of $29,500 also suggested a plane that was in decent shape, although I never expected it to be a show winner at that price.
I feel bad that my reaction to the plane was so negative, as the gent who was showing it to me was correct -- this plane just really needs someone to take it home and fly it regularly. Unfortunately, I am not that person. I need whatever plane I take home to be in good shape, not a project. I have project enough ahead of me without buying a second one.
Tue, 20 Dec 2016
Any time anyone has asked, I've been sort of casually saying that building this biplane project will take between 5 and 10 years, "More like ten than five," I usually finish.
I was chatting with someone recently, and I explained my logic more completely:
If I followed an ideal, unobtainable schedule, I would work on the project 2 hours every day after work and 10 hours every weekend. Then I pulled out my calculator, confidently typed in 3500 / 520 and got a huge shock: 6.7 years!? But it used to be three and a half! What crazy-ass numbers was I looking at before?
Glumness followed. The ideal, unobtainable schedule is just that. There's no way, in reality, that I'm going to go out to the shop for two hours every single night, nor be able to spend 10 hours every single weekend. So 6.7 years... crap, it's gonna take me 20 years, not 10!
A day or two later, glumness still more or less in place, I explained it again to someone else, and had the forehead-slap moment: that's 20 hours a week, not 10! 1040 ideal hours per year. Whew! I was right before. 3.4 years for my crazy ideal schedule. So, 5-10 years still sounds like a reasonable expectation.
It's amazing what a little slip of a digit will do.
Fri, 02 Dec 2016
I have reached an odd plateau in my search for an airplane. I am basically equally compelled by two fairly different approaches, and I keep switching back and forth between them, depending on my mood.
On the one hand, the Champ. There are numerous 7EC Champs out there for sale, and they look pretty good. On the other, the biplane. I have found a surprising number of Charger and Charger-adjacent biplanes out there too. These are photos of planes that are currently up on Barnstormers, not necessarily planes that I'm thinking about buying.
How They Differ
Here's a breakdown of the important differences between the two plane types. Note that most of these dollar amounts are not real, they're just to give a sense of the differences between the planes. I've colored some fields red and green to indicate where I like or dislike a factor about the plane. Uncolored fields indicate differences that are of minimal importance, or where I prefer both choices equally (sometimes for different reasons).
A few notes about what these things mean.
Horsepower: No doubt you're looking at me a bit sidewise right now. Despite what every advert in every magazine will tell you, some people do not actually want all the horsepower. I really like the Champ's low-powered approach.
Climb Performance: Why should I rank these dramatically different climb rates equally? Same reason I don't place a huge value on horsepower. They're both fine.
ADS-B Out: This is an avionics system that I will be required to install by January 1, 2020, so it's pretty much a guaranteed cost. The huge difference in price is because the Champ is certified, whereas the Charger is experimental. This means that (practically) you can use cheap gear in the Charger that you can't in the Champ. Additionally, the Champ will require the services of an avionics shop for the installation. In truth, $5000 may be unrealistically low for the Champ.
Travel-worthy: Going any distance in the Champ is a pleasant, if somewhat slow, affair. There's a lovely enclosed cockpit around you, and as long as you have the patience to wait out the relatively slow cruise speed, it's fine. The Charger, on the other hand, will get you there a little bit faster, with less luggage, and feeling like you've just been beat up for however long you've been flying. The open cockpit is not a deal-breaker, but it makes longer journeys less pleasant.
Passenger Friendliness: The reason these are equal is because I have a variety of passengers I'll go up with, for a variety of types of trips, and they will split roughly 50/50 on whether the Champ or the Charger is the better plane to fly in. Some will love the gentle ease of the Champ, and some will love the rowdy fun of the Charger.
Resellability: The Champ has a ready market of planes and people who want them. It's not fantastic, though (the pilot population is shrinking steadily, and the population of pilots who want anything to do with a taildragger is tiny and shrinking). The homebuilt biplanes seem to have, effectively, no market at all. I'm chatting with sellers who have had their planes nominally for sale for years. I can only assume at this point that if I buy a biplane, it's mine forever, because I'll never be able to sell it.
What Does It All Mean?
I wish I could tell you. If I had all the money, I'd have one of each, but I don't, so I can't.
There is no single most important factor on that list, but the high ranking ones are resale value, travel worthiness, fuel costs, and the accessability of maintenance, both in terms of costs, and what can be done. The two planes are ridiculously balanced with those factors in mind.
I don't know what any of this means, but I suppose the best lesson I can take from it is that I should look at planes as they come up, and perhaps when the right one appears, it will make itself known to me. Unfortunately, I already know that this approach will leave me forever wondering about that plane I didn't go visit (most of these are far across the country in the Midwest or on the East Coast), or the one that appears shortly after I make my decision. I'm better off if I make a firm choice one way or the other, but I can't seem to find the right answer for myself yet.
Sat, 26 Nov 2016
In my previous entry, I looked at a Starduster Too for sale in Bellingham. Interesting, but ultimately not the right plane for me.
About a week ago, I noticed that there was another plane for sale in Bellingham (what is it about Bellingham?), this time a Hatz CB-1, which is also a small two-place open-cockpit biplane. I had been to visit one earlier this year, in Olympia, and it was interesting enough that it seemed like it was worth a closer look. In particular, it only has a 140 HP engine on it, which would make it much more like the Champ I so enjoy than the "overpowered" (for my use) 180 HP motors on some of the other planes I've found.
So I skipped out on work last Tuesday, and drove myself up to Bellingham to check it out.
The plane is being kept in a heated hangar at Command Aviation, at Bellingham International Airport. In conversations with Cassidy, Command's chief A&P mechanic, I learned that it had been sitting for a while, and that a pilot who had some experience in the plane would be there to meet me when I arrived. I reserved a Piper Warrior to fly up, but I had very little confidence the weather would support it, and indeed I ended up driving instead.
The plane is tucked into the back of the Command maintenance hangar, where it seems to be reasonably out of the way, and hasn't suffered from any obvious hangar rash. I ended up going over the whole thing, looking at all the documents, checking out everything I could think to check out.
The plane, N4257, is actually in pretty good shape. It hasn't been run in the last 2 years, which is the biggest technical ding against it, although it's been in a heated hangar for that entire time, so the chances of it being damaged by sitting so long are comparatively low.
What I learned going through the docs is that it was put together pretty well, but was ground-looped at least once a few years ago. Jeff, who had experience in the plane, said it was ground-looped twice, once in each direction. Command opened up the wings, and declared the repairs to have been well done. Looking at the plane itself, there were a couple of relatively minor technical issues (the cowling rubbing on the engine; the throttle cable having been improperly tightened so it didn't work correctly any more). Otherwise, it was pretty nice.
I did think a couple of choices were odd, notably the non-sensitive altimeter. However, the oddest choice is one that the builder doesn't really have any control over: the access to the front cockpit.
The Hatz CB-1 is well-known for having tough access to the front cockpit, where the passenger sits (in all these biplanes, the pilot sits in the rear cockpit for balance reasons -- the passenger seat is right on the center of gravity, so the balance isn't noticeably changed by adding 100-200 lbs there). I had noticed it in Olympia, but didn't give it a lot of thought. Then I tried to get in myself.
A word about me: I'm about 6'2" tall, and a relatively lean 215 lbs, but still, I'm a big person. I'm also unusually flexible for my size and age. With a bit of grunting and twisting around, I was able to get into the passenger cockpit. It wasn't fun, I wouldn't want to do it ever time, but it was possible.
Unfortunately, it would not be possible for some of the people at the top of my list of "passengers I want to fly with." Notably, my parents, who are healthy and in reasonable shape, but are not likely to be flexible enough to make that entrance.
To get into the seat, the prospective passenger must duck under the wing (the top wing completely covers the passenger seat), somehow pull their legs over the coaming around the cockpit, get their feet on the seat, and then slide down into the seated position. I found it easiest to shove my head and torso forward, between the windshield and the wing, as if I were trying to jump forward onto the engine cowling. But my chest is too deep, so I was listening to the windshield creak as I was doing it, and it felt very unstable.
I wasn't able to start the motor, but that's for the best. It would disrupt whatever minor oil protection the motor currently enjoys after sitting for so long. The passenger seat is a sufficient problem that it's simply not a good idea for me to pursue the plane. I'm sad about that, since it's otherwise such a good choice. There are other factors working against it, but they are no more substantial than I've found on any of the other planes I'm looking at.
Command Aviation is asking $25,000 for the plane, which is a pretty reasonable price. If you find yourself interested in a small biplane with a 140 HP motor and an inaccessible passenger seat (but much more friendly for people who are shorter and more flexible), I recommend you check it out.
I shall continue my search, with my sights set on a distant but seemingly near-ideal Marquart Charger next.
Thu, 10 Nov 2016
The world is at once new and different, and the same as it ever was, but that's not the point of this piece. We're entering a scary new chapter in our story, which is the point.
What is it?
Very much like WhatsApp, Signal is a secure messaging app for your phone, that allows you to send SMS-like messages and make voice calls. Critically, it encrypts those messages from the moment you type them in, to the point where they arrive, and are decrypted by your recipient's Signal app. Same for voice calls. It's called end-to-end encryption, and what it practically means is that your communication is hidden from prying eyes.
There are longer articles out there on why this kind of encryption is good, which go into detail. A simple search on "end to end encryption" will yield them up.
Why Signal? Why not WhatsApp or one of the others?
A key facet of decoding communication between two or more parties is called traffic analysis. That's where you don't even look at the messages themselves (ie, no need to see what Bob wrote to Alice) you just look at the fact that Alice and Bob are communicating. You look at the times and dates on which they communicate, you look at the frequency with which they pass messages, you look (if possible) at the source and destination location when messages are sent.
This information, the information about the message, is popularly known as message metadata. Metadata is routinely used in courts of law as evidence. It can be used by hackers for a variety of purposes, as diverse as human creativity can allow for. It is certainly used by intelligence agencies and government security forces.
A very intentional point of Signal is that it doesn't record this metadata. Signal effectively blocks its ears and says "LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU," and records nothing about your communications. It just provides an anonymous conduit through which information passes. There's nothing to hack, nothing to subpoena.
The other apps (WhatsApp, Facebook Messenger, Google Allo, and others) that use Signal's encryption protocol certainly afford you well-encrypted communications. However, by saving your contact list, or recording the time and date of your messages, or other insecure handling of message metadata, compromise your security in non-obvious ways.
Finally, unlike the other apps, Signal is open-source (which means its code can be reviewed by security researchers; and it has, here (PDF)). It is not owned by a large corporation; it's actually supported by donations of time, effort and money.
Why do I need it?
Typically, the people who are thought to "need" encrypted communications are what you would probably classify as people you don't interact with every day: political organizers in oppressive regimes, dissidents, spies, terrorists, human rights activists, etc. If that mention of terrorists has you looking at me side-wise, let me remind you that the Charlie Hebdo attack in 2015 was coordinated entirely with burner phones (prepaid cellphones that are effectively untraceable) using plain ol' SMS and phone calls. It's very hard to track someone's phone number if it was activated yesterday, and discarded tomorrow. They had stacks and stacks of them piled up and ready to use.
Anyway, the point is that most of you reading this will not put yourselves in that same category, of people who need to hide their communications.
However, there are two powerful counter-arguments to that, which you can also find more detail about in other articles: first, your communications are definitely eavesdropped upon, right now, by your own government. They are almost certainly not targeting you, and even if they did, the shopping lists and cat pictures you send are unlikely to excite them. But your text messages and mine are being slurped up and analyzed by the NSA (if you're in the US; other agencies if you're elsewhere). This has long made me uncomfortable, but not quite uncomfortable enough to act, until now. More on that later.
The second counter-argument is that more traffic makes it harder to track the real targets of interest. We can probably all agree that people working for human rights in oppressive states are freakin' heroes, and desperately need to maintain a cover of secrecy so they aren't hauled in front of a crumbling brick wall and shot, or worse. But if it's only people in that kind of a situation using an encrypted communication channel, suddenly it becomes very easy to track down all the dissidents in your country. Just see who's chatting with the encrypted server. Doesn't matter what they're saying, you just know that if they're using it, they're against the regime. (If this all feels a bit too distant, remember that Black Lives Matter or people organizing protests against the new guy may be considered as just such a dissident organization in the US by some).
Now, if you and I sign up and start using it to send cat pictures and shopping lists to each other, and if thousands of our friends do the same thing, suddenly it's much, much harder to track down those same activists. If we all start using a system like this as our go-to app for messaging, the noise of our chatter makes it much easier for the high-risk users to pass their traffic along with more certainty and anonymity.
Ok, smart guy, why now?
As I write this, we're two days past the election of the United States' first openly tyrannical president. He hasn't telegraphed any plans to start rounding up the intelligentsia and have them build roads in Siberia, but direct parallels to this situation have led to exactly that outcome in other places and other times. We are now living in considerably more dangerous times, whether we like it or not.
I don't foresee myself actually having to organize a resistance movement; I don't think the country is that far gone, nor do I think it will be in 4 years. However, you would probably find a lot of intelligent, empathetic people saying the exact same thing in the early 1930s in Germany. It could easily happen here. Wouldn't it be nice to already have a means of communication set up that allows us to speak without the dread certainty that everything we say is being funneled straight to the security forces?
At some point, the theoretical tyrannical forces would shut down Signal's systems, but by that time, it will be far too late to do anything about it in any case. How nice to have those secure communications up until then.
If you really want to get serious about this, there are some excellent articles out there on how to secure your online communications and activities. Avoid Facebook like the goddamn plague. Use DuckDuckGo for searches instead of Google. Use the Tor browser for as much of your browsing as you can. Do these things routinely, to increase the amount of traffic the bad guys have to sort through.
I've been an advocate of encryption in routine communications for decades now, but only recently has it become easy enough to ask all my friends to do it. Now that it is so simple, I encourage you to use it all the time, for all the reasons stated above.
Sun, 30 Oct 2016
Some time late last year, it suddenly occurred to me that I was in a position to buy an airplane. I'd been flying a bit more, so it was on my mind. I ended up doing a bunch of research and settled on the Beech Musketeer as a likely plane I might own. It never really came to pass, since I wasn't sure it was actually a good idea (spoiler alert: owning an airplane, much like owning a boat, is never actually a good idea, as far as your accountant is concerned).
I decided, instead of buying a plane, to take the money I was seriously considering spending every month on this project, and put it into rentals for a year instead. If I still felt the same way at the end of my experimental year (ie, I'd flown a bunch, and didn't feel like I was breaking the bank), I would look more seriously into getting my very own moneypit in the sky.
Without thinking about it too hard, I spent the last year flying whenever the urge hit me, and have ended up spending a lot of time flying Harvey Field's Aeronca Champ 7AC. And really, I've grown to love it. The plucky little Champ, with its diminutive 85 HP motor and bare bones aesthetic. Something about it really puts a smile on my face.
So I realized, I'm in the same position again. Time to look seriously at planes. Only this time, it's not quite the same position: now I'm looking for an interesting tailwheel plane. Without getting into specifics, tailwheel planes tend to be older, they tend to be more quirky, and they're in much less demand because they're perceived as being more difficult to fly (specifically, more difficult to land) than the tricycle gear planes you normally see at the airport.
So, I've got my eyes open, and I'm looking at the Luscombe 8E, Champion/Citabria 7EC, and small, two-place homebuilt biplanes. The 7EC is the most familiar, for all that I've never been in one: it's a descendant of the Champ, and predecessor of the Super Decathlon I flew earlier this year. The biplanes are also surprisingly familiar, since that's all I've been reading about and studying up on for the last few years. The Luscombe is a wild card, since I know it's a small plane, but I don't yet know what they're like to fly, or whether I physically fit in the cockpit and/or through the door (they're small planes).
Today I was able to go up and see my first strong contender: a Starduster Too that's for sale near Bellingham. It's a plane that was built in the early 70s (registered in 1973 according to the FAA), and has been restored/refinished at least once, most recently in the late 1980s. It's powered by a 180 HP Lycoming O-360, which frankly seems like overkill for what I want, but there's no benefit to downgrading the engine unless it ends up being my lieblings-plane and I feel like throwing lots of money at it in return for a reduced resale value.
Walking around, the plane proved to be as the seller described: in generally good shape, though the paint was cracking for lack of sufficient flexibility to move with the fabric. The engine looked like most older airplane engines look: it had some oily spots and was generally a bit dirty, but there were no obvious problems and it seemed to be in fine shape.
This particular plane has a smoke system, which is cool enough, though it's hard to imagine when I'd use it.
The seller was kind enough to allow me to taxi it around, and it was surprisingly easy to handle on the ground. Just yesterday, I went for a lesson in a Cessna 170, which is a large taildragger, about the same size as a 172, which is Cessna's current four-place small plane. The 170 was a handful on the ground: the rudder didn't produce any real effect when taxiing around, and I had a hard time keeping it under control (a tailwheel plane is a bit like pushing a loaded hand truck in front of you -- if you don't keep on top of it, it will slip off to the side).
I was expecting/fearing that the Starduster would be the same way -- a real handful on the ground, requiring constant attention and care to keep it lined up where I wanted it to go. Instead, it went where I pointed it, and was much more like a sharpened up Champ, where the 170 was like someone had taken the Champ, reduced its steering effectiveness to near zero, then made it half again as heavy into the bargain.
I didn't have an opportunity to fly the Starduster, both because the wind was contrary for its runway, and because the seller would only let me go up with a non-refundable deposit "to avoid giving everyone and their brother joyrides." I can't blame him for that policy, but it feels jarringly off in a world where people eager to share the experience of their planes keep giving me rides just for the joy of going flying and sharing it with new people.
Regardless, it only took a few minutes of taxiing the Starduster around before I was feeling surprisingly comfortable in it. It was odd to come to that comfort level so quickly (though it's quite possible that it was a bit of beginner's luck masquerading as "skill"), but it mirrors my experience with oxy-acetylene welding earlier this year: I have read and studied up on both subjects for so long, that actually putting the knowledge to use was an immediate relief of a pressure I hadn't been aware was building. OA welding came to me almost immediately (I'm still not any good, but I was instantly comfortable with it), much like ground handling in the biplane came very quickly.
The cockpit of the Starduster is tight, but not so tight that it's uncomfortable. I probably wouldn't be happy in it for long flights, but I think it only has 2.5-3 hours of range in any case, so my butt and the engine would probably be competing for who needs to rest first. Most of my flying recently has been in the 1-1.5 hour range, and even a trip down to Portland would only take an hour and a half at most.
The front passenger's cockpit is a little harder to get into than the pilot cockpit from my brief attempt at each, but it's still pretty manageable. The passenger has sort of terrible access to the rudder pedals, since the landing gear truss is in the way, but it would be enough to fly the plane for a little bit. Both seats have acrobatic-quality four-point harnesses.
Speaking of acrobatics, the plane is clearly capable. The seller posted this video of himself flying it through a variety of maneuvers. I have very little interest in aerobatics, but it's eyebrow-raising to think I might have a plane that could do all that.
One thing I've heard from nearly everyone who's heard this plan is, "Wait, aren't you building a biplane?" That is true, but as I tell anyone who's interested to hear it, my biplane build is going to take 5-10 years, probably more like 10 than 5. I would hate to get to the end of that and realize I'm unable to fly for long due to a huge variety of factors that may come up, simple age and illness chief among them. It's unlikely I'll run into any problems, but why squander the time if I can do it now? This is one of those cases where you get to eat your cake, and have it too.
The giant burning question is now: could I live with an open-cockpit plane in the Pacific Northwest? It's not like we live in a tropical paradise here, and I would have to be ok with flying in near-freezing weather, if I wanted to fly year round (which I definitely do, if I can manage it). It's better than living in the midwest, where I might expect to be snowed in for three months of the year. Certainly I've managed to ride motorcycles successfully down to just above freezing, and arguably that's more arduous than flying, with the full-body exposure to the wind.
Whatever the case, whether I ultimately decide on a different style of plane, or even no plane at all, it's encouraging to have had this moment where I was in a biplane, very similar to the one I'm building, and was happy with the experience.
Update: With some reflection, I've realized that open-cockpit flying is not actually a burning giant question. My flying time is at least 90% solo, and I'm still wearing shorts as the weather descends into daily highs in the 50s and pelting rain. I'll be fine. Any passengers who might want to come with me would have to be willing to bundle up in the colder months, though.
Wed, 12 Oct 2016
PHONE: Ring-ring! St. Louis, MO calling!
MYSELF: Huh, who is calling me this early in the morning? [swipe to answer]
AGENT: Good morning Mr. Johnston this is mumble-mumble mumble-mumble calling. Could you please confirm your date of birth?
AGENT: I'm sorry, could you please just confirm your date of birth?
MYSELF: No. Who are you? Why should I be telling you this?
AGENT: This is [name forgotten] with Cigna Sleep Medicine? I just need you to confirm your date of birth.
MYSELF: I'm not in the habit of giving out that kind of information to random people who call me. Give me some piece of information, some thing that only you and I could know. I have no idea who you are right now.
AGENT: Well Mr. Johnston, I just need to get you to confirm your date of birth, since I have some information for you from...
MYSELF: No, I have no idea who you are. I'm not going to tell you anything... Look, I'm going underground right now, you'll have to call me back. [HANGUP BUTTON] [OOPS PARKING GARAGE]
PHONE: Call ended.
Dear Cigna: you need to work on your contact procedures. This is the textbook definition of a phishing call, and you're never going to reach me with this approach.
Thu, 22 Sep 2016
Now that I've decided I'm definitely building a plane, and have basically settled on the model (finally, hopefully, fingers crossed), I have actually gotten started on some honest-to-goodness work on the plane.
Well, sort of.
The Marquart Charger plans were drawn up in 1968, on paper, and photostatically reproduced. These plans contain dozens of little metal bracket-y things that are to be produced in quantities ranging from 1 to 20 (based on what I've seen so far). An example is shown to the right.
Rather than bust out my file, or a cutting torch or a hacksaw or anything else, I thought about it for a bit, and realized that it would make sense to investigate having these parts cut out by some variety of CNC machine. That is, a machine that can be programmed to cut a shape precisely, and automatically -- Computer Numerical Control. A bit of looking, and I settled on waterjet, which has the advantage of being very accurate, and unlike laser cutting, creates no heat in the part to mess up the temper of metal parts.
One of the reasons I settled on this "waterjet first" plan was very practical: without a shop space, I couldn't build a "real," physical thing. On the other hand, turning the drawings from hand-drawn to CAD models was something I could do just about anywhere, on my laptop. The CAD models are required in order to get the waterjet cutting done. Seemed like a win-win situation, so I started in.
I decided to use FreeCAD, an open-source CAD program, to do my work. I'm a big fan of open source software, and it ended up being a better choice than using the paid program I already owned. FreeCAD does a thing called "parametric modelling," which was perfect for this task. It took me a few tries before I understood it properly, but once I got it down, it made perfect sense, and worked really well.
The basic idea behind parametric modelling is that you draw out roughly the shape you want, without any real regard for exact dimensions or anything else, first off. It's just the shape. Then, you systematically start applying measurements, or parameters; parametric constraints, if you will: this hole is this many inches from this edge. That rounded area has this radius. This other hole has this diameter. In fact, if you look at the diagram, all that information is already spelled out, pretty much exactly as you'd need to enter it into the CAD program!
So, I started drawing out these little parts in FreeCAD. Some of them were more challenging than others. This part, -201 (apparently pronounced "Dash two oh one"), was actually pretty difficult, but it was also the first one I tried. I went back to it after doing a few others: I ended up redrawing it in 1/4 the time it took on my first attempt, plus it looked way better. I am now able to draw up pretty much any of these parts in less than half an hour, and I've got several dozen done.
I haven't yet sent any samples off to a waterjet company, but I've talked to one, and have an idea of what happens next. I think it will be years before I need the majority of these parts, but one of the things I will do early on will be to go get a couple sheets of 4130 cut up by a waterjet. The price hasn't been worked out, and that's the only thing that might keep me from following through with it. But then, even if I decide against doing it, the parts will be modelled, and I can put up the files for others to use if they want. It also sounds like the setup fees are minimal or zero, so it may make sense to farm out a few of the complex or many-copies-needed parts, and do the remainder by hand.
I'm sure I'll write more about it, but that's the progress I've actually made on building my own biplane so far. I've even been logging the time, and I'm already up to nearly 20 hours. Only three thousand, four hundred and eighty-odd hours to go.
Sun, 11 Sep 2016
I started my tailwheel training for real about two years ago, in Aeronca Champ N84842 at Harvey Field. I've had two different instructors in that time, the first doing the majority of my initial training before he got too busy, and eventually left, and the second helping me hone my skills and then, once proficient, burn off time to meet the 10 hours minimum required by their insurance carrier.
Harvey Field's Champ, a 7AC model, has been upgraded from the 65 HP engine to a freshly rebuilt Continental 85 HP. It's been flying out of Harvey Field, if I understand correctly, since it was new in 1946. It is not what you would call a fast plane -- it climbs at about 600 FPM under ideal conditions, and I haven't really seen it cruise higher than 85 MPH. It's got enough weight capacity to carry myself and an FAA-standard 170 lb person with full fuel, but not much more.
It has, to be sure, its fair share of dings and bruises and deficiencies, though no more than might be expected of a well-loved 7500 total time airplane. It's a pity that it doesn't have an electrical system, though mostly for lack of a starter. I'd love to take it further afield than Harvey or Paine, but the rules prohibit stopping the engine anywhere other than Harvey. Hand-propping an airplane is no longer commonplace, and most of us youngsters would mess it up and lose a hand into the bargain.
And yet, despite all these deficiencies, or perhaps because of them, I really like this plane.
There's something about being in a plane with that kind of history, and that lack of pretention, that is very gratifying. It feels like a human-sized plane, and one that can be flown by normal humans. There's no need for an iron-jawed, steely-eyed Pilot Man here. Indeed, the steely-jawed and iron-eyed among the pilot population probably scorn the Champ as a weak little trainer for students and weak pilots. So be it.
I find myself drawn to the underpowered vehicles wherever I find myself, so it comes as no surprise that the Champ is on my short-list of planes I enjoy flying. I also find that flying a tailwheel plane is far more engaging -- literally, I have to be so much more present and attentive for all the ground handling that it feels like a different world compared to the tricycle-gear planes I've flown.
I'm only at about 25 hours of tailwheel time so far, but I eagerly look forward to each new flight, and imagine that number will be growing steadily. I'm very glad I decided to do some tailwheel training a couple years ago. Now I just have to find other tailwheel planes I can rent for some diversity of experience.
Written by Ian Johnston. Software is Blosxom. Questions? Please mail me at reaper at obairlann dot net.