Paris Williams <<pariswilliamsphd>>
writes:

The day-three days before Day One of the Pre-Worlds. The place-the
famous (and infamous) El Peñon near Valle de Bravo, Mexico. After several hours
of racing around the local hills and valleys on the new Combat 12.7,
delightfully winding my way up through the fierce, snaky bullet-thermals for
which this region is so well renowned, I found myself pleasantly surprised by
the ease with which I found myself gently touching down into the main LZ in
spite of the turbulent, switchy conditions. At that moment, a single word
erupted from my lips-"Finally!"

Reflections on the New Combat 12.7

Finally, the moment I've been waiting my entire flying career for. Finally,
someone has made a glider designed for lighter pilots that was more nimble and
pilot-friendly than any competition glider I had ever flown while clearly
matching the performance of the big gliders. As a lighter pilot (I weigh between
67-70 kg, or between 145 and 155 lb.), it has always been a struggle coming up
with a workable setup that has allowed me to keep up with the "big boys."

It has generally been held as a truism in our sport that the smaller gliders
simply don't keep up with the bigger gliders. As a light pilot, if you really
want to be able to match the performance of the bigger gliders, you better just
get used to flying gliders that are a little too big and stiff for you and
carrying around a lot of ballast so that you can keep up with the heavier pilots
on glide.

There's been a lot of speculation as to the reasons for this. Perhaps it's
because larger gliders have more favorable Reynold's numbers (which has to do
with the density and viscosity of the air relative to a given wing); or because
they have higher L/D since they generate more lift while not generating a
comparable amount of additional drag (for example, the parasitic drag of the
control frame and the pilot doesn't increase when going from a smaller glider to
a larger glider, whereas the overall amount of lift does); or perhaps it's
because manufacturers simply put more effort into the bigger wings since there
are more larger pilots on the market. But for whatever reason, this is a problem
us lighter pilots have always had to contend with.

But now, after my first flight on this little glider, I suspected that this
historical deficiency had finally been broken. And as the PreWorlds began, and I
found myself flying head-to-head with the other gliders, my suspicion was
quickly validated. There was simply no doubt about it. I found myself gliding
right alongside the best of the bigger gliders without having to wear any
ballast, and most surprising of all was the climb.

I had the good fortune to be flying with some of the very same pilot/glider
combinations I had just flown with at the Australian Nationals in Forbes, and
there was no doubt about it that in spite of now being on a smaller glider (I
had been on the 13.2 in Forbes), my climb had significantly improved, and I'm
pretty certain that I could even fly more slowly, go figure. With some of the
same pilots who had been able to sit on top of me at Forbes, I found that our
roles had reversed, and I found myself now sitting on top of them with
surprising ease. And the real beauty was having all of this performance without
the need to carry an ounce of ballast (which is always a bit of a drag,
especially when landing at these altitudes-7,000 to 10,000 feet MSL), and
without the need to destroy my shoulders trying to battle a stiff glider in wild
conditions. I just couldn't get over how much performance I was experiencing
right alongside such sweet handling. Finally!

By talking with other pilots over the years, I've learned that Combats have
developed a reputation for being not so easy to land. And in my opinion, there's
a good reason that this reputation had developed. I remember being surprised by
how challenging it was to land the very early Combats well, especially those
manufactured up until around 2001 or 2002. Actually, I still own a 2002 Combat
as my personal fly-at-home glider, and there's no doubt about it, it's a bit
tricky to really "stick" a light-wind landing well on the thing. But in the past
few years, this has dramatically changed, only it seems that the word hasn't
gotten out.

I remember several years ago when first flying the new higher-aspect, tailed
Combats, how pleasantly surprised I was by how easily and crisply they flare,
and how wide and forgiving the flare window is. And I found that the 12.7 takes
this ease of landing to a whole new level.

The landing conditions here at Valle de Bravo are some of the most difficult
I've ever encountered, with small sloping fields loaded with obstacles, very
switchy winds, very thin high-altitude air, and bullet-thermals that love to
pounce just as you're turning onto final. And with the exception of one incident
in which a well-timed pouncing thermal caused me to overshoot my field into the
lee-side of a large brick wall on a windy day, I managed to pull-off a no-step
landing every time.

I found that two factors contributed to this: (1) the stall speed is
surprisingly slow on this glider, allowing me to really slow down before the
flare; and (2) the nose rotates very easily in a flare, allowing for a clean,
crisp flare without either the tendency for the glider to climb or the nose to
drop even if you're a little early or a little late in the flare timing. I
suspect the high aspect ratio and the hang point being well in front of the
control frame apex contribute to these very user-friendly landing
characteristics. (On a side note, I found it interesting that I had a tendency
to overshoot my landings a few times, and in retrospect, I think that what was
going on for me was that because this glider handles so much like an
intermediate glider, I was unconsciously anticipating that it would have a short
ground effect like an intermediate glider. Of course, it's not an intermediate
glider but a very high performing competition glider with a correspondingly long
ground effect, and this threw me off a few times. Or perhaps I can just blame
the fact that I've become a little spoiled flying the wide open flatlands for
too many years.)

This is the first time I've flown a fully-carbon glider (full leading edges and
cross bars, that is) since flying the king-posted Predator many years ago, and I
have to say it was a real joy to experience the reduced wingtip-inertia in the
air (significantly lighter, more responsive handling) and the reduced weight on
the ground (this glider weighs just over 30kg).

When first looking at these sleek, oval/conical leading edges, I had to wonder
why it's taken glider manufacturers so long to finally take real advantage of
the potential that carbon fiber offers. Having a much higher strength to weight
ratio and being much more malleable than aluminum, it's about time that we move
beyond simple round tubes. These oval/conical shaped tubes allow maximum
stiffness along the horizontal axis, which maintains maximal trailing edge
tension, while allowing maximal flexibility along the vertical axis, which
maximizes handling. They also gradually decrease in diameter from the nose to
the tip, which minimizes overall wing inertia. What an elegant design!

I imagine it won't be long before the other manufacturers follow suit. (I found
it interesting that a number of the non-Aeros pilots have begun adding plastic
and carbon tips onto their gliders which are strikingly similar to the Combat's
Horner tips, and some are even using Combat tails(!)-Signs of Combat envy?

Reflections on the Pre-Worlds

So, if the 12.7 is performing and handling so well, then a question that some
would naturally ask is, why did I just win the Australian Nationals on a 13.2
and then end up in the mediocre position of 9th on the 12.7 here at the
Pre-Worlds. Well, I really do wish that I could blame the glider, after all, one
particularly effective strategy for assuaging a bruised ego is to blame your
equipment. But the truth is that my somewhat disappointing performance at the
Pre-Worlds definitely can't be blamed on my glider. But I first want to reflect
upon the Pre-Worlds in general before reflecting upon my own personal flying
within it.

Safety first. When I first learned that the next Worlds will be held at Valle de
Bravo, I was highly skeptical that this place would be a suitable arena for a
World Championship. I had flown here 13 years ago in a meet with only about 25
pilots, and I recalled the wild conditions, the low ceiling and the scarcity of
good landings. So I thought I'd fly the Pre-Worlds in order to assess whether I
actually wanted to fly here at the upcoming Worlds.

On one hand, I found the conditions better than my previous meet here,
presumably because it was about six weeks later in the year. The ceiling was
significantly higher and the thermals were generally spaced closely together.
This opened up more landing options and allowed us to extend our tasks much
further than we had been able to do in that earlier meet. On the other hand, the
conditions seemed to be significantly more turbulent, and with a much larger
(and more aggressive) field of pilots, I found the start gaggle situation
this time nowhere near fun and frankly quite dangerous.

As it turned out, I was nominated to be a member of the safety committee, so I
was required to think a lot about how to maximize the safety in these
challenging conditions. Essentially, I found that there were three primary
factors that contributed to serious safety concerns: (1) large regions in which
there were either no safe landings at or in which the only available fields were
small and sloped; and even in the larger fields, pilots still had to contend
with radically switchy, unpredictable, turbulent wind conditions and very thin
high-altitude air; (2) extreme turbulence leading to an increased chance of
gliders tumbling; and (3) extreme turbulence combined with dense gaggles leading
to an increased chance of mid-airs. (*) Surprisingly, while launch conditions
could certainly be challenging at times, this didn't present itself as a serious
safety factor. With these factors in mind, the safety committee and the task
committee worked together to define task parameters that would hopefully
minimize the risks inherent in these factors.

As for the first factor (the landing situation), the safety and task committee
devoted a lot of time to trying to set tasks that maximized the safety of the
landing options. Of course, we're flying the mountains, and we have no control
over the general turbulence, so ultimately, it's always up to each pilot to make
sure they always keep themselves within an easy glide to landings they're
comfortable with; but we did our best to listen to the pilots' concerns and
modify the task to keep the tasks as comfortable as possible. In spite of this,
however, I found that this general region presented one of the most
challenging landing situations I've ever come across at a comp, and while I
found it personally within my own comfort zone (though just barely at times), a
number of other pilots chose to step out of the comp because of this factor, a
decision I completely understand. I was fortunate to land at goal every day,
with reasonably nice fields and wind indicators, and I found even these landings
to be a bit challenging at times. I certainly sympathize with those pilots who
had to land in small, sloped fields without any wind indicators.

As for the second factor (the possibility of tumbling), I did encounter some
of the edgiest thermals I've ever encountered here (especially right over the
main ridge), and I was a little surprised that no tumbles occurred at the comp.
I was very surprised to hear that there had never been a reported tumble in the
area at all. Some of the air here reminded me of the air I've experienced at
Sandia Peak, King Mountain, and the Sierras, all of which have had numerous
tumbles. That said, this isn't a factor we could do a whole lot about anyway,
and found that I personally wasn't too daunted by this factor, though I have to
say that there were a number of times that my attention was shifted abruptly to
the contemplation of my tail and/or my parachute. I did, however, learn that
this factor played a role in a number of pilots making the decision to step out
of the meet, which I understand. It did become apparent that the most turbulent
area in the entire region seemed nearly always to be directly over the mountain,
and Jonny Durand, myself and others suggested that we set the start cylinder in
such a way as to position pilots away from the mountain, but some of the task
committee members didn't seem too thrilled about this idea, so generally
speaking, directly over the mountain is where the start remained.

The third factor (extreme turbulence and dense gaggles combining to increase the
likelihood of mid-airs) is the factor that I personally found to be the most
intimidating. Given the turbulence, I found the start gaggles and the
early-on-course gaggles a bit too dangerous for my taste. I'm the first to admit
it. I'm really enjoying my life and wouldn't really like to see it all come to
an end as some wild bit of turbulence hurtles me into another glider (or vice
versa). And I found myself feeling this way even after nearly a third of the
field had left the meet (due to either injuries or simply finding that their
comfort levels had been exceeded). When I consider whether or not I
personally want to fly here in the Worlds next year, considering that there will
likely be many dozens of additional pilots and a few extra degrees of pilot
aggression that typically goes along with a World meet, I find that my desire to
show up dwindles away to just about nothing.

But fortunately, I believe that there are a few things we can do to make this
particular factor a lot less dangerous: (1) We can set the start cylinder away
from the mountain to keep pilots in areas of less turbulence; (2) we can use
multiple start gates to divide the field into smaller gaggles, for example using
3-4 different start gates set 15-20 minutes apart from each other; and/or (3)
the number of competitors can be limited. I personally believe that 80 should be
the max (which is what we started with here), and even then, only if we also
adopt these other two strategies. Unfortunately, I'm not feeling too confident
that others will agree with these suggestions. For example, I was pushing hard
for multiple start gates, yet the task committee continued to insist on what was
essentially a single-gate race start. (They did agree to put a second start gate
30 minutes later to cover people who got stuck for some reason, but given the
scoring system, a second gate so much later is so heavily penalized that this
still essentially amounts to a single-gate race start-very few people would
voluntarily take this second start. A few of us did intentionally take it on the
last day, with my own main reason to avoid the gaggles, but not surprisingly, we
got really hammered on our scores even though our times were reasonably good.)

So, unless the task committee has a major change of heart, or unless we get a
new task committee (which I've been told is unlikely), we may be looking at
100+pilot race starts taking place in the heart of the worst turbulence in the
area. Hmmm… the idea of staying home and covering a few casual miles with some
of my local flying buddies is sounding more appealing all the time.

Some reflections on my own flying… So, according to a lot of people's standards,
coming in 9th place at the Pre-Worlds isn't so bad. But I tend to hold a very
high bar for myself, and considering how pleased I was with the glider I was
flying, I have to admit I was somewhat disappointed in myself. I've always been
fond of saying, "There are two kinds of days in a comp-good racing days and good
learning days." Well, let's just say I had a lot of good "learning days" at this
meet.

As I mentioned earlier, I was not having any fun in the start gaggles, so I did
my best to hang out in less crowded thermals in the vicinity while waiting to
start. While this was fairly peaceful, these peripheral thermals generally
weren't taking me as high as the thermals located over the mountain (where the
main start gaggles formed), and they were usually further away from the start
position, which resulted in me having a relatively poor start nearly every day.
In other meets, I've usually been pretty good at catching up after making a poor
start, but given how dynamic the air was here, I was unpleasantly surprised at
how rapidly a somewhat poor start would turn into being 10-15 km behind the lead
gaggle. So, the typical pattern for me on most of the days at this comp was to
blow my start, fall behind, then fly very aggressively in an attempt to catch
back up (diving low into the bottoms of mountains, skipping weaker thermals with
the intention of holding out for a stronger one), which then unfortunately
resulted in my having to make low saves in weak lift and falling even further
behind. Ouch! My usual tactics just weren't working out so well. The only
exception to this was the day I won (day 4), in which my aggressive flying did
pay off.

While getting stuck low is always the risk you take when flying aggressively,
the common reward is that you avoid wasting time in weak lift, spend more time
gliding, less time climbing, and leap ahead quickly. And this is a particular
tactic that I generally consider myself to be quite skilled at. But for whatever
reason, at this place and at this meet, I just kept rolling craps again and
again, and I found myself having to make low saves in weak lift again and again.
By the fifth day, I found that I had pretty much lost my confidence with using
this strategy here, and I began to back off the gas pedal and fly somewhat more
conservatively. So considering that I was still blowing my starts due to an
unwillingness to duke it out with the start gaggles, and now that I'm flying
more conservatively, the result is what you would expect-making goal every day,
but not particularly fast.

So what did I learn? Well, I think it's important to acknowledge that cross
country racing is not unlike playing chess with dice. On one hand, there is a
lot of strategy, and good decision making is essential if you want to do well;
but on the other hand, there is always some element of luck. And when learning
from your mistakes, I think it's important to try to discern what was an actual
mistake and what was simply a bit of bad luck. To win a big meet, I think it
takes a fair bit of both, a lot of good decision making combined with some good
luck.

 Just a little over a month earlier, I won Forbes, a "big meet" by most
pilots' standard, and I'm the first to admit that while I feel I did make a lot
of good decisions (and a few not-so-good ones), there was no doubt some luck on
my side. Now that I'm reflecting on the Pre-Worlds, I find that I actually feel
pretty good about most of my decisions, for the most part. I feel that I took
appropriate calculated risks, although they unfortunately didn't always work out
so well (some genuine bad luck, I believe), and I felt I generally shifted gears
(speeding up and slowing down) in a way that was mostly appropriate for the
changing conditions. I feel like I generally did the best I could with what was
presented to me at any given moment.

So why did I finish in 9th place and not on the podium? I think that essentially
there were three major things that added up to losing those 6 to 8 places: (1)
My conscious decision to avoid the start gaggles, a decision I actually don't
regret at all-looking at how much I'm enjoying my life at the moment, the
risk/reward ratio of mixing it up in those gaggles just simply wasn't worth it
to me. (2) I did make one terrible mistake that cost me dearly, when I went
diving into goal on task 3, thinking that I had won the day, only to discover
too late that I had completely forgotten about the last waypoint(!) That was a
serious "hero to zero" moment that resulted in me going from possibly winning
the day to not making goal altogether. I don't think I've ever made a mistake
that bad in my entire flying career. Perhaps I can blame it on just having spent
a little too much time over 14,000 feet And finally (3), some genuine bad luck.
On most of the days, I simply found myself seriously out of sync with the
thermals/clouds. Any experienced pilot knows that thermals come and go in a kind
of rhythm, and there are those wonderful days where you keep hitting the
thermals right as they're amping up, and then there are those frustrating days
where the thermals keep petering out just as you get to them. This comp
consisted of a few too many of these latter days for me.

Anyway, this kind of roller coaster ride (good racing days, good learning days,
good comps, bad comps, mediocre comps) is one of the things that I find makes
this sport so exciting and interesting, and in order to continue to learn and to
enjoy myself, I find it helpful to maintain the larger picture regardless of
what may happen on any particular day or particular comp. And taking this larger
picture one step further, I also find it really helpful not to forgot why I was
so drawn into this sport in the first place, to feel the joy of being so in sync
with my glider I feel like I've grown my own personal set of wings, and to
appreciate the camaraderie of working together with my flying buddies to cover
miles and miles of beautiful terrain. Really, does it get any better than this?