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Thread: SR71 vs Galaxie

  1. #1
    Carburetion 'sucks' !
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    SR71 vs Galaxie

    The SR71 story got posted-up on Facebook earlier on today and whilst many of us may have read it previously its still a 'good read' and brings me in mind of an event some 35 years ago - so here we go - giving credit to the Tribune date 9th January 2016

    SR71 meets Galaxie 7 Litre






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    This may be the single greatest aviation story ever told, it’s about the iconic SR-71 Blackbird. The story, from the now out-of-print book Sled Driver by former SR-71 jockey Brian Shul (available used on Amazon for just $700).
    There were a lot of things we couldn’t do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.
    It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.
    I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn’t match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury.
    Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.
    We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: “November Charlie 175, I’m showing you at ninety knots on the ground.”
    Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the ” Houston Center voice.” I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country’s space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn’t matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.
    Just moments after the Cessna’s inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. “I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed.” Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. “Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check”. Before Center could reply, I’m thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol’ Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He’s the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: “Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.”
    And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done – in mere seconds we’ll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.
    Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: “Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?” There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. “Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.”
    I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: “Ah, Center, much thanks, we’re showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.”
    For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A.came back with, “Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one.”
    It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day’s work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.
    For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.

    The story I wish to relate is one about the 'hopped-up' 1966 428 cu in 4 speed Galaxie 7 Litre I owned back in the mid '70's. Part 5 of my motoring history will have given most of you some background about the car. I mentioned that it was the 'done thing' back in the day to take a run down to the car park adjacent to Seven Kings railway station. Some 20, possibly 30 American cars would group-up and cruise out to a pub in Essex. I also explained that the return journey was usually an all-out race to get back to the car park and queue up across the road for one of Jakes highly rated burgers.
    Unknown to me when I first joined-up with the group there were a couple of guys (as with any group) who think they have the fastest cars. One of them in our group had a 4 door '66 Plymouth or Chrysler Valiant. Don't recall if it was an Aussie right hooker or not. I just remember it being 273/318 cu in powered in dark green colour with side exhausts. This was only my first or second trip out with the guys 'n' gals and I was totally unaware that some of the others in the club were getting tired with this person 'banging on' about how fast his car was and how there was nothing to touch the car out on the open road.
    Anyway, on our return journey through the lanes from the pub Valiant man was leading the line of cars and eventually we turned-off the side roads and on the the A12 Eastern Avenue. By this time I was following the lead car (our friend in the Valiant) and with the next set of traffic lights turning red we were next to each other.
    I have to be honest here and say that I was totally unaware that Valiant man thought that we were going to have a drag race aware from the lights. I wouldn't have even thought that Valiant man would believe that he even had a chance against the big Ford.
    It seems like Mr Valiant gave it the 'hammer' away from the traffic lights (unknown to me, but seeming obvious to all the others following) I pulled away from the lights in my usual manner, just pulling away gently and feeding the clutch-in and avoiding the initial off-cam bog whilst the revs built-up and it eventually 'came on cam' at about 1800 rpm (relating to about 25/30 mph in first gear). At this point all hell would brake loose and the Galaxie would pick up its heels and accelerate rapidly. So much so that it needed all ones skill to change gear quickly enough to keep up with things.
    Anyway I arrived at the next set of traffic lights a half mile further down the road and several hundred yards ahead of the Valiant. The lights changed and once again I puled away as per usual leaving the Valiant behind and drove back to the Seven Kings car park for my burger, thinking no more about it.
    For some reason I didn't go along to the car park for a couple of weeks. When I eventually next went to the cruise it seemed all everyone wanted to talk about was the fact that I had totally 'annihilated' the Valiant on the way back from the pub with the owner being upset that he sold the car within a few days.
    I was only at this point that I realised that Mr Valiant thought he was having a race with me and I was the one responsible for destroying his 'dream' all be it unknowingly.
    It was only after reading the SR71 story that it made me think how easy it can be to 'burst' another persons 'bubble' without even realising it and possibly setting a whole chain of events in progress!
    Sorry Mr Valiant – I didn't mean any harm!


  2. #2
    Might as well be part of the furniture.
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    Brilliant! I've always loved that story about the Blackbird and it still makes makes me smile however many times I read it.
    I'd love to have seen Mr Valiant's face as you went hurtling past whilst he was on full song
    I think we've all been in positions of being surprised by something that we thought wouldn't be a problem, like you mentioned earlier about the Dolly (had one the other week against a Fiesta in the TT) but it sure feels good when the boot is on the other foot!

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