Stuff-mo-tron

Fri, 28 Jul 2006

I just watched the new owner of the Z750s pull off and down my street. As always, it's a mixed happy/sad reaction which fills me when I sell something major like this.

On the one hand, I'm happy to be rid of it (for usually, as with this time, the thing I'm selling is something I really don't want any more, for whatever reason). I'm always happy to see someone else with a big grin on their face as they trade their money for the object of their desire. In this case, Steve (the buyer) looked quite happy as he saddled up and rode off, following his friend in the car they arrived in. Steve gave me a much more comfortable feeling than the previous theoretical buyer, who I now simply refer to as Mr. Creepy. Steve also gave me the impression of being a more skilled rider than the person who bought my BMW R100 a few years ago -- that guy rode off, swinging wide across the street, wearing nothing but a ventilated jacket, a helmet he'd purchased that day, and street clothes. I think it was 40 degrees that day. He must have been half-frozen by the time he got home. Steve will be happier in that way as well.

On the other hand (to return to the structure with which we started this sojourn down memory lane), it makes me sad to see a major part of my life departing. In this case, the Z750s was less major than some previous bikes have been, but it was still important. Going back to the R100, that was a bit of a jar, if only because I'd had the bike for a couple of years, and had gotten to know it really well over the course of several major breakdowns. There's a certain connection with a bike when you've had large chunks of it disassembled for repair. Selling the Le Mans was a similarly mixed event, the sad part coming from the ridiculously incorrect goals I'd loaded it down with. Road trips! thought I. Gonna go places! Yeah, that didn't happen. Then when I rode it those distances once or twice, it turned out it wasn't really all that good for the purpose. Live and learn, I guess.

Now, of course, I find myself with a situation which would probably make most "real" motorcyclists cringe: a Ninja 250 (anathema to speed junkies everywhere) and a Honda Goldwing (gasp!) with a sidecar (double-gasp!). Nothing speedy in there. I mean, the Ninja could be considered speedy when pitted against a stock Honda Civic DX, but it's really not a fast car. The Goldwing feels powerful, but it's hauling around so much mass that even though you feel like you just burned through the gears, you're only going 70 MPH and it's starting to wheeze a bit.

Of course, this is what I wanted. This is actually my ideal situation right now, and I've finally achieved it. Now I just have to finish up the changes to the Ninja (all centered around making the bike fit me better), and I'll be done. Just in time to move houses and build an airplane!

Thu, 27 Jul 2006

So, I started poking around looking for prices on Continental O-200 motors for the biplane project. The O-200 is about the same amount of power as the Rotec radial. It's lighter by 40 lbs and puts out 10 HP less (110 HP for the Rotec vs. 100 for the O-200).

However, more importantly, a used, certified O-200 costs $8000, vs. $14,000 for the radial. And the O-200 is certified, with an excellent track record for reliability. Of course, an O-200 which costs $8k is also used, and therefore has some open questions about its actual condition.

It's an interesting point to consider. The Continental is a more "familiar" engine, in the sense that I could get service and parts for it at just about any repair shop on an airstrip. It has a lot to recommend it. But, of course, it's not a cool radial engine.

Still not making any decisions, since I'm still far from doing anything about this whole airplane project. It's most enjoyable doing the research, though.

I have accepted a deposit on the Z750s. If the deal goes through like I hope it will (and I have no reason to suspect it won't, at this point), I will finally be at the level of general bike-itude I've been aiming for.

Here's hoping all goes well. Then I get to contend with how I'm going to get myself to Montana and back on a Ninja 250.

With any luck, there will be a new motorcycle rack on the Ninja 250 soon. Glenn of the Infernal Machine Shop borrowed the Ninja over the weekend to take final measurements and construct a jig for building racks. This is about year 3 of my waiting for a rack from him, so i'm maintaining a "wait and see" attitude about the whole thing.

If it actually happens, it sounds like it'll be a nice design. It would probably make packing for my little Montana camping trip a lot easier.

In other news, I expect that Hagon rear shock to show up either today or tomorrow. I'm definitely looking forward to installing that, as I was noticing on the way in this morning that the rear shock is feeling pretty overwhelmed. I realized that because the front end is riding so much higher now, with the stiffer springs and all, it's transferring weight to the back. The stock rear shock is now even worse than when I got the bike. But oh, the joys of getting the suspension fully balanced and sorted out should be sweet.

I also got in my new tires on Monday, and will be putting them on soon (probably in the next week or two, particularly if it cools down a bit). The other Ian, on the Ninja 250 board, insists that it will be a revelation when I put the new tires on, so I kind of want to spend some time on the old tires and new rear shock. That way I can feel the full impact of the new tires once I do put them on.

Tue, 25 Jul 2006

I had a chance to chat with my parents today, and they expressed some concerns about the direction my recent aviation discussion has taken. I suspect that if they have these concerns, others among my masses of readers (all two of you) may also be wondering.

"Ultralights are so scary and flimsy." Well, yes and no. Some ultralights are pretty terrifying looking, I agree. Some are pretty substantial looking. Most seem to actually be pretty strong and safe. However, regardless of that, what I'm proposing to build is that airplane on the right, which has an empty weight of 600 pounds, and can carry its own weight again in passengers and gas and such. Not an ultralight at all. Properly constructed, they're very sturdy planes. (Note: not knocking ultralights, although you have to admit that to the untrained eye, some ultralights look like they should fold up like a bad lawn chair.)

I'm interested in having a long and productive life, which is why I've spent thousands of dollars on excellent motorcycle safety gear. However, I also want to enjoy it, which is why I'm riding motorcycles every day instead of commuting in a Volvo. The same logic goes for building an airplane: I like flying, but I want to do it as safely as possible -- that means I'm not going to pick a kit which is known for folding up on itself after 3 hours of flight. It also means I'm going to be painfully fastidious in the construction of that plane to make absolutely sure I'm doing it correctly (and thus safely).

The same also goes for the engine. My dad asked about what kind of engine I would use, and I started going into the types I was looking at. Almost the first thing out of his mouth was, "how reliable are they?" We had an interesting discussion about certified vs. non-certified engines (basically, a certified engine is one which has been built and maintained and possibly overhauled with FAA-blessed procedures by FAA-blessed mechanics; a non-certified engine is not). The short answer on that one: I don't know which I'll want to use. The one pictured on the right is the leading contender if money and reliablity are no object. It would cost over $20k by the time it was installed (unless I found a used one), and it's not certified, so reliability is more of an open question.

In any case, all of this is still pretty far out. I have a few other things to take care of in my life before I even consider actually spending any money on any of this. Any actual decisions will be made two years from now, at the earliest. Anything I say between now and then is purest speculation, although it may be well grounded in research. But then, I can always do more research.

Mon, 24 Jul 2006

Very briefly, Kristin and I took a flight over to Bremerton yesterday to get some flying in and eat fish and chips. Pretty tasty.

It occurred to me a day or two ago that if I do go through with the idea of building an airplane, and if I stipulate that I'd like to be able to carry passengers, it doesn't make sense to do that if I can't carry every probable passenger. This leads, of course, to building a bigger plane.

The one I was originally so excited about, the Classic, would have a maximum passenger weight (assuming I built it exactly to spec and weight) of about 160 lbs. That rules out a number of people I'd want to fly with. What fun is that?

So now I find my eye lighting on the Celebrity by the same company. It's bigger, and would allow me a theoretical maximum passenger weight in the 300 lb range, which is more than enough. Of course, it also allows me the opportunity to use one of these beautiful radial engines.

The downside to all this is that the costs are getting right up there. The bigger plane kit costs $2500 more. The motor is insane, costing $14,000 for the engine, and $7500 for the installation. That's a lot more than the $8,000 for the smaller engine which would power the smaller plane. Of course, the bigger plane will take other engines, which don't cost as much. How much less? Unknown at this point.

It still makes sense, if I do go through with the idea, to start with the bigger, more capable plane. Or, if I decide that passengers are a bad idea, I can go back to a simpler, lighter, cheaper kit, and commensurately simpler and cheaper engines.

Sat, 22 Jul 2006

After my comparatively failed trip to Arlington on Thursday evening, I decided to try again today. I got a late start (I needed the sleep) and was up there by about noon.

I tooled around the ultralight hangars again, but this time actually spotted a few people moving around. I pulled up in front of the largest group (all two of them), and doffed my disturbingly warm riding clothes (it was at least 90° F out there today).

I started up a brief conversation, and it turned out that the talkative guy was the owner of "Let's go flying!" which is an ultralight instruction firm (or something like that). "Demo flights are $65, and I charge $140 an hour. Not that I'm trying to pressure you or anything." He seemed like a fine guy, and I didn't feel pressured. He introduced me to the two people who were over by his ultralight: Idaho Joe, and Elmer. "Elmer just finished building that plane over there!" he said, waving in the general direction of half a dozen planes in hangars.

It turned out that Elmer had come over for a reason. "Anyone know anything about magnetos?" he asked. "I know some, although I'm hardly an expert on them," I volunteered. The talkative guy (whose name I've thoroughly forgotten, of course) burst out cheerfully, "that's what we like to hear! You're going to be very popular around here, Ian!" (he had, of course, already memorized my name).

I followed Elmer over to the newly finished plane ("it hasn't even flown yet," reported Elmer), and he described the engine running on the left magneto but not on the right.

Quick diversion for the non-geeks among my 3 readers: a magneto is this clever thing which produces a spark for an engine without the assistance of a battery. Almost all airplanes have two of them, so that if one conks out, your engine is still running. Airplanes are all about redundancy where possible. Anyway, most airplanes have two magnetos, and a switch up in the cockpit to switch between the left, the right and both magnetos running the engine.

Back to our story. Under a bit of questioning, Elmer further reported that the right mag used to work, but it didn't work this morning, and he didn't know what to do about it. After about 5 minutes talking with him, it was clear that he had followed the instructions in the kit without really knowing what he was hooking up, when running all the wires in the plane. That's fine, but it makes troubleshooting a real chore.

Fortunately, I was able to give him a bit of impromptu instruction in how most magneto systems work. Then I got back to the engine (the plane uses a pusher prop, where the propeller and engine are mounted behind the wing), and saw that there were no magnetos. Of course. This engine (a Rotax 503 if that means anything to you) uses the more modern electronic ignition which the non-aviation parts of the world standardized on 30 years ago. That complicated things a bit, but we eventually worked through it.

First thing was to test the mag switch (think of it as being like an ignition switch in a car -- same function, different design). He operated the switch while I poked and prodded with the multimeter I usually have in my bag (have I mentioned recently that I'm a total geek?). Something wasn't right, but I attributed it to my lack of detailed knowledge on this particular engine setup.

We moved back to the engine, where I saw a host of wire connections buried beneath a wad of black electrician's tape. Normally, a wad of black electrician's tape is home to a horrifying electron graveyard of terrible wire connections, but Elmer's work there had been effective if a touch basic. No problems there. I was starting to feel stumped.

We moved back up to the mag switch (side note: a lovely thing about ultralights and similar airplanes: there's very little digging to be done to get to all these connections -- Elmer just pulled a piece of fabric off its velcro and we had full access -- a normal airplane would have required extreme contortions to get to these contacts, and I would have required a 4 year degree to legally do what I was doing). We ran through the testing sequence again, but this time something was different. One terminal which had been unresponsive last time was now changing. Only, it wasn't changing the way it should have. Hmm.

"Elmer, try wiggling the key back and forth, just jiggle it," I said. Sure enough, the multimeter beeped in time with the key's gyrations. *sigh* "That's it," I said. "The switch is bad." Lame. Lame.

One of the weird and/or annoying things about this situation is that the switch was basically brand new. He estimated he'd cycled it from OFF to START and back maybe 10 times. This is a part which appeared to be a certified switch (I actually don't know now if mag switches can be certified or not), which costs on the order of $90 to replace. I just hope he can get a replacement without having to spend the $90 to get it.

The other annoying thing is that this plane (according to Elmer) was at that moment ready to fly for the first time, except for that dratted switch. The kit manufacturer (who provided the switch with the kit) is in Florida, and doubtless was unreachable by the time we found the problem (around 1 pm Pacific, or 4 pm Eastern). Looks like Elmer's grounded for a little while longer.

Eventually, after profuse thanks for helping him out, I left Elmer to his own devices and headed out to eat a very delayed breakfast. This time, the Taildragger Cafe was open, and it was every bit as pleasant as it had appeared through the locked door on Thursday evening.

Thu, 20 Jul 2006

As I watched the clock hands swing past 5 pm today, I found myself still in a very aviatory mood. I didn't want to be at work any more, I wanted to be looking at planes or talking to someone about planes. Hmm, pity I missed the Arlington fly-in -- I have it! I'll ride up to Arlington and have a look around!

So I packed myself up, and headed to Arlington Municipal Airport, after a brief stop at home to pick up the aviation radio and the kneeboard (which contains a few documents I wanted to refer to). Traffic was slow, but I eventually turned into the "main" parking lot (consisting of around 20 parking spots) around 6:30.

The office had closed at 5, but there was an information board up, which I perused. I saw that I was on the opposite side of the field from the ultralight operations, but decided to stay there for the moment, to give myself some time out of the sweaty riding suit.

As I was considering whether to walk out onto the ramp or not, I heard a high-pitched engine noise, somewhere between a tiny model plane and a Cessna. Ah-hah! I looked toward the lowering sun, and spied what looked like a hang glider with a framework slung beneath it. A quick examination with the monocular confirmed that I was looking at what I think is called a trike. This one looked very much like a motorized hang glider, with wheels, and a seat instead of a grab bar.

There was also a Cessna 152 doing touch-and-goes as I sat there in the sunlight, and I heard an "experimental" call on the radio as he crossed one runway on the way to another. I watched the experimental take off (usually an experimental plane is one built by the owner, such as I would do in my ideal world), but it was a low-winged, fast looking plane. Just the opposite of what I want to build.

The ultralight hang glider thing continued buzzing around the far end of the field, climbing at a ridiculous angle, then pirouetting around in an improbably small amount of space. It looked like fun. I listened to the pitch of the engine, since I'm sure it was using a Rotax engine similar to (but smaller than) what I'd use on the Classic. It wasn't as bad as I'd imagined, but definitely not the throaty burble of a big radial. I think I'll have to hold off on the big radial for a while, though.

I sat down on the bench, and read through the Airport/Facilities Directory entry on Arlington Muni. Nothing too surprising, although I was interested to note that there's no tower. I figured there would be (Arlington claims to be the biggest general aviation airport in the state). Traffic must be exciting during the fly-in.

Finally, I packed myself back up, and told the GPS to route me to the other side of the field, so I could check out the ultralights. A few scant minutes later (having had to travel around the perimeter of the airport plus some), I pulled up to the "UNAUTHORIZED PERSONS OR VEHICLES PROHIBITED" sign. I dallied for a moment, then decided that as a licensed private pilot, I was probably authorized. In any case, there was no one to ask, and no gate or even a speed bump barring the way.

I cruised slowly past the hangars, looking at the wide variety of ultralights or the bits of them I could see. Some were very run-down looking, covered in bird poop and spiderwebs. Others were shiny and new (although the old-n-rundown variety was much more prevalent). Some hangar bays were closed with solid materials so I couldn't see in, while others were partially covered with tarps, or wide open. A couple of the ultralights were for sale. The one which caught my eye was the Loehle Parasol for $4500. I'm sure the resale value of kitplanes is very low compared to their construction cost.

The hangars, I noted, were particularly low-rent looking. The term "clapboard" comes to mind. Rooves were of corrugated metal, with a variety of materials separating the T-shaped bays -- plywood, masonite, plastic "wood-like" siding, etc. It looked like they'd been constructed with whatever materials could be had cheapest at the Home Depot dumpster. Possibly they were. It was actually encouraging, in the sense that I'm very confident I can build a better structure assuming I have space to do it. A trailer would definitely be in my future.

Unfortunately, the ultralight which had been flying seemed to have dissappeared, and there was no one around the hangars. I gave up after a few minutes and headed out. I drove again to the "main" entrance, and headed for the cafe I'd seen advertised there, the Taildragger. Indeed, it looked nice too, but despite two signs claiming it was open, the door was locked, and the hours sheet said they'd closed nearly two hours ago.

I headed back down the road to my alternate, the Chrome Cafe, or Bar and Grill, or something. It seemed to have a variety of names. There was a WWII trainer parked out in front of the Cafe, which I took as a good sign.

That good omen feeling evaporated when I walked in the door. Instead of anything I might call a cafe, I was faced with tables covered in green felt, people crowded around them, clicking multicolored chips and looking at small stacks of playing cards. Oh yeah, one of the signs had said something about a "card room." Eesh. A few mulleted heads turned my way as I walked in, but quickly lost interest when they realized that looking at me was not winning them any money.

I walked in uncertainly, and finally asked one of the barmen if they were still serving dinner. It was only 8:00 or so, but the place was definitely full of gamblers (the sound of chips clicking against each other was the soundtrack for the entire time I was in there) and didn't seem to contain many people eating food. He said they did, and indicated I should take any seat I wanted. Without realizing what I was letting myself in for, I sat at a booth near one of the card tables.

The menu was, not surprisingly, full of meat. I'm not a big meat eater myself, being basically vegetarian except for the odd bit of salmon in sushi. Strike two, definitely not in my element. Click click click click click.

I ordered the "chicken quesadilla" without the chicken, figuring it would be pretty hard to screw up a quesadilla. I was right and wrong -- it's not that easy, but they'd tried pretty dilligently. A grilled cheese sandwich made with tortillas arrived on my table shortly, along with a small cup full of a tepid red soup with little chunks in it. I eventually decided it was supposed to be salsa and dumped it over the cheese concoction in front of me. If that was salsa, it was definitely made in.. New York City?! (Get a rope.) Heavy on the vinegar.

"Quesadilla" conquered, I paid my bill and suited back up to hit the road. It was around 9 pm, and the sun had already winked below the horizon, although the sky was bright and the light was still good. I was a little dissappointed I hadn't had a chance to talk to anyone about ultralights, but I hadn't really expected to.

As I spurred the bike up to freeway speeds, I saw that the horizon was rimmed with a beautiful lavender mist as the sun sank further down in the sky. Even if I hadn't seen all that I'd hoped for, it was a nice night to be out.

I just plunked down my $40 to join the EAA. I'm sure I'll get myself to the next Seattle chapter meeting when it happens next month. I spent a solid chunk of time reading this guy's construction pages as he builds a Fisher Classic.

It was quite interesting reading that site, because every time he described making a choice, I read over his explanation and reasoning, and said to myself, "yep, I'd make the same choice." Some of the things he did are probably not things I'd do myself, but I agree wholeheartedly with his reasoning almost every time.

I'm hoping I can find someone to talk to soon, to figure out if I'm travelling the right theoretical pathways in thinking about this project. To some extent, it doesn't matter right now, since it's at least two years until I'll be able to even consider building a plane for real. I know my home life will be disrupted early next year as I move out and prep the house for sale, so if I were to start anything today, it would be put on hold around January, and I'd have to move it to the new house/garage (probably in an extremely fragile state). Once I move and find a new house (which will either have an excellent shop/garage or space to build one), I'm sure I'll have projects for at least a year in the new house.

In any case, I'm having a great time researching and reading and pondering right now. I decided to tote up a quick tally of what a kitplane would probably cost, just to see if I could shock myself back to reality:

Hmm. That's actually about what I was imagining. That would set me up with an airplane that would carry myself and a passenger (and maybe a few small pieces of baggage) at 70 MPH cruise for a distance of up to about 200 miles on 10 gallons of gas (including a goodly reserve). Insurance is a wide open question, and running costs are a big question in my mind -- I'm guessing they'd be way lower than if I tried to own a Piper Cherokee or something, mostly because I can do all the maintenance and work myself under an FAA builders exemption.

Of course, that doesn't take into account the "incidentals" I'd need: trailer, vehicle to tow trailer, storage location for the plane, tools, and so on. Some of those things are useful enough that I wouldn't consider them "airplane specific" -- the vehicle (probably a small pickup truck) and the tools spring right to mind. The trailer is something I could either build, or design and have built (depends on whether I end up learning to weld or not). The storage building is something I could build myself, assuming there's enough space on the new lot, or it could be a 10' wide section of garage if I have a large enough garage. Building a simple, unheated hangar would probably be on the order of $3000 if I built it myself.

Overall, it's a big financial committment, and a bigger committment of time. Not something I'm going to enter into lightly when the time comes to actually make the decision. But in the mean time, it's great fun to fantasize about.

Tue, 18 Jul 2006

For the first time in a number of years, I actually find myself excited about an aviatory subject. Specifically, ultralights and/or kitbuilt planes. I'm actually not as excited about actually legal-ultralights as I am about very light kitplanes.

It turns out that to be a legal ultralight, a plane has to fulfill a number of requirements, like only carrying one person (the pilot), a freakishly low maximum weight (254 pounds, I think -- about 100 lbs lighter than my Ninja 250), etc. The bonus if you meet all these requirements? No FAA license needed.

Ah-hah! But I have an FAA license, so I don't have any difficulty moving up to a non-ultralight airplane, which most specifically interests me because I can carry a passenger, and because I can go a bit faster.

The goal is not actually to go fast, but it'd be nice to be able to pass the traffic on the freeway (at least, if they're driving the speed limit).

So far, two kits have caught my eye in a serious way. The first (picked out of a list completely at random, of course) is the Loehle Spad XIII. It's only a single-place, so it's less interesting to me now, but it is freakishly light.

The second kit, which has garnered much more of my attention is the Fisher Classic. The more astute of my three readers will have determined by now that both planes are biplanes. Indeed, I find the biplane is the exciting part of all this.

The idea of flying any old highwing doesn't really do it for me. I wouldn't get into kit building to duplicate what I could get from a Cessna or a Piper. I find myself attracted to kitbuilding for the idea of flying an "old" airplane that's brand new.

I'm not going to do anything about it now, but it's cool to finally feel any real attraction for flying again.

Mon, 17 Jul 2006

I just returned from the garage, where I finished up the Ninja 250's 600 mile inspection/adjustment. As I'd suspected, the valves were all too tight. What a pain it is getting those valves adjusted. Fortunately, it seems to be getting easier every time I do it.

Hopefully, this will improve the idle and maybe even increase power and efficiency a tiny bit. Mostly, it means I can finally adjust the carburetor synchronization, which will make the engine smoother, more efficient, and possibly a trifle more powerful.

One additional gripe: who puts in the freakin' fairing screws? I actually stripped one trying to get it out (fortunately my trick bolt remover worked a treat on it, but now I'm out a fairing screw). It was in tight enough that the battery drill I was using to remove it actually overheated and clicked off. What? Who put this thing in, Moosey McArmstrong? Whoever it was, he was feeling his oatey-bites that day.

Sun, 16 Jul 2006

I took a long ride today, to commemorate the nice weather (see the motorcycle journal for that). On the way back home, I took a route through Woodinville, where I spent my formative years.

Coming down 522, I spied a sign that said "Paradise Lake Road," and got in the left turn lane. Ah, Paradise Lake Rd. It was a road of legend in highschool, some sort of mystical automotive rite of passage, at least for kids of a certain bent. There was a persistent rumor that a student from our school had killed himself on that road "a few years ago." You proved how cool you were by citing the speed at which you traversed Paradise Lake Road (well, I didn't, but I was a Nerd or something, so I didn't count). I had a friend years later describe his own "mishap" on the road, where he got his car stuck in a ditch. It's not as daring as you think -- he misjudged where a driveway was in the dark, and dropped a wheel off the driveway into the ditch.

As I neared the end of the road, and turned onto Woodinville-Duvall Road, I found myself thinking about all the girls I'd had a crush on in junior high and highschool. For a variety of reasons, I knew where a few of them lived (think after school events and group homework projects), and ticked off directions to their houses as I passed by on my ride, feeling split between the present and the future.

As I neared my old house (or at least the turnoff to head to it), I saw the location which will forever be known as "the White Stallion" to me. It's just a little tiny strip mall at this point, but once there was a huge cheezy white horse statue (made of god knows what, plaster probably) there, and a moderately expensive (so I supposed) restaurant which bore the name. My parents always used it as a landmark when giving directions. For some reason, that's the intersection I always picture when I'm thinking about cryptography (don't ask me why, but I strongly and unconsciously associate street intersections with subjects).

That same corner also houses the "new" AMPM/Arco station, which was built when I was in my preteens, and became the bicycle destination of choice when candy acquisition was indicated. Previously, it'd been Mack's Corner (which I noted is still there as I passed it by). Mack's Corner, though, was a real trek. It must have been more than a mile away, through the variety of paths and residential streets which make up suburbia. I was first taken to Mack's (shown the special path, as I might have thought of it then) by the older kid in the neighborhood (name thankfully forgotten, possibly Gordy) who initially took me under his wing, then turned on me and started a "neighborhood war" against me, effectively alienating me from all the other kids in the neighborhood. In any case, diversionary story threads aside, I remember when the AMPM when in, and candy was suddenly much closer, and available in a very nicely air conditioned store.

I also remember looking up at the gas prices there (this must have been around 85 or 86) and seeing 78 cents. I thought to myself at the time, "jeez, if gas ever goes over a dollar a gallon, I just don't want to drive; it's too expensive." Ha ha ha. (Today, I was thrilled to find gas for $2.97 per gallon.) I'd like my shakin' cane and false teeth now, please. "Hey you kids! GET OFF MY LAWN!" I've been practicing.

Anyway, I passed by my old street and was again reminded of how you can never go back. When I was growing up, Woodinville-Duvall road was this lovely curving downhill thing. I dreamt of driving up and down it in a VW Bug (1963 or 1964 for preference), and laughing at my younger self, huffing and puffing up the hill on a bicycle. I did eventually own a horribly clapped out 1964 Bug for a year or two, but it never made the trip back to Woodinville (I don't think it would have gone that far without spewing all its oil or shaving most of the teeth off the transmission gears or something). Even if it had, they reconfigured the road to prefer heading straight down to 522, rather than bending down to "downtown" Woodinville. To follow its old path, you now have to make a sharp left-hand turn at a traffic light. I think I once exceeded 40 MPH riding my 12-speed down that hill, according to the fist-sized CatEyeMate bicycle computer my grandparents had astoundingly given me as a present one year. I was pretty proud of that.

As I passed down the hill, back in the present, I came upon a dual memory-path moment. The first was in 6th grade, riding the big yellow school bus down the hill. It was cold out, cold enough that the field to the right had frosted over, leaving all the tall grass looking like it'd been dusted with sugar. Of course, now that field is a stripmall with a QFC as the anchor store. That bus was really cold, too. The heater wasn't worth much. The field didn't last long either, being plowed under for the stripmall by the time I was in 8th grade.

Off to my left, I saw that the Godfather's Pizza had thankfully moved on. That's where I worked after my one and only automotive accident (passenger: "Oh! Turn left here!" me: "Ok!" [SKREEE! SLAM! shatter tinkle]).

The most notable memory of the Godfather's restaurant? This girl I barely knew, who lived down the street from me, also worked there. Once, we were both on break at the same time, probably eating.. well, pizza, 'cause we got one free personal pizza per shift, and she looked over at me, out of the blue, and said, "you know, despite what other people may say, I'm not addicted to crystal." I looked at her owlishly for a moment before responding, "ok."

I had never heard the word "crystal" used to name a drug (as it obviously was) before. For all I knew, it could have been drain cleaner. I didn't have any friends who did drugs (I wasn't cool enough), so the most I knew about drugs was that I was to say NO to them, and I could probably name a half dozen from various D.A.R.E. type visits by scary police officers to school assemblies and health classes. And of course none of this addresses why she should confide this obviously important and defining fact to me. As far as I could tell, I was beneath her notice at all other times. (Fine with me: she was scary and, I now know, looked disturbingly like Boy George.)

It was also at that job at Godfather's Pizza that I developed a huge crush on a girl whose name I've forgotten, but may have been named Jennifer. She smoked cigarettes, and would blow smoke out of the corners of her mouth and her nostrils, making it look like she was a cartoon character. It was not for this talent that I was crushing on her, I just thought she was brainstoppingly attractive. She would relate intriguing stories of she and her boyfriend "doing it" in the snow. It certainly impressed quite the mental image on me.

I vaguely recall listening to The Cure a lot that year, and feeling a special thrill when she loaned me her tape of the current album (this would have been 1988, and the album was Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, which to this day reminds me of snow and feeling rejected; hooray for highschool memories!). Suffice to say, that crush never went anywhere, which is probably for the best, really. Jennifer now puts me in mind of a really hot, really crass, white trash 17 year old version of Jodie Foster.

Back in the present (whew!), I passed through the intersection in which I caused the aforementioned traffic accident, and was interested to note that the surrounding businesses actually hadn't changed. Of course, the left turn arrow was still there (I like to think my intense, 16-year-old stupidity had some hand in that).

I kept rolling down the main drag until I came to Las Margaritas, where my family used to eat every once in a while. Gee, dinner sure sounded good. I think that's a thoroughly sufficent trip down memory lane for now. And by posting this, I'm guaranteeing my complete ineligibility to run for elected office! (I'm sure someone can figure out how to twist this in some vaguely blackmail-ish way if given enough money.)

Today was far too sunny and pleasant to consider doing anything other than going for a ride. So I did.

Even though it sounded kind of familiar, I decided to ride up to Granite Falls and follow a route described in Destination Highways: Washington (a fine book if you ride and want to find the cool routes in Washington -- there's also a British Columbia edition). It was indeed familiar, as Jesse and I had ridden it two or three years ago. Ah well, it was still a fine ride.

Perhaps the most notable aspect of this particular ride was the distance covered: I didn't note exact numbers, but it's on the order of 180 miles. Not necessarily a lot in general, but for a few bike that's still going through break-in, that's a goodly number of miles.

Of course, that was also plenty of time to remind me of why I was so excited about rebuilding the seat on the last Ninja 250. Ouch. I was very happy to stop for dinner in Woodinville. I definitely wouldn't want to commit myself to any longer trips on that seat.

Overall a fine ride, though. I as also pleased to see that on the second tank of gas (I was nearly out by the time I got to Granite Falls), I got just over 64 miles per gallon. That's much more like it.

I went for a ride on the new front suspension last night. Neat! The beefier spring firmed things up a lot, and the GVE widget plainly helped things too. I tried experimentally running over a small pavement flaw which I've hit before, and it was a non-event. I wasn't even sure it was the same little pothole.

Previously, when I'd hit that little divot, the bike would shudder and buck a little bit, producing a feeling I guess I'd best describe as "harsh." Now, with the new bits installed, it was almost as if the flaw wasn't there. To me, it's a fairly impressive recommendation in favor of the GVE. Springs alone wouldn't have caused that change.

The other impressive thing was a quick direction change, where I go around a small roundabout and have to quickly switch from leaning left to leaning right. (Well, "have to" -- rather, "enjoy.") Last night, I noticed that I felt as though I had traction throughout the whole transition. Previously, right as I was transitioning through directly upright, the feeling of traction was sort of vague. This wasn't as marked an improvement as the bump handling, but it was still a noticeable improvement.

Of course, the improvements I was expecting, like reduced brake dive and for the bike to stop feeling like a toy happened too. I even suspect the GVE improves brake dive, although I'm not as sure of that.

The downside of all of this, naturally, is that the bike feels weirdly unbalanced now. I haven't received the new rear shock yet, so the back end is still struggling along with the stock, vastly undersprung shock. The bike now sits upright in front, and kind of wobbles and sags in back. I actually felt the rear suspension bottom out coming over a series of sharp hills going up to Capitol Hill -- definitely not supposed to be happening.

So I now find myself hoping more fervently than ever that the new shock arrives from England sooner rather than later.

Sat, 15 Jul 2006

The Ninja 250 received a $250 front-end lift today. As I believe I wrote in the past, both front suspension bits I wanted to install had arrived, and today I finally had time to do it. So I did.

The springs are easy, just unscrew a few bits, pull out the old springs, and drop in the new ones. The Gold Valve Emulators (henceforth GVEs) are a trifle more complex. First, completely disassemble the front end, to get each individual fork leg off. Half-disassemble each fork leg, and drill six impressively large holes in one of the bits removed from each leg (called a damper rod, for those keeping track in the techie booth). Once that's all done, reassemble with this little GVE widget tucked under the spring. There's also some weirdly non-intuitive math involved for figuring out a spring preload spacer (so the springs start out slightly compressed).

Of course, my drill press (almost the perfect tool for the job) is over at Jesse's house, since he needed it a while back, and I haven't terribly missed it. So, I had to grab the damper rods and head over there to do the drilling. On the way, I decided to stop into the dealership and see if they had a crush washer I would ideally have to make the job perfect, but they didn't. Oh well, no great loss.

I got my drilling done, and came back home, by which time it was after 5, and I was increasingly aware that I hadn't really eaten any food yet today. Food it is, then.

Finally, I was able to get back to work, and finished up at 8:30. Because of the huge gap in the middle, I'm not sure how long the work actually took, but it felt like around 3 hours.

And now, with that done, I think I'm going to go for a little ride to see what the new front end feels like.

Thu, 13 Jul 2006

The new fork springs arrived today, and the Gold Valve Emulators arrived earlier this week, so I'm set to fix up the front end on the Ninja 250. I still need to pick up some fork oil, but that's just down the street and under $10. Hopefully I can spend part of Saturday getting my front end set up for less dive and more control.

In the rear fender of every Ninja 250 is a hole, exactly 1" across. Through it passes the wire which runs to the license plate light. The wire is about 1/4" across.

The rear fender is the piece which keeps anything flung up by the rear tire -- water, sand, mud, glass, road apples, whatever -- contained and restricted from the rest of the bike. So, why did Kawasaki, in their infinite wisdom, put a 1" hole (and it's exactly one inch) in the rear fender, leading into the underseat storage area?

Who knows. It's rather bizarre, and frustrated me on the last bike, since anything I put back there (there's precious little storage on a Ninja 250) would invariably get soaked and caked with grit.

Finally, years after I noticed the problem, I found the solution. Since the hole is 1" across, it perfectly fits a 1" hole plug. That's this sort of round plastic widget which snaps into holes to cover them up and, well, plug them. They cost less than a dollar each. Perfect!

I spent about 5 minutes with a small round file and a sharp knife making a hole just large enough to pass the wire. The plug popped right into place, and doesn't look like it'll ever move from there unless I want it to. 50 cents, 5 minutes, and problem solved. Finally.

Wed, 12 Jul 2006

I've had the Ninja 250 now for 367 miles and about 2 and a half weeks. I've added a bunch of stuff, notably: new grips, new fuel filter, LED taillights, a BMW power socket, hazards-enabled left switchpod, louder horn, stainless braided front brake line, and a few days ago, the bar-end mirrors which had been on the Z750s.

The bike is comporting itself well, with a few odd things I've noticed. The front brakes make a dull grinding noise when applied, which I think means they're still getting broken in. Nothing looks amiss, so I'm going to leave that one for now.

The engine seems to have an odd hunting/surging feeling at mid-throttle and mid-RPM, which I suspect means it's running lean right there, and I need to raise the main jet needle a little bit. The valves are also ticking a bit, and cold idle (even when it's fairly warm out) is still shaky, so the valves probably also need a bit of attention. I also suspect that the idle mixture screws, while closer, aren't yet adjusted exactly right. I'm going to tackle all of that at the 600 mile service, which should be coming up in a few weeks.

The suspension is still very definitely on the "goofy" side. I'm looking forward to installing all the suspension modifications. The gold valve emulators showed up a couple of days ago, so one out of three down. I expect the front springs will be here within the week, and the rear shock is kind of a mystery. Some time before August, is my best guess. Fortunately, the front and rear can be done at different times, although I'd rather do it all at once.

The stainless brake line is definitely worthwhile. It just makes a great difference. Now if only the brake pads would bed in and stop making that grinding noise. I may pull them at the 600 mile service and make sure nothing untoward is happening.

The motor seems more powerful than the previous 250. It's hard to know if I'm imagining it, or if it's a real difference. I'm guessing that long term oil consumption and fuel mileage will ultimately tell the tale.

Tue, 11 Jul 2006

Two construction workers were walking behind me part of my way to work. I couldn't help overhearing their conversation:

W2: Yeah... When the cop pulled me over, he was actually real nice. See, my mudflap had come off, and.. well, the truck's got 44 inch tires.

W2: Yeah. So anyway, he got me for driving on a suspended [license]. (pause) I've gotten 21 3rd degree driving on a suspended [license]. But, you know, I gotta drive. I tried getting an occupational license, all that shit, but no.

At this point, my brain exploded a little bit and I lost the thread of the conversation. By the time I tuned in again, #2 was saying something about "different jurisdictions," which I'm guessing indicated that the reason he hasn't been drawn and quartered yet is that he caught his infractions in a variety of locations.

Sun, 09 Jul 2006

"Sir! We've got them on the run, but I don't know how long it will last," Lieutennant Snips reported breathlessly. Around him, the air was filled with the scent of death, but no matter. The war must continue.

I surveyed the field myself. On the eastern front, their forces were gathering like a tidal wave. I could see them spilling over each other, eager to overcome the temporary barrier erected to keep them at bay. Fortunately, the western front was largely under control, and was the operation on which the good lietennant was reporting.

Their armies have been tenacious, and sometimes I feel like I'm fighting the war myself. One man against an endless mountain of thriving, solar-powered chlorophyllic evil. Ipomoea violacea and rubus procerus. And now they're working together.

The first hint of collaboration (which I suspect is against the Geneva Convention, but I'll have to ask my legal staff) appeared this spring, when I found a spiked stem athwart a bulwark, with a coiling stem wound around it like a leafy snake. "This is going to be bad," I thought to myself at the time. My prescience was spot-on.

Now I find spiked vines, their tines razor-sharp -- sharp enough to go straight through leather gauntlets and into soft flesh beneath -- climbing toward the sky and impeding progress through vital tactical thoroughfares. And indeed, twined about them like strangling serpents come the smooth vines of violacea.

Through tenacious trench warfare, I've kept their forces at bay, and our supply routes remain free and operational. But it's only a matter of time before they simply overwhelm us.

I hope this message makes it out in time to warn my fellow generals. Don't let them gather their forces. Keep them small and on the run. It's the only way to survive.

Thu, 06 Jul 2006

"The weather briefer says the clouds are marginal, and there are some thunderstorms still lurking around, but let's drive to the airport anyway, and maybe things will look better when we get there." The time was 8:15 pm, July 4th. The place, north Seattle.

We gathered our stuff: warm clothes (it's the 4th of July in Seattle, of course there was heavy cloud cover and intermittent rain), headsets, random flight bag items, a bottle of water. We piled in the car and aimed it northward, to Paine field.

The sky looked alternately ominous and glorious, depending on whether you were looking away from or towards the sunset. Clouds stacked upon themselves, giving every appearance of being incipient thunderheads, tinged yellow and gold with the light of the descending sun. Over the roar of road and wind, we could hear the popping of firecrackers.

We pulled up to the fence outside of Northway Aviation, and I dialed the weather briefer again. To my surprise, he said that conditions were improving as predicted. That never happens. Ok then, I decided, we were good to go!

I got out and got to preflighting little N805W, which would be our trusty mount that night. (Don't believe those pictures, by the way. My head tops the trailing edge of the wing, and Kristin, at 5'2", can just barely stand underneath the wing without hitting her head.) Kristin stayed in the car, where it was a much more comfortable temperature. Nothing notable turned up in the preflight -- even the tires were properly inflated. Firework reports popped and pinged off the metal buildings as people around Paine celebrated their diminishing freedom.

I called Kristin out, and we fired up the little motor (I say "little," but the motor in a Cessna 152 would provide a hell of a power boost to most economy cars if appropriately regeared -- air makes a very inefficient traction medium). After a quick fuel stop (amazingly, the little plane has enough load capacity to carry Kristin, myself, and full fuel; I had to redo the calculations twice to make sure I was reading it right), we taxied out to the runway, and launched into the gathering darkness.

I had a brief radio exchange with another pilot who was coming in, just before we took off. He wished us a good flight, and jokingly expressed his hope that no one was celebrating their freedom by firing guns in the air. I had a little private shudder, and exclaimed, "don't even joke about that."

We were off without incident, the little plane struggling to climb with the extra weight of full fuel and Kristin aboard. It was not a dangerously low climb rate, but I had to remind myself of the difference in performance when you suddenly load a noticeable percentage of the total weight of the plane in. (To those who are sensitive to the propriety of talking about a woman's weight, let's just say that Kristin is quite light, but so is the plane, so it doesn't take much to add up to a "noticeable percentage.")

Almost immediately, fireworks were visible off to the sides of our path, giving the impression of lofting toward us until they popped in a shower of sparks off to one side or the other. As we left the Paine Field airspace, I called up Seattle Approach and set up flight following. This is a service in which air traffic control will help you spot other aircraft which might pose a collision risk. For the most part we had no need of their services, but I always like having someone else watching my back.

The fireworks below were not as frenzied as I recalled from two years ago, but were still impressive. Kristin had her neck craned around, looking at all the sparkling, scintillating light below us. The engine droned on as we ascended to a relatively safe altitude. Between the engine, our distance, and the sound-damping headsets we wore, the pop and crackle of exploding gunpowder had dissappeared.

We had gotten a later start than I wanted, but this meant that as we were passing abeam of Lake Union and Elliott Bay, the professional displays were in full swing. Kristin tried to record them on the digital camera at my urging, but conditions were too dark for the movie mode to record much more than darkness. Elaborate sprays of red and white sparks danced below us, lighting up the underside of the wing with their glare. Gleaming rings of multicolored sparks flared and died over Lake Union. Competing bursts of approximately floral flares ignited and faded over Elliott Bay. The ridiculous competition of the two shows struck me as we watched both from the air.

We flew along, hovering motionless over Lake Washington: a long, irregularly shaped patch of blackness separating scintillating lights, two strings of brakelight-red, sodium-orange and headlight-white pearls linking the lights to each other. The north end of the lake erupted rocket trails from a barge as Lake City or Kenmore residents celebrated our independence from those oppressive British monarchists so long ago.

Around us, other planes flew, taking in the view, or ferrying passengers, or going about whatever errands they had to do. A helicopter passed below and in front of us with surprising speed.

We proceeded past the Renton airport, Kristin half-twisted in her seat to look backwards at the retreating firey displays. In retrospect, it would have been better to turn back and watch the big displays while they were still happening, but I was hoping to find the same carpet of shimmering sparks I'd seen two years ago over Renton and Kent. Alas, I was dissappointed, Renton remained remarkably passive on the airborne-display front.

We turned and descended to 1500 feet to pass over SeaTac airport at the tower's instruction. It's usually somewhat thrilling passing over the big airport, with the big planes, but the haze and lack of planes lined up on final approach made the traversal something of an anticlimax. We climbed back up to a safer altitude and banked back north, passing over the considerably darker and less sparkling western shore of Puget Sound.

Just as we were approaching closest to downtown Seattle, the fireworks reached their ultimate paroxysm of overactive flashing and booming, then went dark. Alas, we'd just missed the Grand Finale. Kristin still seemed satisfied, and I know I was. I pointed out the glowing trail of red lights along Alki Drive, and expounded my theory that they had to be cars. In fact, a lot of roads looked quite busy, and I remembered part of the reason I was so happy to be watching all this from 2000 feet -- less having to deal with people.

As we returned, I pointed out Fremont and Ballard, and about where my house is, and the gaudy necklace of highway 99, stretching north and south. I-5 put in an appearance below us, sleek and efficient looking compared to 99.

We turned back towards Paine Field, and descended for a landing. I aborted the first one, after it was clear that we were too high and too fast to make a safe landing. The second go-around was much more successful, and we made a very good landing, the wheels chirping below us as they spun up to match the tarmac racing by.

"Well, how did you like that?" I asked. "That was really cool!" exclaimed Kristin. Can't ask much more than that for a first real flight.

Wed, 05 Jul 2006

First, NOAA? Since when did the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration get into IT security policies? For banks?

Second, ITM v8.1 software? When was the last time you saw a bank mention what kind of software they were using, much less which version? Talk about inviting attack, on top of confusing customers. Bank customers don't want to know about your software, they want to know how to make a deposit or withdrawal, and they want to be sure that when the do that, the money goes where they expect it to go.

Tue, 04 Jul 2006

On my first Ninja 250, I installed a set of Hyper-Lites, which are these LED lights that go in or near the taillight, and provide additional running and brake lights. They also flash, which is nice, but most important to me, they provide additional, non-incandescent lights in case the traditional (and solitary) brake bulb goes out. Obviously on something which is already as hard to see as a motorcycle, losing even the marker light would be a bad idea.

So, a number of weeks before I even bought the new 250, I bought a set of Hyper-Lites to go on it. (In my defense, there was every indication that the Le Mans was going to sell, and that the purchase of a 250 was imminent. I was ready to get on with the new bike.) Since I figured I'd be using them soon, I opted to buy the lights from the local BMW dealership, where I knew they were in stock. In fact, I bought the same kit I'd bought for the previous 250.

Once I finally got my new bike in the garage, and started installing stuff, the Hyper-Lites were high on the list of things to install. I pulled them out of their packaging, and discovered that the fine folks at Hyper-Lite Inc. had reconfigured how the lights connected. Now, it wouldn't fit on the 250 without some additional connectors and fittings, which I naturally didn't have on hand. Fooey! I shelved the project for a later time.

Finally today, I had the right parts on hand and some time to do it, so I did. On the previous bike, I'd just kind of connected everything up any old which way. It worked just fine, but it would have been a pain if I'd wanted to remove the taillight assembly for any reason, and it wasn't done with much planning. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't, in the engineering sense of the word, Good.

So today, I took the time (while the glue is drying on another modification) to do it Well.

The Ninja 250's tail section has a sort of skeleton, which is the rear subframe, over which rides the "skin" of the fairing. There's a beefy bracket right at the back, which joins a few things together, and also happens to support the taillight assembly. Previously, I had stuck one of the LED light modules (a separate flasher circuit box) to this support bracket, which would have provided no end of trouble if I'd wanted to take off the light assembly.

This time, I actually took out the light assembly, and discovered that not only would all the little boxes and wires fit onto the assembly, it could be done well. Of course, taking the part off the motorcycle also makes it far easier to work on. No bending upside-down to see into a space the size of a softball, nor cramping large hands into tiny spaces. Everything is very clean, and likely to be more robust than it was on the previous bike, just by dint of being so clean and tucked out of the way.

In fact, looking into the space where I'd worked on the previous bike, I can only see a small indication the extra wires are even there. Excellent. I love doing things Right.

Sun, 02 Jul 2006

Yesterday morning, I had time scheduled in another Cessna 152. Kristin had bravely agreed to a practical test, to see if she could stand being up in a small plane. The idea was, I'd go through a normal touch-and-go scenario, and she was asked to cry foul at any point she felt uncomfortable (obviously, once in the air, she'd have to content herself with waiting, so hopefully she'd feel any anxiety before that).

I urged her to tell me at any point, including first sight of the Lilliputian flying machine, to tell me she didn't want to go. The last thing I want to do is drag along an unwilling passenger.

However, despite her initial nervousness and my initial concerns, it all went smoothly. The sight of the little plane didn't seem to cause her any undue concern. Not even when we got into the plane and I explained what to do if I was unresponsive for any reason did she really seem to balk (although she implored me not to pass out).

Side note: if you're in a small airplane with dual controls, and the pilot passes out, you grab the throttle and shove it all the way forward, and make sure the nose of the plane is above the horizon. Then you grab the transmit button and say "mayday" until someone pays attention to you. Then you go from there. Actually, if you can remember to say, "I'm declaring an emergency," that's even better, since that's the magic phrase that gets everyone's attention, including diverting jumbo jets away from you.

Anyway, there was no need for any heroic action on her part. I completely failed to pass out.

We went up and down the requisite three times (it's not actually required, but if you do three takeoffs and landings, you reset the 90 day "I can legally carry passengers" clock). Kristin seemed unphased, although one unexpected burble of turbulence caught her off guard.

We landed the final time (these landings were much better than the night landings of a week or two ago), and taxied in. Kristin appeared to be happy and smiling, so that was all positive.

Of course, now that we've successfully done this, I have a sudden urge to fly places. Having a willing partner makes the idea of flying much more appealing, just in the sense of being able to enjoy it with someone else. It's amazing how much of a difference that makes.

A few weeks ago, I signed up for some time in a Cessna 152, for night-flying practice. It was a nice night, and a quick call to the weather briefer confirmed this observation. No clouds, comfortable temperatures, easy, predictable (and straight down the runway) wind. Perfect!

I got myself familiar with the 152 again. What a tiny plane. Seriously, this is a plane where I can fly by myself, or with a small passenger (think under 150 lbs). Anything much over that, and we exceed the maximum load. Two guys my size? Hah! On top of weight issues, our shoulders would literally have us pinned to the windows, it's so narrow. Every time I come out of one, I find my legs shaking from the effort of holding them in such a relatively cramped-up position. I wrote in a previous journal entry ages ago that a 152 is capable of lifting me, half fuel, and a banana (or something like that). That's very nearly a literal truth.

Anyway, I got back in the plane and remembered what it was all about -- oh yeah, tube radio. And that's it. You get your basic six instruments, a radio that actually uses vacuum tubes, and a transponder so air traffic control knows where to look when you scream "mayday." Great! Oh well, I wouldn't be needing most of the instruments, and I have a backup radio I always carry.

The flight itself was pretty good. I (re-)discovered that flying in the dark is harder than I think -- I always think it's going to be pretty easy, with all those lights twinkling, making everything so obvious. Of course, then I proceeded to fly three passes where I turned very prematurely for the final turn each time, touchdown itself was acceptable, but I always flared early, etc. Nothing heinous, but not as good as I would have liked.

I taxied back in and filled out my paperwork. 0.6 hours of night flight, and 3 take offs and landings. Cool. I was set for my night flight on the 4th.

Written by Ian Johnston. Software is Blosxom. Questions? Please mail me at reaper at obairlann dot net.