A while after the final flight of my first flying model airplane, we got a second, and completely different model airplane. The difference in the planes matched the difference in the decades — the first plane was of the 70s, and the second plane was of the 80s.

The second plane was a stunt plane, and it looked the part. It had a wider plastic body, plastic wings underneath, and a gas-powered engine (like a small lawn trimmer). But the most notable difference was how its flight was controlled.

From the tip of its starboard/right wing came two strings that attached to a hand piece. You were to set the plane on the ground, start the engine, and then step back and let the plane take off at the end of the string. You then held the hand piece and controlled the plane’s climb and dive as it flew around you.

But that was the problem: the plane flew around you in a circle. My dad and I both tried controlling this thing a few times, but the circling, circling, circling, circling made us dizzy. The plane was so fast that we couldn’t really put any thought into trying maneuvers or stunts. And after maybe 60 seconds of circling flight, the plane crashed into the ground.

This plane was a sturdier specimen compared to the older, first plane, so it better took the crashes — I don’t remember any damage to this second plane resulting from the poor piloting.

But we could take the dizzying circles so much before giving up on this model airplane. The only thing really cool and fun about this second plane was the great divots it made in the ground when it crashed propeller first. The speedy impact and the strong engine made for big holes and churned up grass and dirt. And the sound of BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-THUMP! was awesome.

And so ended our attempt at fun with that second plane. BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-THUMP!

Bullgrit

When I was a young boy (of single-digit age), I had an interest in airplanes. In support of this interest, my dad bought me a flying model airplane.

The plane was a red, white, and blue Cessna-style, single-engine, wing-on-top flyer – blue plastic fuselage, white styrofoam wings, and red trim work. Its wingspan was less than three feet and its speed was only barely faster than I could run underneath it, but it was a fantastic machine.

The propeller was battery powered, and its flight pattern was controlled by small disks you installed under the fuselage. As the plane flew, the inserted disk turned and would move the rudder in the chosen pattern. There were several of these disks to choose from, each supposedly giving a different flight path, but we only ever saw two distinct patterns in actual use: fly into building, and fly into road.

We’d take the plane to one of the local public parks – the only park with a wide open field – and let the plane go. My dad tended the motor, made sure all flight controls were working, and we put in the flight disk together. Then we’d turn it on, and my dad would launch it with a smooth over-handed toss.

My brother and I would run around the park field, under the plane, chasing its flight path. It soared about 10-20 feet above the ground – high enough to look like a real plane (to 5-9 year olds) and low enough to look like we could almost reach up and touch it. The plane would fly for a couple of minutes, making turns as the attached disk dictated, and then, inevitably, the flight would end with the plane flying smack into the side of the big park building. It would crash into the brick wall and then fall to crash into the ground at the bottom of the wall.

Every time it did this, it sounded and looked like it would be the end of its flying days – the fuselage would crack, the wings would pop off the top, and the prop would bend. But my dad managed to put it all back together, and he kept it running for a long time.

If the plane didn’t fly into the building, it would fly out of the park and land in the main street – four lanes plus a center turning lane. Fortunately, it was a small town, and we weren’t flying during rush hour, so the road wasn’t all that busy. We would watch for cars and then either I or Dad would run out, pick up the errant plane, and run back into the park. Surprisingly, I don’t think the plane was ever run over.

All the times we flew that plane, I don’t remember it landing safely in the field a single time. I remember many building collisions, a few street landings, and a couple times it came down in the tennis courts or among the playground equipment. But I didn’t consider these flight endings anything but totally exciting. Landing safely in the field would have been boring – we got daredevil crashes.

That plane lasted a surprisingly long time considering all its calamitous flight paths. Those experiences sit in a hallowed shelf of my memory. Thinking back on this, now, I’d love to get something like it for my boys to see and play with today. If you know anything about these kinds of planes, let me know. I’m going to look them up and see what’s being sold nowadays.

But, that plane did eventually stop working. After a little while without a flying model, my dad bought another, different style plane. To be continued.

Bullgrit

Here are some really cool things that happened 40 years ago this year:

Led Zepplin 1 is released

Boeing 747 in flight

Apollo 11 to the moon

First ATM installed

Monty Python’s Flying Circus aired on UK television

First message sent over ARPANET

Sesame Street premieres

* * *

And on a completely unrelated note:

Happy birthday, Cowgrit!

Love,
Bullgrit

At my work office (not my home office) I had closed my door for a little privacy while I ate lunch. A while later, a coworker came by and knocked on the door.

I said, “Yeah, come in.”

Nothing.

I repeated, “Come in.”

Nothing.

I got up and opened the door to let him in. We did our business, and when he was leaving he told me my door had been locked. I checked the handle, and sure enough, it was locked.

I turned the little switch on the inside handle and tried the outside handle again. It was still locked. I don’t have a key for this door; when I first got this office, I was told who to contact for a key if I wanted one. But I’ve never needed one, as I’ve never tried to lock it, and I never even close it when I’m outside the room.

I turned the little switch back, and it was still locked. I tried several different ways of unlocking the thing -– switch horizontal, switch vertical, turning the inside handle, turning the outside handle, and any combination I could think of –- but nothing worked. Well, I guess it’s broken, I thought. I didn’t worry about it anymore that day. I just didn’t shut the door again.

The next day, when I came in in the morning, I fiddled with the lock some more. I went through all the permutations of switch settings and turnings several times again, but it still wouldn’t unlock. Oh well, it must be broken.

Later in the day, when I passed the receptionist’s desk, I told the two women there that the lock on my office door was broken. One helpfully explained, “You just turn the little knob on the inside handle.”

“Yeah, I tried that,” I said. “Up, down, both handles, I can’t get it to unlock.” I made sure to explain that my door is open, so I can get in my office, but I can’t close it for not being able to unlock it.

They said they’d get a repair man out to fix it for me, and I thanked them.

An hour or so later, she called me to learn where my office was in the building (I’m new here). I gave her directions. “I’ve called the repair people,” she said. “Someone will be here in a while.”

“OK, thanks,” I said.

A couple hours later, the receptionist called me again. The repair man was on site, and I need to meet him at the elevators on my floor. I went and met the repair guy. We greeted briefly, and I took him to my office.

He tested the lock and popped it right open. “It works,” he said.

“What the?” I stammered.

“You just push it in to lock it, and turn this inside handle to unlock it,” he said, as he popped it open in illustration of my moronity. [Yeah, I made that word up.]

“Oh my God,” I sighed.

“It happens all the time,” he said. “We gets lots of calls like this. Don’t worry about it.”

I apologized for getting him called all the way out here.

“Hey, this is the easiest call I’ve had all day,” he said with a smile. “I don’t mind.”

He went on back out the way he came in, and I was left standing there, looking at that damn door handle. I locked it and unlocked it a couple times –- it worked just fine. But of course it’s easy when you know the “combination.” And even so, I swear I performed that combination of switch and handle at least once in my attempts to figure it out that morning.

Man, I really hope he just told the receptionists that he “fixed the door.” I hope they don’t think I’m an idiot for being unable to unlock my own door handle. I mean, really, I work with some pretty damn complicated and expensive products, but I can’t open a $5 door lock.

Bullgrit