My squid thread: Just how fast?

[the chi]

Even the rest of the AF doesnt like the fighter pilots, because they have such egos! They give officers a bad name...

[pauldun170]

indeed

[Archren]

Originally Posted by The Chi

Even the rest of the AF doesnt like the fighter pilots, because they have such egos! They give officers a bad name...

And that's saying a lot.

[Rsv1000R]

I've seen like 600 on my gps, ~140 on the RSV, maybe a bit more in the vette.

And while it's been around and is probably a repost, it's a great story.

Written by Brian Schul - former sled (SR-71 Blackbird) driver


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.


================================================== ================
[ This is an excerpt from one of author Brian Schul's books:


Sled Driver : Flying the World's Fastest Jet.


Brian Schul, is a retired U. S. Air Force fighter pilot who was
severely burned in the crash of an AT-28 working on a clandestine
mission in Laos. He not only survived, but came back on flight status
to fly again and serve as an A-10 and SR-71 pilot.

[zed]

I raced a Harley today, and after some really hard riding I finally
managed to pass the guy. I was riding on one of those really, really,
twisting sections of canyon road with no straight sections to speak of
and where most of the curves have warning signs that say "15 MPH".

I knew if I was going to pass one of those monsters with those
big-cubic-inch motors, it would have to be a place like this where
handling and rider skill are more important than horsepower alone.

I saw the guy up ahead as I exited one of the turns and knew I could
catch him, but it wouldn't be easy. I concentrated on my braking and
cornering. Three corners later, I was on his fender. Catching him was
one thing; passing him would prove to be another.

Two corners later, I pulled up next to him as we sailed down the
mountain. I think he was shocked to see me next to him, as I nearly got
by him before he could recover. Next corner, same thing. I'd manage to
pull up next to him as we started to enter the corners but when we came
out he'd get on the throttle and outpower me. His horsepower was almost
too much to overcome, but this only made me more determined than ever.

My only hope was to outbrake him. I held off squeezing the lever until
the last instant. I kept my nerve while he lost his. In an instant, I
was by him. Corner after corner, I could hear the roar of his engine as
he struggled to keep up. Three more miles to go before the road
straightens out and he would pass me for good.

But now I was in the lead, and he would no longer hold me back. I
stretched out my lead and by the time we reached the bottom of the
canyon, he was more than a full corner behind. I could no longer see him
in my rear-view mirror.

Once the road did straighten out, it seemed like it took miles before he
passed me, but it was probably just a few hundred yards. I was no match
for that kind of horsepower, but it was done. In the tightest section of
road, where bravery and skill count for more than horsepower and deep
pockets, I had passed him. Though it was not easy, I had won the race to
the bottom of the canyon.

I will always remember that moment. I don't think I've ever pedaled so
hard in my life. And some of the credit must go to Schwinn, as well.
They really make a great bicycle.

[the chi]

Thank you guys, BOTH those posts had me laughing my rear off!!

[racedoll]

Good one zed!

[Lamnidae]

lol yeah great stories the both.


ummm. public road - indicated 160+ on the Busa, traffic was coming up so had to back her down but she still had plenty of strength in her legs.

i don't do track or strip.

[smileyman]

LOL! Swinn for the MFW! Speed is realative to traction/conditions. I dont know how to do the math but 636 cc with 2 up rear sprocket on the rev limiter in 6th gear. Used to hit it once or twice a month easy. BUT I have sweated more in a 45 rated corner a 75 mph!

[Rider]

153 indicated on my 750 on surface streets.