SEPTEMBER 2019 FLYINGMAG.COM | 63Race rules may change slightly each
year but usually involve estimating
your time around a 100-mile-ish,
three-legged course. Supposedly,
spotters are stationed at the manda-
tory turn points, but I think that’s
debatable; I won one year in a Cub
by turning onto the second leg when
the target airport was getting close
but not exactly in sight. Time starts
when the tower clears your airplane
( by its racer number) for takeoff and
ends when, cleared for the option,
contestants f ly down the runway past
the Knights’ clubhouse.
But race officials decided to
spice things up this year: They
required participants to base their
time estimates around the course
on something assigned as “the
manufacturer’s maximum speed.”
“What do ya mean ‘manufactur-
er ’s ma ximum speed’? Vno? Vna?
Redline? Where in the hell does it
say a 1956 Cessna 180’s ‘maximum
speed’ is 144 knots?”
Outrage and threats from most
flyers had no effect, and, grumbling, we
used the questionable, mysterious and
highly inflated speeds. With horror, I
realized that normal cheating strate-
gies wouldn’t work, so I resorted to the
“Fran Bera Recipe for Air Racing.”
In 1962, when I was learning to
f ly, a wonderful publication called
Flying magazine ran a story titled
“How Fran Flies Faster.” This iconic
California lady was setting unequaled
records—a seven-time winner of the
All Woman Transcontinental Air
Race (Powder Puff Derby), with five
times in second place, and a contender
in the Great Race from London to
Victoria, British Columbia.
Fran’s secret was no mystery.
She just gunned it and used full
power from takeoff until landing—
first, in her Piper PA-28 and, later, a
pink-and-white PA-24-260 named
Kick Ass. She said Lycoming had no
problem with this strategy, so—closely
watching my temps and pressures—I
assumed Continental wouldn’t either.
I stayed pretty low and even f lew
the assigned route...because this
time I knew there were spotters.
And my time looked pretty good
when I completed the course and
was cleared by Lunken Tower for the
option. Things looked even better
after a high-speed f ly-by over the
clubhouse. And other than consuming
a ridiculous quantity of 100LL, 72B
performed beautifully.
Race official: “You won, Martha.
Wow...third time. You won!”
I gave a sheepish, modest
aw-shucks grin.
Race official: “No, wait, looks like
you’re second. Karl Reik has beat you
by...” Milliseconds.
But who can be too disappointed
losing to a 90-knot, f lat-out gorgeous
Stinson 108 f lown by a good guy!
If it sounds like I make a habit of
cheating in (not-for-money) compe-
titions...you’re right. But what fun to
be disqualified from bomb drops for
f lying too low (true) and from spot-
landing contests for allegedly adding
power (a dirty lie). My life of crime
began 50-some years ago, shortly
after my sister and I were licensed and
entered a Cincinnati Airman’s Club
annual “efficiency” race.
The other entrants were older,
rather smug, proprietorial, longtime
club members in Cessna 182s, Beech
Bonanzas and Piper Comanches who
smiled condescendingly at these two
young girls f lying a 75 hp Ercoupe. In
this race, you estimated not only your
time around the course but also your
fuel consumption. Officials werestationed at a line on the runway to
note your touchdown time, and a fuel
truck on the ramp topped your tanks
when you parked. Scoring depended
on both estimates.
“Cheating” simply involved adding
ten minutes or so to your calculated
time, carefully determined in those
days with a chart, plotter and E6B.
You’d f ly circles to use up the extra
time and fuel and then make a beeline
for final approach, carefully counting
down the seconds to the touchdown
point. Mary was appalled that I would
cheat—and kept telling me so.
It worked beautifully. Our time was
nearly to the second. But when the
lineman topped the nine-gallon wing
tanks on the little silver Ercoupe, we
were about a gallon short of our esti-
mate...and that wouldn’t win in this
group. But Ercoupes have a six-gallon
header tank, fed from the wing tanks
(albeit with no fuel pump) but not
meant to be filled when refueling.
So I said sweetly to the lineman,
“Did you fill our nose tank?”
“Oh, gee. No. Sorry, I forgot.” He
carefully dribbled one gallon of fuel to
the top of the tank.
We won the race—me alternatingly
giving an aw-shucks grin and glaring
menacingly at my sister, threatening
violence if she breathed a word.My sister, Mary, and me after winning an
air race a couple years ago.