69 SA Flyer MagazinePredictably, Helga and John lost sight
of each other immediately after takeoff.
The familiar and heart-warming trike-pilot
repartee thus ensued.
“Hello John, are you there?”
“Hello Helga, is that you?”
“Yes, can you see me?”
“No, my visor is misted up!”
“Is that you at my ten o’clock?”
“Could be, what am I wearing?” and so
on.
The single digit temperatures,
combined with wind chill, put the muscles
into hibernation, but this was not a serious
problem because the air was as smooth as
milk.
Two hours later they met at Klerksdorp
for a quick refuelling stop, and then flew
another two hours to the Eagle Flying
Academy beyond Christiana. There they
stayed for the rest of the day. I should
explain, where trike pilots are concerned,
departing from a hospitable airfield after
midday is regarded as an unfair labour
practice on account of the afternoon
turbulence, particularly if the airfield has
really comfortable facilities. To explain this
to cockpit pilots is not easy, but imagine
trying, within the confines of your cockpit,
to artificially inseminate a Brahmin cow
suffering from distemper and you will get
some idea of what it’s like to control a trike
in post-meridian thermic conditions.
This was by far the friendliest and most
comfortable stop of the trip. The pilots,
cabin crew, ground crew AND the trikes
all had a roof over their heads – absolute
luxury. So they decided to stay. They even
heard roaring lions in the middle of the
night, they said.
They arose at 04h30 to watch a meteor
shower, and then took off on the next
leg, following the Vaal River, low level, to
its confluence with the Orange River at
Douglas. Daniella reported that she had
driven over a dead hyena as she left the
Academy. Maybe it was the lions. She
suffered two punctures that day, so whether
it really was dead when she went over it
remains unclear.
The first hills made a welcome change
from the plains, and the endless mielie
fields gave way to grassland. Distant
horizons, no roads, no one on the ground
and no one on the radio either, from 1,000 ft
AGL it looked like one great flat airfield.
I should mention that trike pilots fly on
the presumption that the engine WILL cut
at any moment. For this reason, vast open
spaces generally have a tranquilising effect,
whilst forests, mountains, oceans and sugar
cane fields tend to stress the sphincter. But
appearances can be deceptive – what is not
apparent from 1,000 ft AGL is the multitude
of termite mounds on the Northern Cape
plains which only become evident as you
turn onto final approach. Placing a Kevlarplate under the seat cushion and lifting your
legs around your ears just prior to touch
down is recommended in the event of a
forced landing. Then there are what appear
to be wonderfully straight and endlessly
long runways cleared through the bush. On
final approach they usually turn out to be
fire breaks between farms, with high and
sturdy fences running right down the middle
of the ‘runway’.
Douglas was a bit of a challenge with
its tar runway and fresh crosswind. Once
again, let me explain: as we all know, on
a crosswind final approach, heading and
track are two very different things. Trikes do
not have a tail, so there’s no rudder to kick
the nose straight just before touchdown.
Instead, the pilot approaches skew andlands skew. The trike is therefore facing into
the bush, while its considerable momentum
is vectored straight down the centreline of
runway. If the runway is sand or grass, then,
after a quick, neck wrenching skid, heading
and track become one and life proceeds to
the next chapter.
But tar is a different thing entirely.
Wheels want to go where they are
pointed and tyres will not skid. The trike
consequently behaves like an angry
wildebeest with a thorn in its hoof, charging
down a cricket pitch. The nose of the trike
leaps from left to right and back again. It’s
known as goose stepping. If the pilot ate his
muesli that morning, there’s a fair chance
that the trike will not trip over itself.
Once the trike comes to a standstill, the
pilot winds a reel of duct tape around his
neck and over his head to stabilise them
and then exits the aircraft to have a smoke- even if he’s a non-smoker.
The next leg to Williston was a long
one, and they had to leave extra early to
beat the desert thermals. So there wasn’t
much argument in the pre-dawn gloom as
to whether the light on the horizon was the
entrance gate to the nearby copper mine
or the rising sun. John decided that a can
of fuel was more useful than an airhostess,
so Selina joined Daniella for the drive to
Williston.
The trikes had a range of about three
hours at cruising speed of around 50 mph.
At somewhere called Vanwyksvlei, they
landed to fill up from the jerry cans in theAdventure flying
Septuagenarian trike pilot, Helga.high and
sturdy fences
running right
down the
middle of the
‘runway’