Questions. Everyone has them. Answers? Not so much. I'm sure your question is "why am I looking at a photo of a scrap piece of foam board?" That's a good question. Now let me use an inordinate amount of words to answer that.
If there is one question that I can't answer, it's why do I love to fly? Why do I dream about the sound of prop wash over an aileron? What is the fizzing that I feel, don't ask where, when I see the tail-dragger wiggle as I move the rudder? Hmmm? Why am I as hooked on flying as Lady Gaga is to lipstick and semi-gloss interior latex house paint? Wait, I wrote that there was one question but that's like four of them. Moving along, I admit it, I've been slightly misleading because I know the answer to all of those questions. Flying is stinking awesome!
It's like an addiction. There's the anticipation during the down times when I can't get a fix. It's almost like an itch that builds up because I know I can't scratch it. (so that's why they call it scratch building) Then there is the sweet, hurried excitement right when I know I'm headed out the door to go to the field. And then, upon arriving, plugging in the battery and hearing the ESC initialize. I don't know what crack is like but I have to think this world would be a better place if everyone was main-lining some RC goodness.
There is also the element of danger, especially when I'm not flying alone. Will I crash my plane? Will I crash my plane into someone else's plane? Will I crash my plane into someone else? Will that someone else kick my butt after I crash into their plane or them? Will the deputy ask me if this is my plane that crashed into someone's car as I contemplate if any of the other inmates might have some spare LiPo storage bags at the county jail? These are all very good and relevant questions.
Building planes is almost as satisfying as flying them for me. Creating something flyable from pieces of foam with some added electronic doo-dads is a very satisfying endeavor. Even when it does end in tragedy. But just like they say over at the quilting club of the local retirement center, "no blood, no foul and crying is for suckers."
Now, I'm not an uber-detailed, meticulous builder. I like builds that might take two days to complete, at the most. I may spread the build out over a week but I'm not ready for a month long building process to finish one plane. I surely can't see myself spending six months building a plane that I will dig a hole with in about 5 seconds. I also like to fudge things to make them work. I love fudge and that's the factor and that's why fudge factor is a part of all of my builds. (see what I did there?) Should I be checked for ADHD? Meh, too many questions.
How about another question? Not that question but this question. What's in your pocket? Well, let me tell you about what I found in my pocket one day when I got home from work.
I got home from work around 5:00PM that day, last fall. Just a normal evening and I was watching the weather to see if I could fly. I think it was a bit too breezy and calling for rain. Buggar! No flying for me that night.
I had been out flying, and crashing, the night before. Also, I usually have a lot of junk in my pockets. My car key with key fob, a big key ring with about 15 keys, some USB drives, a mini flashlight, and my Swiss Army knife. I then make my way into the bedroom where I usually empty my pockets into my nightstand for storage until the next day.
As I'm pulling the wad of stuff from my left pocket, a piece of foam board is mushed in with the keys. I place everything in the drawer and noticed the foam board. Hmmm? I looked at it and I wondered how it got there. I knew that during the previous night, I hadn't been flying the particular plane that the foam came out of.
Then I remembered. The previous Saturday, I had been out flying and crashed one of my scratch-built planes. (by the by, crashing is a rare occurrence for me, OK not really) I recall picking the many pieces up to take back to my car. There were so many pieces in my right hand that when I saw this last one, I placed it in my left hand pocket. I wasn't wearing these pants on Saturday. I guess the foam was mixed in with the wad of keys and flash drives for several days.
Here it was Thursday and I had that piece of foam board in my pocket for five days before I noticed it. And I transferred it from one pair of pants to another, and another, and maybe even another. No, I didn't wear the same pants five days in a row. Maybe I have too much junk in my pockets because it's a decent size piece of board to miss. Does this confirm my scratch building addiction? Did I subconsciously want to have a piece of my wreckage with me at all times? I don't know the answers but what's in your pocket?
Here's what that piece of foam board came out of (photo below). That last crash ripped the antenna off the receiver, too. This plane has been cracked in half, shortened by an inch at the back of the wing, and can dig holes in the ground better than a shovel. It lives up to the name bestowed upon it. SCAR. It's only had one good flight out of 11 attempts to get the CG right. Maybe it will fly better without that piece of foam board in it?