I'm quarter owner of one of the few (2 according to the SOARING sailplane directory) 1-20s. It was a 1-19, and was given the longer wings many years ago, while it was in Canada. It is flying, and is currently just out of annual, sitting on its trailer in my hangar. It has an open cockpit- and is a bunch of fun. My longest flight in it so far is nearly three hours. Got to 7,000 AGL on a strong early June day last year. I wrote a story about flying it.
TWO FEATHERS UP
Roger Gomoll
It's called the Pumpkin because it is orange- bright orange. Well, maybe also because its glide ratio approaches that of a falling gourd. The Pumpkin is a Schweizer, an SGU (U for Utility) 1-20, built in Elmira, New York in 1946. On a good day it produces 18.5 to 1. With no lift, expect a 3K tow to give a twelve minute flight, at best. And that is not the worst of it. The seat is hard, upright, and too close to the panel and rudder pedals. The open cockpit gives a first hand lesson in the realities of lapse rate and wind chill. Instrumentation is sparse. Vne is 75 mph. Interthermal sink rates are staggering. The postage stamp spoilers are only good for aerobic exercise.
But I love it. I smile whenever I fly it. When I'm at the airport, I talk to it. The best soaring days of summer are given its name. "Yes, today's a Pumpkin day".
The springtime ritual is the same each year. Take it down from its ceiling storage. Get some buckets of water. Pull out the birds nests that have gotten in through the careful yet marginally effective bird proofing of Fall. Wash, vacuum, and lubricate. Roll it out to the flight line. Endure the jeers of the uninitiated. Share the smiles of those who have had the privilege of Pumpkin flight.
There are always giggles when hooking up the towline. Hand signals seem silly when there is nothing but air between me and the wing runner. There's the gasp of disbelief when I ask the towpilot for 50 mph. The launch is swift, and the towplane climbs at an unbelievable rate. There's an exhiliarating rush of air across the top of my head. I can hear every power stroke of the towplane's engine. I can smell the exhaust as I dip into the wake.
In free flight, the new sensations keep mounting. As the tow plane fades from view, I begin to hear the sounds of the sky. Swallows darting and chirping at cloudbase. The roar of a diesel truck on the highway. There are other sensations as well. The smell from the distant field of freshly cut hay . The feeling of the warm air of a thermal as it curls over the edge of the cockpit and brushes against the hands. There is a certain magic about seeing air, clouds and ground as they are, without the plexiglass sheet tinting the sky. It seems somehow freeing. I can't remember a flight where I didn't put out a hand to feel the rush of wind. In that tiny, cramped cockpit, I talk, I shout, I sing. If I can get close enough to a hawk, I whistle for its attention. Most of the time, I get it.
On one May day last spring the ritual was the same. Wash, vacuum, lubricate. Tow, release, joy. A great day- Cu's maybe a mile apart. I headed for the first thermal. A couple of bumps meant there was one close- then WOOSH- I felt the warm air, and got the surge in the seat that meant a good one. Wait- what was that white flash in front of my face- must have been an illusion, I thought as I gained a couple of thousand feet. Topping out, I headed for the next likely looking Cu which was fortunately not far away. Bump-bump, WOOSH- and that white flash again. This time I saw it go up and out. It was a turkey feather, left under the seat by this Spring's evicted birds, and blown out by the thermal coming through the wheel well and out of the open cockpit.
Well, heck. It did better than the vario, hardly any lag at all. Where do I get more feathers?