I have always had a fascination with flying. In my youth I would build plastic models of aircraft and crash them. In my early teens I decided I would join the RAF when leaving school; only to discover that near-blindness was not an acceptable condition for a fighter pilot. And so I turned to models, and the art of crashing them, again.
My first attempt was a glider. I bought a box containing assorted bits of balsa wood and a paper plan. What I should have done was stuck the pieces of balsa together on top of the plan; thus ensuring that everything was aligned and the flying surfaces were flat. What I actually did was glance at the plan and then stick random pieces of balsa together. The resulting mess should have been named “warp speed”, but not because it was going to be quick. To get the beast into the air required a tow line. What I should have done was to choose a light wind day and then gently coax the fragile mess of balsa and tissue up into the sky. What I actually did was choose a day when a the wind was a danger to shipping and then set off at a run across a field. The result was immediate and messy. The wings folded, broke and fluttered away, and the fuselage plummeted to earth and destroyed itself. Didn’t really matter, it would never have flown properly anyway.
So I bought another one and this time I read the instructions. This one flew perfectly for at least five minutes before I lost sight of it as it headed north over a housing estate.
So I bought radio control gear and more kits, and before long it became an absorbing hobby, and it was mainly the fault of the North York Moors.
I lived in Middlesbrough, which was a bit of an industrial toilet at the time; but just minutes away were the North York Moors; five hundred square miles of gorgeous open countryside, heather and stunning views. It was not a geographic surprise to discover that the moors had hills, and if you stood on top of a hill facing the breeze, threw a glider into the wind, the air coming up the hill would lift the glider skywards.
And so it was that most Sunday mornings found me trudging up a hill to join fellow idiots in the pursuit of slope soaring. When the wind was light, it was relaxing and joyful couple of hours. When the wind was strong, it was a ten minutes of terror before something inevitably went wrong. When the wind was gale force, you loaded your plane with pieces of lead so that it would fly fast enough to penetrate into the wind. The problem came when you wanted to land and you had to fly back over the top of the hill with the wind behind you. Suddenly you were partially in control of piece of wood filled with lead, travelling at slightly less than the speed of sound. Landing the projectile was a challenge, destroying it against a tree was easier. On one memorable morning, a fellow flier was lucky enough to achieve a very soft, albeit high speed, landing courtesy of Tiggles, a dog who happened to be out for a stroll with her owner. To the distress of the owner, Tiggles suffered a broken leg, and my flying friend did not help matters by suggesting that the ruined canopy on his plane was a more serious concern.
Spike with one of his creations. Note the flared trousers and tie-dye plane covering. Groovy baby!
Then I moved to Aberdeen and discovered that the farmers who owned all the hills in the region did not take kindly to model fliers. Maybe they had heard about Tiggles. So I took up motor racing instead and the hobby languished for many year. Then I went to Brunei.
My job in Brunei required a working relationship with the Technical Director. He was a Turk called Tugrul and he had a fearsome reputation as someone who could make grown men cry. It was with some trepidation that I entered his office for my familiarisation chat. It started as expected, with him glaring at me and barking out instructions as to the impossible tasks he expected from me. I wasn’t crying yet, but my eyes did feel a little moist. Then he decided to ask me some questions.
“Family?” I started to describe my family…. Boring! Previous jobs?" I started to describe my career to date…. “Boring! Tell me, any interest in radio controlled aircraft?”
I blinked back the tears; here was a chance to shine and I launched into a description of my experiences, I think I may even have recounted the Tiggles story. If i did, he sure as hell didn’t display any sympathy for the dog.
Once I had finished, he looked at me, the glare softened and he reached into a drawer and pulled out a catalogue of expensive toys. Then he rang the local model shop (two hours drive away) and checked their stock. After this he wrote out a list and gave it to me.
“Go to the shop, buy this, and then we’ll talk. Go.”
It turned out that Tugrul’s interests were making people weep and flying model planes. The company ran a fleet of helicopters and we had our own little airport to operate the flights. Except on a Sunday morning when it became Tugrul’s airport and he and a motley collection of hangers-on who had been frightened into the hobby would take over the place. Tugrul would be informed via walkie-talkie when a helicopter wanted to land. These interruptions made him very angry and he would make the helicopter hover nearby why he finished his own flight.
His making people weep and flying model planes interests combined when a newbie came along with a freshly built plane. First Tugrul would visually inspect it and pronounce it badly built. He would then confirm this by taking over the controls and flying the beginners model, which was designed for sedate flying, through an increasingly wild aerobatic routine until the wings tore off and a thousand dollars worth of equipment slammed into the tarmac. “You built it wrong” was his only comment as yet another victim reached for their hanky.
Fortunately, my years of experience in building crap meant that I passed the test and I spent many enjoyable Sunday mornings making helicopters wait over the South China Sea. Until the Sunday morning I flew my plane into the South China Sea, never to be seen again.
About seven years ago I took up the hobby in Thailand. The pattern repeated itself. Buy planes and expensive radio gear, fly the planes for a while, then crash them. Repair and repeat ad nauseam, or until the model disappears into a field of tapioca and you can’t find it. After a while, I ran out of planes and patience and stopped; but the storeroom still contains an assortment of bits that could be made to fly with a little effort. Just waiting for some sort of trigger.
Last weekend we took one of she who must be obeyed’s short cuts on the way home from the show jumping; which means we became completely lost. Then we stumbled across this:
The Pattaya R.C. Flying Club is run by a personable chap called Wim and his wife. There is a working area, a runway, toilets and even a kitchen; or at least there was until recently when thieves broke in and nicked everything. There is even a conveniently located tapioca field nearby into which 50% of the flights crashed while I was there. Nothing really changes.
So, the wife is going back to work and I have to fill my days. There are bits calling to me from the cupboard. Must…. Resist…..
Comments 🔗
2011-10-06| Barry saysI used to look just like you in that faded photo. Frightening for both of us, I’d imagine. I wonder what the R.C. stands for after Pattaya and before Flying Club. Did you ask Wim? If not, why not. And have you seen that quaint little airport somewhere near Sri Racha. Passed by it when the so-called express bus from Bangkok to Pattaya goes off the main road to drop off someone who couldn’t be assed or thought they wouldn’t live long enough to take the slow bus. Only good for private planes. It has a name but I’ve forgotten it. Or maybe it was a mirage.
2011-10-06| Spike saysRadio Controlled.
Pattaya Air Park?
2011-10-06| Barry saysR.C. - of course! Silly me. But not Pattaya Air Park. I had a Google, and that’s behind Jomtien. The one I’ve seen is the other side of Patters, not far towards Bangkok. Google Earth might be required…
2011-10-06| Thaigolfer saysThat would probably by Bang Phra Airfield:
“The Thai Flying Club is located at Bang Phra Airfield (VTBT) about 3 Kilometers East of the small village of Bang Phra. We are about a 90 minute drive Southeast of Bangkok or a 45 minute drive North of Pattaya.”
2011-10-07| Barry saysBINGO!
2011-10-07| biggrtiggr saysAhh!! The joys of playing with model aeroplanes! Just sold off the last of my RC equipment on Ebay…… son is no longer interested and the current Mrs Biggrtiggr thinks hobbies are just a way for me to waste time/money that should be spent on her (she is currently unaware of my negotiations to acquire a 32ft sailing cruiser).
2011-10-08| Spike saysCongratulations on your pending boat purchase. I believe there is no better way to consume vast amounts of cash within a short period of time. Mrs Biggrtiggr is in for a shock.
2011-10-10| Pattaya-rc saysDear Barry,
your question has indeed multiple answers :)
R.C. stands for:
- Robertus Clementina (Wim R.C. Loquet, being the name of Wim)
- Remote Controlled (as in the hobby we share in the club)
- Radio Controlled as you wish :)
- maybe some more variations possible (?)
if you’re interested, you can have a look at www.pattaya-rc.com
Friendly RC-greets,
Pattaya R.C. Flying Club