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Ron Faoro (The Spin Doctor)
Tuesday, 5/31 - Saturday 6/34/05
The Perks of Paragliding - A Week at the Rat Race
The good news is that the Topa pilots distinguished themselves once again this year at the Rat Race. The even better news is that Tom Pipkin needed 216 points to overcome my lead on the last day of the competition. He beat me by only 214, however, when he reached goal on the 30 mile task and I came up two waypoints short. I ended up the week about in the middle of a group of very distinguished flyers who competed this year. My apparent mediocre finish (but two big points ahead of Sparky) is not bad, considering I made one incorrect decision every day that kept me out of the goal box and one incorrect decision on day two that put me in the ER at Rogue Valley Hospital. There seems to be a local curse on the Topa pilots when it comes to the distribution net of power to the Applegate Valley. But we'll get to that.
Local pilots were spread around Ruch, Oregon: Bob P. and Dean (who really flew like a pro on a comp wing, while taking great pictures, naturally) with Marian in the motorhome; Riss (what the hell, you're like a brother to us, so we'll call you a local) in Medford; Tom Pipkin, Ojai John, myself, and Robb Milley with Rae Lynn in the Duncan Cottage in downtown Jacksonville; Taliban Chris and Christian were somewhere in the wings; Chad and Bo and SA around Ruch or in the campground and Tom Beidler bringing my wife and daughter down in the new Honda Element which got a good workout. Mike and Shad were there as non-combatants. The familiar sight of Richi Mantilla's smiling face, the top aces in the sport, Mike and Gail Haley's smooth administrative efforts and cumulus clouds over the valley every day made for a fantastic week of flying events and social activities. We did miss not having Bob Hurlbett and Benson and Brendan and Bill Bailey and, of course, Dan Keyser there.
The lift was far superior to the first two years' conditions, but the wind was a bit stronger, which made for difficult upwind legs and strategic thinking was mandatory. But when over a hundred of the country's eager competitors help point out the lift, there's a lot of potential fun in the air! The only problems were the long meetings where everyone in the room was given an ovation for some reason (even I got two "geezer" awards, apparently simply for living to compete the next day) and the clustered gaggles where fear and frustration sometimes took the upper hand.
There's a lot to talk about, but I'll try to limit my comments to how my week evolved. Day one had an almost impossible start cylinder at the end of a very committed upwind glide. Most pilots couldn't even start the race and scoring was low. So there wasn't much reason to do anything more than drink a lot of beer that night and get up to the fine breakfast that OJ would get going each morning.
Day two got me my most points and put me in the hospital for the first time in four years. I worked hard for two hours, getting a fantastic low save over some trees next to where a dozen or more pilots flushed near a turnpoint called Poorman's. For twenty minutes I S-turned the little bowl where I could still command an approach to this LZ. No more than a hundred feet above the deck, a red-tailed hawk came through, got startled by my presence, then led me deeper up the ridge to a connection that got me three grand of altitude and three more turnpoints. Still, it was this same Poorman waypoint that failed me at the end of the day and again on the last day of the competition (yes, Riss, I know you went 3 for 3 here).
As I turned to land later in the afternoon, I bypassed a benign meadow deeper in the canyon to land next to the highway for easy retrieval. I followed a set of power lines out to the road. My eyes were glued to these lines and to a dog barking at a house next to which I would land. That's when the invisible wires from a pole down to the house first came into view. I swear they were not visible from the air. In fact, after chase picked up the pieces, we looked back at the bigger lines on the poles; none of the group of six or seven pilots could see the gray lines against the forest backdrop. Still, it's obviously my fault that I didn't think of the fact that power lines ALWAYS go from poles to houses. So when I saw the two of them on final approach twenty five feet above the ground, there was no one but myself to blame. And no one else to steer the glider away from mayhem, I might add.
I turned hard downwind and felt my calm demeanor give in to the flood of adrenaline, going 30 mph with two oak trees directly in front of me. Not much choice here. Fifteen feet above the ground and only a little notch to the left between the trees, I buried the left brake and watched in astonishment as the wing did not really turn, but instead just dove out in front of me and snagged the tree on my left side. Then I got a taste of what Dan must have felt, if only he could remember it: "Damn, I'm going to hit hard!" I swung out and down with all the centrifugal force of an amusement park ride, like flying out of your seat at the end of a turn on the Scrambler. I only had time to brace my left boot as the ground rushed up at me so fast it would have made me nauseous if it hadn't been over in less than a second. I slammed into a bare patch of dirt; most of the force went up my leg and spine. I even bounced! All the wind went out of me and I rolled over onto my back. I couldn't believe how hard I actually hit when I was just preparing for a soft landing not five seconds earlier.
Chad was on the radio immediately, asking for my status. I told him I was barely alive as I wiggled my fingers and toes thankfully. The farmer who owned the house came running out to help. Chase was there in a heartbeat. One of the pilots in tow was a physician, Niko. I got up and moved around. My leg hurt, but didn't feel broken. But the pain in my back was intolerable. After they got my wing down and the gear packed, we decided to head back to HQ to let my friends take me to the ER in Medford. I just wanted films of my ankle and back. Plus, I was hoping for a liberal morphine policy at the hospital. We grabbed Bob Peloquin who was enjoying a beer and headed back to town in my rig. There I took matters into my own hands a bit. Fortunately, being an abuser of the healing arts, I went directly to the narcotics in my flight bag. One hydrocodone to start. Robb Milley and Bob transported me down to Medford and I waded through the bureaucracy of admissions. It was two hours before I hit radiology. They wouldn't give me any good drugs, so I popped two more Vicodins when the nurse left the room.
Good news on the rads, nothing broken. So they gave me some Percocets and ibuprofen. I immediately took one of each and then Riss showed up with the beer. Now, I know you're not supposed to take alcohol with narcotics, but please remember, I'm a professional. I had to convince Riss of this fact before he would let me imbibe. Lucky I did a lot of practicing in college on these treatment regimens. By the time I got back to the cottage where Rae Lynn had cooked up a massive batch of spaghetti, I was feeling halfway human. They had a steaming plate of food in my hands in seconds and I relayed the above details of my story to everyone. Let me tell you, I was extremely lucky and I will not fly in any county with powerlines the rest of my paragliding career.
Now, the doctor told me I could "...resume tolerable activity." Well, hell, a green light to fly! And that's the next funny part of the story. My left ankle was bruised and swollen, my back was stiff and sore, but I felt if I could get off the ground, it might not seem so bad. I noticed the ibuprofen seemed to help more than the percocets for some reason. "Good, I thought, I'll just take 600 mgs of the ibuprofen and fly." So, I sat at launch and enjoyed the sun, getting drowsy and falling asleep. My leg felt fine; I was never more relaxed before a competition. The launch went fine and I flew thirty miles, landing 1.9 miles short of goal without a hitch. Next day: same thing. Not daring to take narcotics and fly, I stuck with the ibuprofen. No pain in the leg, but I was so relaxed and sleepy that I dozed off before launch again. That second day when I landed, it had been many hours since I had launched and my leg and back ached. I greedily reached for my prescriptions in my bag. That's when I decided to read the labels. Needless to say, I soon discovered that I had flown the last two days' tasks on narcotic medication, mixing up the ibuprofen with the percocets. My concern was that I needed to alert the race authorities that I wanted my score adjusted, preferably raised, because I had flown with a handicap. Josh Cohn and Will Gadd are going to need to verify they have narcotics on board if they want to compete in my "class!" Maybe I'll post a poll and see if you agree. It's hardly fair otherwise, don't you think? Well, at least I got the two geezer awards when I was tanked up. If only they knew the secret source of my powerful flights.
I must admit, launching on the last day without the benefit of drugs (I can stop anytime) was more painful and I was distinctly apprehensive this time. Still, it wasn't until the last turnpoint that I fell out of the game. SA tells me I had it made to goal with the altitude and I shouldn't have tried to stop and tank up, but it just wasn't the same without the glow. My friends may think I took advantage of the situation, but then they'd have to explain the eight tablets I'm short on my prescription after the subsequent festivities.
This all colored my week's experience at the Rat Race significantly. I'm sorry to not provide you with more exciting race details. It was the greatest flying challenge of my life. There were beautiful gaggles everywhere to admire and chase. I did my best. Now I'll limp into work tomorrow and consider all the "what if's."
Flew: About 97 miles. 13 hours.
Drove: 2,640 miles. 46 hours.
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