COMBAT AND COMPETITION.pdf - Lakes Gliding Club

CHAPTER TEN CHARIOTS OF FIRE
That was the flight, or rather the landing of the officious
policeman. It ended on a cricket pitch, in the little village of
Helpringham and our gallant constable arrived on his bicycle as I
clambered out of the cockpit.
"I'm putting you under arrest! We're at war now with them
communists out in Korea - and for all I know you've flown that thing
from Russia."
He didn't actually say that I was a saboteur or a spy but that was
what he meant. And then threateningly, in response to my angry
reaction.
"Oh you'll see the Chief Constable before you're finished." Then
with even greater suspicion - " and where's the engine?"
Eventually we came to an arrangement. He took a statement. Put
me under a sort of house arrest in the local pub, where I was at last
allowed to use the telephone, and the landlord thought it was a huge
joke. Then he went back to the cricket field, to cross examine Harry
and Bungy before we all met up, to see if our stories tallied.
At the end of that contest week I was hooked. Somehow, in spite
of those last two flights, I had held on to fourth place. It had been one
of the most enjoyable and fulfilling experiences of my life.
After the Nationals were over Charles Wingfield put the Olympia
up for sale. I went into partnership with Doc Cotton to acquire it and,
with his support, decided to have a go at the Kemsley Winter Cross
Country Prize. But we seemed to be out of luck that year. The
weekends passed with minimum thermal activity, and a total absence
of wave, until only one Sunday remained.
It was late March and bitterly cold, with overnight snow still lying,
as we rigged the Olympia. RAF Shawbury had forecast unstable
conditions, with a 15-20 knot northerly wind backing northwest in the
afternoon. There might just be a chance. So I declared a 70 mile goal
flight, to South Cerney, unaware that Geoffrey Stephenson had gone
85 miles from Dunstable to Friston three days earlier.
The first hour was a dead loss, stuck low down on the south end,
unable to get away. Eventually, risking all, I made a dash through
heavy sink in the lee of the hill and caught a wind shadow thermal
which took me straight to cloud base. But it was already 2.30 pm. From
now on would be a race against the clock.
To Ludlow was high and fast following a beautiful cloud street.
Then a long glide to the Malverns where there was another thermal, an
absolute corker, in exactly the right place. Between Gloucester and
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