[Proto]

I found this old thread on Homepage, visordown and thought it worth posting on here. Not really about bikes so moderators, feel free to move it anywhere you like.

Original thread here:
Top Gun: Tornado F3 v GSX-R1000 v Porsche 911 - visordown

World Super Bikes and 500GP's are great series, but they're a little?er?restrictive. I mean, all those parameters dictating engine capacity, weight and the like?what you end up with is 20-odd racers on machines with na'er a hair's breadth between them in terms of performance. Where's the spectacle in that? What they need is a little competition, something to enliven the proceedings?

TOP GUN v TOP FUN: TORNADO F3 v PORSCHE 911 v GSX-R1000

The idea, when it came, was a simple one; for three vehicles, each the superlative example of its class, to race from a standing start over a distance of half a mile. What we?d need were standard-spec machines that delineate their existence in superlatives ? like Suzuki?s GSX-R1000, the bike that redefined the parameters for performance bikes. 0-60mph in 3.5 secs, 0-150mph in a shade over 13 seconds and a top speed of 186mph? that should set the benchmark!

We?d also need a Porsche 996 Carrera 2, the definitive performance car and a recognisable icon with 35 years of evolution. With a 3.6 litre engine developing 320bhp, 0-60 in 5.0 seconds and a top speed of 177mph, it should have the mid-range grunt to stay in contention.

And the third machine? Let?s be really adventurous. How about one of the RAF?s Panavia Tornado F3 fighters? With two afterburning turbofans generating 32,000lbs of thrust in reheat and capable of propelling it to its take off speed of 160mph in around half a mile, it should just raise the ante. Its maximum speed of 1,480mph might prove a challenge too far to the others, though!

Identifying the contenders was easy; the challenge was in making it happen, so, having thrown down the gauntlet, I sat back to wait. To my surprise, all it took was a phone call. And in this case, a response was forthcoming rather quicker than I expected.

"Wing Commander John Jupp here, Treble One Squadron. We're very interested in the project and I'm pleased to be able to accept your challenge. Did you have anyone in mind to race?"

Step forward Perth-based Callum Ramsey, 27, British Super Sports racer, 2000-season British Champion and Sauber pilot at Mugello in last year's 500GP. And London-based businessman Marc Chauveau, Ex-Formula Ford 2000 Champion and Formula 3 racing driver. We've got our racers; we've got Maverick in the form of Wing Commander John 'The Boss' Jupp. Now all we need is someone to play the role of Iceman.

"Er?This Tornado F3 of yours?it wouldn't happen to have two seats would it?"

"Yes?"

"So you could conceivably take a passenger?"

"I think that could be arranged".

We're sorted. All we need now are the girls, a few brolly babes with bodies so close to perfect, if they were any better they'd be Barbie. They'll serve no purpose other than to look sexy and so attract publicity for the event simply by wearing body-revealing scraps of Lycra, but hey, never let it be said that us men aren't shallow! Step forward then Tyla, Pamela and Ashleigh, three drop-dead gorgeous girls more usually found on the grid at Knockhill.

The week of the race dawns bright and sunny as photographer Nick Robinson and myself arrive at RAF Leuchars, the home of 111 (F) Squadron. Together with its sister 43 (F) Squadron, it is tasked with the maintenance of Quick Reaction Alert, which involves keeping aircraft at a high state of readiness to intercept and, if necessary, destroy hostile aircraft approaching UK airspace.

Flight Lt. Kyle Simpson, who has assisted me with arrangements from the RAF side, greets and escorts us to Treble One Squadron?s Crew Room. Our Volvo S80 hire car is the subject of much ironic comment by the many motorcyclists amongst the squadron but it breaks the ice! Introductions made, I?m taken off to the medical centre to ensure that I?m medically up to flying fast jets. I answer a battery of questions before my ears and eyes are tested, my pulse and heart rate checked. Then I?m weighed, prodded and measured to ensure that I?m within limits to fit the Martin Baker ejector seat. An hour later, I?m certified fit to fly; time for my ejector seat briefing.

Now don?t get me wrong, a seat that could well save my life if it all goes pear- shaped is not something to be sniffed at, it?s just that I?m not particularly impatient to pull a handle that could consign me to a lifetime of back problems.

?Not with the seat?s current variant?, insists Fl Lt. David McCallum. ?The old seats used a single charge to propel you from the aircraft, typically generating over 30g and it was this force that would compress the spine and cause problems?. Nice.

If the order to eject is given, grabbing the handle between my legs will trigger the rockets. These fire in a three-stage sequence, generating approximately 21g on ejection and apparently exert much less force on the body than earlier models. It?s all relative though as few people can withstand that degree of g-force without blacking out anyway. A separate charge should shatter the canopy above me, although should this fail, the seat is higher than my head and will do the job instead. Nervous, me? Ha!

After the briefing, we?re taken for lunch in the Officers? Mess, a welcome respite from the sombre prospect of baling out over the uninviting waters of the North Sea. By this stage, I?m beginning to seriously question my choosing the seat in the Tornado over that on the bike, but then my sense of adventure rises to the occasion and my demons are quelled - even if it is only temporarily.

After lunch, I?m taken to the Survival Equipment Specialists where I?m fitted for my flight gear. First up is my helmet, an inconceivably complex piece of kit that makes a motorcycle crash helmet look like a confection in Lego. Clear and tinted visors capable of withstanding bird-strikes, comms and an oxygen regulator all require adjustment, as do various fastenings designed to ensure a prefect fit for my ? and only my ? head. Once satisfied, the SNCO hands me RAF issue thermals, a tee-shirt and turtle neck, together with flight suit, G-pants, black combat boots, calf leather flying gloves and Jacket with built in life preserver, survival kit and personal locator beacon.

The jacket is adorned with a host of umbilical connections on my left side, three cables leading to a precisely engineered connection to link me with the life support systems on the F3 ? communications, 100% pure oxygen, and air to inflate my G-pants. My personal kit is allocated and marked before being set aside and we retire back to the crew room for a final brief before we depart.

Cont/...

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Back at the hotel, Callum and his girlfriend Nicola, together with Marc and respective support teams for both, join us in the bar. Despite my better judgement, I allow myself to succumb to a night exploring the delights of Dundee, a decision I will come to regret the following morning. At dinner that night, conversation centres somewhat predictably on the race tomorrow and is punctuated only by the odd barbed challenge between Callum and Marc (alpha males both, they are a little on the competitive side!). Oh, and assorted jokes at my expense on the chances of my keeping my breakfast down (an unofficial book is running and the odds are such that I?m considering a bet against my best interests!). Predictably, bedtime comes at stupid o?clock and whilst Marc dreams of stalled starts and Callum of wheelies and spinning back wheels, sleep is, for me at least, elusive. Remember I said I wasn?t nervous? I lied!

Somewhat unsurprisingly, the following morning dawns overcast and dark and en-route to the base, the heavens open, unleashing a downpour of biblical proportions and flooding the runway. This is a portentous omen and none of us due to race feels overly buoyed by this development, the arrogant banter of the night before replaced by introspection and thought. Or perhaps it?s just our hangovers! All of us have assumed the bike will ?wipe the floor? with the other machines. This could change everything; the race is now wide open. Marc could stall, or fail to get off the line. Callum is just as likely to spin the Gixer?s wheel up, unable to get the Suzuki?s power down in the wet. And the way I feel, my breakfast is battling to make an unscheduled appearance before I?m even airborne. Not the most auspicious of beginnings!

At our briefing at 08:00 though, all nerves disappear. Whilst I get kitted up, The Boss briefs the other contenders and at 08:45, everyone ?synchronises watches? (yes, really!). Whilst Marc and Callum enjoy a leisurely cup of coffee prior to the 09:30 meeting time on the battlefield, I?m being strapped into the navigator?s seat in the jet, incommunicado and Hors de Combat a good 45 minutes before the race start. Various straps and buckles secure my arms and legs to the ejector seat, designed to pull them out of harm?s way should we need to eject. A five-point harness keeps me in place, attached to the seat that contains my self-deploying parachute and survival raft. The umbilical cord attaches me to the F3?s support system and I secure the oxygen mask to my face to check the flow and test comms. I?m now hard-wired to the F3, a living component amongst the metal and plastic.

Shortly after, The Boss arrives, straps in and gives the command for the ground crew to start power and for the explosive charges for seats and canopy to be armed. As the jets spool up, their whine is deafening and all communication thereafter is via the aircraft?s comms. As the canopy descends over us, however, we sit in an oasis of tranquillity, the noise replaced by a more calming silence, the instrument panels in front of me illuminated to reveal a mass of green radar and weapons systems, screens, instruments and switches.

As we edge out of the bombproof aircraft hangar (a throwback to Cold War days) The Boss maintains a constant dialogue over the comms, pre-flight checks confirming take-off, commitment and abort speeds, eject sequence and such like. As we reach the threshold of the runway, Callum and Mark are already in place, having had almost half an hour of practice runs in which to fully warm tyres along the 8,000ft of perfect tarmac. The Porsche looks stunning, as does the bike and a crowd of pilots, navigators ground crew and media people are salivating over them; still, whilst they?ve got all the attention, I?ve got Sidewinders, Skyflash and 27mm Cannon! A quick photocall, and I hear John Jupp in my helmet?s speakers: ?Good to go??

Adrenaline on fast feed, I signal my assent and he cycles the Tornado?s engines up to full reheat whilst performing final pre-flight checks. Air Traffic Control confirms that the other contenders are ready and we await the command, 32,000lbs of thrust straining against the wheel brakes. 2,640 feet ahead of us lies the finish line.

A green Very light goes up and I see the bike catapult forward. Callum?s away! As The Boss releases the brakes, we begin to move, the acceleration building at a phenomenal rate, the cool, damp air perfect for developing maximum thrust in minimal time. We cover 0-100mph in 8.36 seconds! I can?t even see the bike, we?ve overtaken the Porsche and then?the engines seem to hit their peak and we surge past Callum just before the finish line. The Porsche appears to be in reverse as we hit 160mph way before the half-mile marker and ?rotate?. 14.83 seconds from the start, we?re airborne. As we climb out, I see the Porsche and the GSX-R pass the finish line and hear Air Traffic Control over the radio confirm, ?Congratulations guys, you are the winners!?

John lets out a muted ?Yes!? The race is over, and to everyone?s amazement, we?ve won! For me though, the real prize lays ahead ? an hour?s demonstration of exactly what the Tornado F3 is capable of. As we pass 700ft, we hit cloud cover and climb through over 28,000ft before finally punching through to bright sunshine.

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We head out over the North Sea where we leave the clouds behind us and descend to 250ft for a low-level acceleration run. Slowing to 200 knots, The Boss plugs the afterburners into full reheat and we explode forwards. I read our speed off aloud from the Mach indicator; Mach 0.8, 0.9, 1.0, 1.1, 1.2. Supersonic! At 250 feet above sea level we?re flying at more than 1,000mph and still accelerating! The world outside the cockpit is moving in reverse. Suddenly, The Boss pulls back on the stick and we go vertical, cannoning up to 6,000ft in seconds. He flips the plane over and suddenly I?m looking at the sea through the canopy, suspended by the five-point harness!

John tells me to gently grasp the joystick: he?s going to perform a loop, and then it?ll be my turn! Levelling out, he hits the afterburners again and pulls back on the stick. We rocket up to 11,000ft and the world turns upside down. I feel my g-pants inflate and follow the advice to strain against the suit, preventing the blood from pooling in my legs and feet. 4.5g! My hearing fades and I?m looking at the world through two ever-lengthening black tunnels. I?ve lost all peripheral vision as my brain fights to stay conscious and what vision I have is monochromatic. Within seconds, normality returns as we level out again at 6,000ft.

?You have control!? The Boss says to me. ?Grasp the throttle in your left hand and move it through the detent to engage the afterburners, then pull the stick all the way back?. I do. Again, we rocket skywards and the world goes black, returning as I retard the throttle and come out of the loop. Awesome!

I see some oilrigs below us and The Boss retakes control, dropping low to pass a ship. He waves the wings in a salute and then, once clear, hits the reheat again. At Mach 1.2 we break right, pulling almost 6g through the turn. Again, my hearing and vision fade away as the air inflates my g-suit. Just as I?m about to black out, we level out and head up above the clouds for the run back to RAF Leuchars. I feel punch drunk, utterly disoriented, yet strangely exhilarated. I can hear my breathing through the comms system, each lungful of pure oxygen an effort. I?m drenched in sweat, fighting a battle with my stomach to keep breakfast down and silently curse my late-night revelry. The Boss is chatting away to me.

?It gets easier, Antony. You develop a tolerance to high g!?

We head back and are cleared straight in where The Boss demonstrates the other side of the F3?s performance with an incredibly short landing, hitting the reverse thrust and brakes and stopping dead on dry power in 380 metres! Taxiing back to the hangar some 90 minutes after take off, we?re greeted by a huge crowd and I stagger from the cockpit grinning inanely to hugs and congratulations from the brolly babes and pats on the back from assorted pilots and navigators. There is general amazement at the unused sick-bags in my flight suit, not least from me!

Cameron and Marc wander over to congratulate me and I ask them about the race from their perspective.

?I got away sharpish?, Callum tells me, ?but I just couldn?t get the power down. Nearly 150bhp in the wet, she was spinning up through the gears. I was short shifting but at 140mph the back was sliding around all over the place!?

?Ditto?, Marc agrees. ?Trying to get full power down in this weather is impossible.?

As we wander off to get changed and enjoy some well-needed refreshments in the Officers? Mess, Callum suggests a rematch next year:

?Somewhere warm and sunny would be just fine! Next time, the challenge can take place when the Squadron is on tour in the Gulf!?

As I remove my flight suit, I?m still grinning. In fact, the RAF medics were concerned that if I grinned much wider, the corners of my mouth would meet and the top of my head might fall off! And to think, these guys get paid to do this!

(C) Black Rat Communications 2001





THANKS DUE TO:Wing Commander J.A. Jupp, Fl. Lt Kyle Simpson, SQUINTO, and the officers and men of RAF Leuchars for making it happen.Alan Duffus and the team at Alan Duffus Motorcycles for providing the GSX-R1000, prepped, fuelled and ready to race. Alan Duffus is Scotland?s biggest name in motorcycles, details on 01382-817051 Ray Smith at Knockhill Race Circuit for the chequered flag and for sponsorship of Brolly Girls Tyla Wilson, Pamela Bennie and Ashleigh Robb, all of whom had to get up unfeasibly early to get to RAF Leuchars! Thanks, girls. Contact Knockhill on 01383 723337 Go, the low cost airline, for getting us there. London to Edinburgh from ?35 return inc. taxes. Book at www.go-fly.com or tel. 0870 6076543Eric Brown and the Hilton Hotel, Dundee for accommodation. Rates from ?39, call 01382 229271 or visit Hilton Hotels Home for details.Julian at Race Logic for the loan of the V-Box GPS Speed Testing Equipment. Call 01280-823803. Cheapest system starts at ?4694.00MPC Couriers for moving the Porsche 911 and ensuring that we got what we needed, when we needed it. Call 020-7378-8686 for details