Chairs That Fly

The dunes and dry lakes of California's Mojave Desert are spawning a new set of recreational hobbies. Dune buggies churn up sand cliffs, sand boats sail across the flats at 60 m.p.h., and now the latest contraptions, gyrocopters, have arrived. They are homemade, one-seater helicopters barely 8 ft. long, and the closest thing to a flying chair yet made by man. "You're all by yourself," enthuses Pomona Banker Gus Styias. "The wind whirls by your ears, and you can often change direction by simply moving your body. You're really flying by the seat of your pants."

Bombing Flour Sacks. The craft, so small that it tucks into a garage, so light that it can be lifted to the airfield atop a Thunderbird, was developed by Igor Bensen, 49, a Russian-born engineer. In the 1950s he set up Bensen Aircraft in Raleigh, N.C., to make and market sets of parts, which cost anywhere from $700 without engine to $2,600 for a complete kit that bolts together like an Erector set. To help push his product, Bensen founded the Popular Rotorcraft Association three years ago. Membership has already grown to 4,000 in all 50 states and 60 foreign countries, includes Thailand's king, currently assembling his own Bensen gyrocopter.

At El Mirage dry lake, 100 miles north of Los Angeles, the Southern California chapter, which has 250 members, last week was able to mount a 44-plane air force for its annual flyin, put on a dazzling display of aerial stunts, precision landings, and simulated bombing with colored flour sacks. The gyrocopters came as plain or fancy as the owners could afford, but all were equipped with a pusher engine, one rudder, one rotor blade, and a single seat with steering stick. The gas tank holds six gallons, good for about an hour's flight. The craft can rise to an altitude of two miles, but most flyers preferred to stay under 600 ft.

Zero Landings. Since the Federal Aviation Agency requires all gyrocopters to be at least 51% homemade, there were hairy tales of accidents to swap. One builder had mounted his rotor blade upside down, then vainly tried taking off with it that way. Another had added bolts to eliminate rotor teetering; when he took off, his craft turned into a gyroscope, flipped over and collapsed.

The FAA requires only a student license to fly, and many beginners start by "kiting"--being dragged behind a car on a long cable while they gently try takeoffs and maneuvering. "There's almost no danger in this sport," maintains Ken Brock, founder of the Southern California chapter. "Most airplane crashes occur on takeoff or landing. But with gyrocopters you go only 20 to 30 m.p.h. on takeoff, and land at about zero to 5 m.p.h."

Crumpled Craft. "The main fear is losing your rotor blade," says Don White, a mechanical engineer at Douglas Aircraft. "I imagine nearly every guy has had at least one engine failure, and this is something you can cope with. The gyrocopter just settles down to earth. But if you lose your rotor blade, you're out of luck. It's like a wing on an airplane." Fortunately, the gyrocopter is what pilots call "a forgiving plane"; the construction tends to give on crashing, and there is little mass to crush or entangle the pilot. "If he lands in any direction but upside down," says one flyer, "the pilot will generally be O.K."

A dramatic case in point occurred during last week's flyin. Rex Evatt, a veteran Santa Clara gyrocopter pilot flying a borrowed craft, banked too steeply in the 30-m.p.h. wind, crashed onto the dry-lake floor. The craft crumpled, the rotor snapped to pieces, but Evatt stepped out unhurt, apologized to his friend for cracking up his $2,000 machine, and the next day was back flying again.

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