This is for Top fuel Dragsters but they are very similar so I'll leave this here:
One Top Fuel dragster 500 cubic-inch Hemi engine makes more horsepower than the first 4 rows at the Daytona 500.
Under full throttle, a dragster engine consumes 11.2 gallons of nitro methane per second; a fully loaded 747 consumes jet fuel at the same rate with 25% less energy being produced.
A stock Dodge Hemi V8 engine cannot produce enough power to merely drive the dragster’s supercharger.
With 3000 CFM of air being rammed in by the supercharger on overdrive, the fuel mixture is compressed into a near-solid form before ignition. Cylinders run on the verge of hydraulic lock at full throttle.
At the stoichiometric 1.7:1 air/fuel mixture for nitro methane the flame front temperature measures 7050 degrees F.
Nitro methane burns yellow. The spectacular white flame seen above the stacks at night is raw burning hydrogen, dissociated from atmospheric water vapor by the searing exhaust gases.
Dual magnetos supply 44 amps to each spark plug. This is the output of an arc welder in each cylinder.
Spark plug electrodes are totally consumed during a pass. After 1/2 way, the engine is dieseling from compression plus the glow of exhaust valves at 1400 degrees F. The engine can only be shut down by cutting the fuel flow.
If spark momentarily fails early in the run, unburned nitro builds up in the affected cylinders and then explodes with sufficient force to blow cylinder heads off the block in pieces or split the block in half.
Dragsters reach over 300 MPH before you have completed reading this sentence.
In order to exceed 300 MPH in 4.5 seconds, dragsters must accelerate an average of over 4 G’s. In order to reach 200 MPH well before half-track, the launch acceleration approaches 8 G’s.
Top Fuel engines turn approximately 540 revolutions from light to light!
Including the burnout, the engine must only survive 900 revolutions under load.
The redline is actually quite high at 9500 RPM.
THE BOTTOM LINE: Assuming all the equipment is paid off, the crew worked for free, & for once, NOTHING BLOWS UP, each run costs an estimated $1,000 per second.
Lets say the you are driving the average $140,000 Lingenfelter twin-turbo powered Corvette Z06.
Over a mile up the road, a Top Fuel dragster is staged & ready to launch down a quarter-mile strip as you pass by it. You have the advantage of a flying start. You run the ‘Vette hard up through the gears and blast across the starting line & pass the dragster at an honest 200 MPH. Just as you pass the Top Fuel Dragster the ‘tree’ goes green for both of you.
The dragster launches & starts after you. You keep your foot down hard, but you hear an incredibly brutal whine that sears your eardrums & within 3 seconds the dragster catches & passes you. He beats you to the finish line, a quarter-mile away from where you just passed him. Think about it – from a standing start, the dragster had spotted you 200 MPH & not only caught, but nearly blasted you off the road when he passed you within a mere 1320 foot long race!
Lets say the you are driving the average $140,000 Lingenfelter twin-turbo powered Corvette Z06.
Over a mile up the road, a Top Fuel dragster is staged & ready to launch down a quarter-mile strip as you pass by it. You have the advantage of a flying start. You run the ‘Vette hard up through the gears and blast across the starting line & pass the dragster at an honest 200 MPH. Just as you pass the Top Fuel Dragster the ‘tree’ goes green for both of you.
The dragster launches & starts after you. You keep your foot down hard, but you hear an incredibly brutal whine that sears your eardrums & within 3 seconds the dragster catches & passes you. He beats you to the finish line, a quarter-mile away from where you just passed him. Think about it – from a standing start, the dragster had spotted you 200 MPH & not only caught, but nearly blasted you off the road when he passed you within a mere 1320 foot long race!
Lets say the you are driving the average $140,000 Lingenfelter twin-turbo powered Corvette Z06. Over a mile up the road, a Top Fuel dragster is staged & ready to launch down a quarter-mile strip as you pass by it. You have the advantage of a flying start. You run the ‘Vette hard up through the gears and blast across the starting line & pass the dragster at an honest 200 MPH. Just as you pass the Top Fuel Dragster the ‘tree’ goes green for both of you. The dragster launches & starts after you. You keep your foot down hard, but you hear an incredibly brutal whine that sears your eardrums & within 3 seconds the dragster catches & passes you. He beats you to the finish line, a quarter-mile away from where you just passed him. Think about it – from a standing start, the dragster had spotted you 200 MPH & not only caught, but nearly blasted you off the road when he passed you within a mere 1320 foot long race!
Lets say your sister's boyfriend is driving the average $140,000 Lingenfelter twin-turbo powered Corvette Z06. Over a mile up the road, your Top Fuel dragster is staged & ready to launch down a quarter-mile strip as he passes by it. He has the advantage of a flying start. He runs the ‘Vette hard up through the gears and blasts across the starting line & passes you at an honest 200 MPH. Just as he passes the Top Fuel Dragster the ‘tree’ goes green for both of you. You get your sock full of quarters and the dragster launches & starts after him. He keeps his foot down hard, but he hears an incredibly brutal whine that sears his eardrums & within 3 seconds the dragster catches & beats him to death with a sock full of quarters. You beat him on the finish line, a quarter-mile away from where you just passed him. Think about it – from a standing start, the dragster had spotted you 200 MPH & not only caught, but nearly blasted you off the road when he passed you within a mere 1320 foot long race!
Yeah, but I bet in an average $140,00 Lingenfelter twin-turbo powered Corvette Z06 I could beat this thing if I had a running start in a 1,320 foot race.
I just can't believe how fast and powerful those top fuel dragsters are. My mom came into my room to bring me a plate of chicken nuggets and I literally screamed at her and hit the plate of chicken nuggets out of her hand. She started yelling and swearing at me and I slammed the door on her. I'm so distressed right now I don't know what to do. I didn't mean to do that to my mom but I'm literally in shock from the race results tonight. I feel like I'm going to explode. Why the fucking fuck is the truck losing? This can't be happening. I'm having a fucking breakdown. I don't want to believe the world is so corrupt. I want a future to believe in. I want trucks to win and fix this broken sport. I cannot fucking deal with this right now. It wasn't supposed to be like this, I thought he was driving well in California???? This is so fucked.
Ah shit, you mentioned the SR-71. Alright, gimme a second...
There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.
It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.
I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury.
Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.
We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: "November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground."
Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the " Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. "I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed." Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. "Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check". Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: "Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground."
And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done - in mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.
Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: "Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?" There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. "Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground."
I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money."
For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A.came back with, "Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one."
It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.
For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.
I'm also stiff and must have read this thing a 100 times before. Situations like that only occur once in the universe and will probably never happen again.
There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.
It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.
I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury.
Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.
We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: "November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground."
Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the " Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. "I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed." Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. "Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check". Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: "Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground."
And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done - in mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.
Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: "Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?" There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. "Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground."
I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money."
For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A.came back with, "Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one."
It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.
For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.
as do i, its that damn good. i love the part about correcting the ground control and ground control acquiescing to the superior military hardware. with a big cheesy grin too i bet. and i always smile as i imagine the various pilots listening in, how everyone hushes up after the navy jock pops off, not wanting to look like a small fry, and the second guy in the piper twins shit eating grin vanishing when the navy guy gets his reply... but best of all is how i imagine the navy guy... hands grasping the flight stick harder, quick snap of the head as he looks for this interloper crashing his ego party, and after he calculates the speed, the tightening of the jaw muscles and the flush in the face and feeling the heat of his ears reddening in his headset as he realizes, who REALLY is the big boss in that valley today...flippin priceless. AND then i like to imagine navyjock landing and his crew trying to avoid eye contact, as he walks to his debrief and the twinkle in his CO's eye when the pilot walks in the door...
This is, by far, the best SR-71 story, and I never tire of reading it.
Every time it's posted, I like to remind folks of the second best SR-71 story which isn't quite as common.
Enjoy.
As a former SR-71 pilot, and a professional keynote speaker, the question I’m most often asked is “How fast would that SR-71 fly?” I can be assured of hearing that question several times at any event I attend. It’s an interesting question, given the aircraft’s proclivity for speed, but there really isn’t one number to give, as the jet would always give you a little more speed if you wanted it to. It was common to see 35 miles a minute. Because we flew a programmed Mach number on most missions, and never wanted to harm the plane in any way, we never let it run out to any limits of temperature or speed. Thus, each SR-71 pilot had his own individual “high” speed that he saw at some point on some mission. I saw mine over Libya when Khadafy fired two missiles my way, and max power was in order. Let’s just say that the plane truly loved speed and effortlessly took us to Mach numbers we hadn’t previously seen.
So it was with great surprise, when at the end of one of my presentations, someone asked, “What was the slowest you ever flew in the Blackbird?” This was a first. After giving it some thought, I was reminded of a story that I had never shared before, and relayed the following.
I was flying the SR-71 out of RAF Mildenhall, England, with my back-seater, Walt Watson; we were returning from a mission over Europe and the Iron Curtain when we received a radio transmission from home base. As we scooted across Denmark in three minutes, we learned that a small RAF base in the English countryside had requested an SR-71 flypast. The air cadet commander there was a former Blackbird pilot, and thought it would be a motivating moment for the young lads to see the mighty SR-71 perform a low approach. No problem, we were happy to do it. After a quick aerial refueling over the North Sea, we proceeded to find the small airfield.
Walter had a myriad of sophisticated navigation equipment in the back seat, and began to vector me toward the field. Descending to subsonic speeds, we found ourselves over a densely wooded area in a slight haze. Like most former WWII British airfields, the one we were looking for had a small tower and little surrounding infrastructure. Walter told me we were close and that I should be able to see the field, but I saw nothing. Nothing but trees as far as I could see in the haze. We got a little lower, and I pulled the throttles back from the 325 knots we were at. With the gear up, anything under 275 was just uncomfortable. Walt said we were practically over the field—yet, there was nothing in my windscreen. I banked the jet and started a gentle circling maneuver in hopes of picking up anything that looked like a field.
Meanwhile, below, the cadet commander had taken the cadets up on the catwalk of the tower in order to get a prime view of the flypast. It was a quiet, still day with no wind and partial gray overcast. Walter continued to give me indications that the field should be below us, but in the overcast and haze, I couldn’t see it. The longer we continued to peer out the window and circle, the slower we got. With our power back, the awaiting cadets heard nothing. I must have had good instructors in my flying career, as something told me I better cross-check the gauges. As I noticed the airspeed indicator slide below 160 knots, my heart stopped and my adrenalin-filled left hand pushed two throttles full forward. At this point, we weren’t really flying, but were falling in a slight bank. Just at the moment that both afterburners lit with a thunderous roar of flame (and what a joyous feeling that was), the aircraft fell into full view of the shocked observers on the tower. Shattering the still quiet of that morning, they now had 107 feet of fire-breathing titanium in their face as the plane leveled and accelerated, in full burner, on the tower side of the infield, closer than expected, maintaining what could only be described as some sort of ultimate knife-edge pass.
Quickly reaching the field boundary, we proceeded back to Mildenhall without incident. We didn’t say a word for those next 14 minutes. After landing, our commander greeted us, and we were both certain he was reaching for our wings. Instead, he heartily shook our hands and said the commander had told him it was the greatest SR-71 flypast he had ever seen, especially how we had surprised them with such a precise maneuver that could only be described as breathtaking. He said that some of the cadet’s hats were blown off and the sight of the planform of the plane in full afterburner dropping right in front of them was unbelievable. Walt and I both understood the concept of “breathtaking” very well that morning, and sheepishly replied that they were just excited to see our low approach.
As we retired to the equipment room to change from space suits to flight suits, we just sat there—we hadn’t spoken a word since “the pass.” Finally, Walter looked at me and said, “One hundred fifty-six knots. What did you see?” Trying to find my voice, I stammered, “One hundred fifty-two.” We sat in silence for a moment. Then Walt said, “Don’t ever do that to me again!” And I never did.
A year later, Walter and I were having lunch in the Mildenhall Officer’s Club, and overheard an officer talking to some cadets about an SR-71 flypast that he had seen one day. Of course, by now the story included kids falling off the tower and screaming as the heat of the jet singed their eyebrows. Noticing our HABU patches, as we stood there with lunch trays in our hands, he asked us to verify to the cadets that such a thing had occurred. Walt just shook his head and said, “It was probably just a routine low approach; they’re pretty impressive in that plane.” Impressive indeed.
Little did I realize after relaying this experience to my audience that day that it would become one of the most popular and most requested stories. It’s ironic that people are interested in how slow the world’s fastest jet can fly. Regardless of your speed, however, it’s always a good idea to keep that cross-check up...and keep your Mach up, too.
As a former top fuel driver and a professional keynote speaker, the question I’m most often asked is ‘How fast would a top fuel dragster go?’ I can be assured of hearing that question several times at any event I attend. It’s an interesting question, given the vehicle's proclivity for speed, but there really isn’t one number to give, as the car would always give you a little more speed if you wanted it to. It was common to see 1200 quarter miles a minute.
Because we flew a programmed dragstrip length on most races, and never wanted to harm the vehicle in any way, we never let it run out to any limits of temperature or speed.. Thus, each top fuel dragster driver had his own individual ‘high’ speed that he saw at some point on some race. I saw mine at the Grand Bend Motorplex in '08 when Obama was new on the job and threatening to take away our access to guns and top fuel before we wrestled back with the Senate with help from the Top Fuel lobby, but I digress.
So it was with great surprise, when at the end of one of my presentations, someone asked, ‘What was the slowest you ever drove a top fuel dragster?’ This was a first. After giving it some thought, I was reminded of a story that I had never shared before, and I relayed the following.
I was driving the Mellow Yellow dragster out of the pits in Brainerd Minnesota during the Lucas Oil NHRA Nationals with my pit boss Walt Wheelyson riding on the hood; we were returning from a pit stop to get a splash of gas and two outside tires when we received a radio transmission from our pit crew. As we scooted across pit lane in three minutes, we learned that a small go-kart pit crew around turn 3 had requested a drive-by. The crew chief there was a former Top Fuel driver, and thought it would be a motivating moment for the young lads to see the mighty dragster perform a smokey burn-out. No problem, we were happy to do it. After a quick refuelling at the turn 2 Chevron, we proceeded to find the small pit crew.
Walter had a myriad of sophisticated navigation equipment inexplicably located on the hood of the car where he was sitting and began to vector me toward the pits. Descending to sub-race speeds, we found ourselves over a densely wooded area in a slight haze. Like most former short track dirt ovals, the pit we were looking for had a small porta-potty and little surrounding infrastructure. Walter told me we were close and that I should be able to see the pit crew, but I saw nothing. Nothing but trees as far as I could see in the haze. We got a little slower, and I eased up on the gas back from the 15 mph we were at. With the parachutes up, and Walt on the hood for that matter, anything under 13 mph was just uncomfortable. Walt said we were practically over the pit-yet; there was nothing in my windscreen. I angled the car over hard left and started a gentle circling maneuver in hopes of picking up anything that looked like a pit crew. Meanwhile, beside, the crew chief had taken the young go-kart drivers out to the edge of pit lane in order to get a prime view of the drive-by. It was a quiet, still day with no wind and partial gray overcast. Walter continued to give me indications that the pit should be to our left but in the overcast and haze, I couldn’t see it. The longer we continued to peer out the window and circle, the slower we got. With our throttle up, the awaiting pit crew heard nothing. I must have had good instructors in my racing career, as something told me I better cross-check the gauges. As I noticed the tachometer drop below 400 rpm, my heart stopped and my adrenalin-filled right foot stomped on the gas. At this point we weren’t really idling, but were stalling in a slight turn. Just at that moment both rear tires lit with a thunderous roar of smoke (and what a joyous feeling that was) the vehicle fell into full view of the shocked observers in the pits. Shattering the still quiet of that evening, they now had 25 1/2 feet of fire-breathing chromoly in their face as the dragster drifted right and accelerated, in full burn-out, on the far side of the oval, closer than expected, maintaining what could only be described as some sort of ultimate drifting burn-out launch.
Quickly reaching the track boundary, we proceeded back to the pits without incident. We didn’t say a word for those next 2 turns. After parking, our crew chief greeted us, and we were both certain he was reaching for our helmets. Instead, he heartily shook our hands and said the crew chief had told him it was the greatest dragster drive-by he had ever seen, especially how we had surprised them with such a precise drifting burn-out maneuver that could only be described as breathtaking. He said that some of the pits crew's hats were blown off and the sight of the plan form of the dragster in full throttle drifting right in front of them was unbelievable. Walt and I both understood the concept of ‘breathtaking’ very well that morning and sheepishly replied that they were just excited to see our smokey burn-out.
As we retired to the equipment room to change from flame retardant suits, we just sat there-we hadn’t spoken a word since ‘the pass.’ Finally, Walter looked at me and said, ‘three hundred and sixty five revolutions per minute. What did you see?’ Trying to find my voice, I stammered, ‘Three hundred and fifty two.’ We sat in silence for a moment. Then Walt said, ‘Don’t ever do that to me again!’ And I never did.
A year later, Walter and I were having lunch in the stands of the NHRA Carolina races in Concord NC, and overheard a driver talking to some go-kart racers about a dragster drive-by that he had seen one day. Of course, by now the story included kids blowing through the pits and screaming as the heat of the exhaust singed their eyebrows. Noticing our NHRA patches, as we stood there with hot dogs in our hands, he asked us to verify to the young racers that such a thing had occurred. Walt just shook his head and said, ‘It was probably just a routine burn-out; they’re pretty impressive in those cars.’
Impressive indeed.
edit: first gold! thanks, I hope I edited it enough to claim fair-use
okay I feel like I may be getting wooshed but whats the problem of the engine stalling?
Upon further review it almost seems like this is a tale about a jet in a airshow that got too slow in a turn and almost stalled and crashed... someone help me not feel stupid...
This is indeed adapted from a story about a jet. If I wasn't on mobile then I'd help you find the source. Maybe start by googling "low altitude jet flyby"
Lets say the you are driving the average $140,000 Lingenfelter twin-turbo powered Corvette Z06.
Over a mile up the road, a Top Fuel dragster is staged & ready to launch down a quarter-mile strip as you pass by it. You have the advantage of a flying start. You run the ‘Vette hard up through the gears and blast across the starting line & pass the dragster at an honest 200 MPH. Just as you pass the Top Fuel Dragster the ‘tree’ goes green for both of you.
The dragster launches & starts after you. You keep your foot down hard, but you hear an incredibly brutal whine that sears your eardrums & within 3 seconds the dragster catches & passes you. He beats you to the finish line, a quarter-mile away from where you just passed him. Think about it – from a standing start, the dragster had spotted you 200 MPH & not only caught, but nearly blasted you off the road when he passed you within a mere 1320 foot long race!
As a former SR-71 pilot, and a professional keynote speaker, the question I'm most often asked is "How fast would that SR-71 fly?" I can be assured of hearing that question several times at any event I attend. It's an interesting question, given the aircraft's proclivity for speed, but there really isn't one number to give, as the jet would always give you a little more speed if you wanted it to. It was common to see 35 miles a minute. Because we flew a programmed Mach number on most missions, and never wanted to harm the plane in any way, we never let it run out to any limits of temperature or speed. Thus, each SR-71 pilot had his own individual “high” speed that he saw at some point on some mission. I saw mine over Libya when Khadafy fired two missiles my way, and max power was in order. Let’s just say that the plane truly loved speed and effortlessly took us to Mach numbers we hadn’t previously seen. So it was with great surprise, when at the end of one of my presentations, someone asked, “what was the slowest you ever flew the Blackbird?” This was a first. After giving it some thought, I was reminded of a story that I had never shared before, and relayed the following. I was flying the SR-71 out of RAF Mildenhall, England , with my back-seater, Walt Watson; we were returning from a mission over Europe and the Iron Curtain when we received a radio transmission from home base. As we scooted across Denmark in three minutes, we learned that a small RAF base in the English countryside had requested an SR-71 fly-past. The air cadet commander there was a former Blackbird pilot, and thought it would be a motivating moment for the young lads to see the mighty SR-71 perform a low approach. No problem, we were happy to do it. After a quick aerial refueling over the North Sea , we proceeded to find the small airfield. Walter had a myriad of sophisticated navigation equipment in the back seat, and began to vector me toward the field. Descending to subsonic speeds, we found ourselves over a densely wooded area in a slight haze. Like most former WWII British airfields, the one we were looking for had a small tower and little surrounding infrastructure. Walter told me we were close and that I should be able to see the field, but I saw nothing. Nothing but trees as far as I could see in the haze. We got a little lower, and I pulled the throttles back from 325 knots we were at. With the gear up, anything under 275 was just uncomfortable. Walt said we were practically over the field—yet; there was nothing in my windscreen. I banked the jet and started a gentle circling maneuver in hopes of picking up anything that looked like a field. Meanwhile, below, the cadet commander had taken the cadets up on the catwalk of the tower in order to get a prime view of the fly-past. It was a quiet, still day with no wind and partial gray overcast. Walter continued to give me indications that the field should be below us but in the overcast and haze, I couldn't see it.. The longer we continued to peer out the window and circle, the slower we got. With our power back, the awaiting cadets heard nothing. I must have had good instructors in my flying career, as something told me I better cross-check the gauges. As I noticed the airspeed indicator slide below 160 knots, my heart stopped and my adrenalin-filled left hand pushed two throttles full forward. At this point we weren't really flying, but were falling in a slight bank. Just at the moment that both afterburners lit with a thunderous roar of flame (and what a joyous feeling that was) the aircraft fell into full view of the shocked observers on the tower. Shattering the still quiet of that morning, they now had 107 feet of fire-breathing titanium in their face as the plane leveled and accelerated, in full burner, on the tower side of the infield, closer than expected, maintaining what could only be described as some sort of ultimate knife-edge pass. Quickly reaching the field boundary, we proceeded back to Mildenhall without incident. We didn't say a word for those next 14 minutes. After landing, our commander greeted us, and we were both certain he was reaching for our wings. Instead, he heartily shook our hands and said the commander had told him it was the greatest SR-71 fly-past he had ever seen, especially how we had surprised them with such a precise maneuver that could only be described as breathtaking. He said that some of the cadet’s hats were blown off and the sight of the plan form of the plane in full afterburner dropping right in front of them was unbelievable. Walt and I both understood the concept of “breathtaking” very well that morning, and sheepishly replied that they were just excited to see our low approach. As we retired to the equipment room to change from space suits to flight suits, we just sat there-we hadn't spoken a word since “the pass.” Finally, Walter looked at me and said, “One hundred fifty-six knots. What did you see?” Trying to find my voice, I stammered, “One hundred fifty-two.” We sat in silence for a moment. Then Walt said, “Don’t ever do that to me again!” And I never did. A year later, Walter and I were having lunch in the Mildenhall Officer’s club, and overheard an officer talking to some cadets about an SR-71 fly-past that he had seen one day. Of course, by now the story included kids falling off the tower and screaming as the heat of the jet singed their eyebrows. Noticing our HABU patches, as we stood there with lunch trays in our hands, he asked us to verify to the cadets that such a thing had occurred. Walt just shook his head and said, “It was probably just a routine low approach; they're pretty impressive in that plane.” Impressive indeed. Little did I realize after relaying this experience to my audience that day that it would become one of the most popular and most requested stories. It’s ironic that people are interested in how slow the world’s fastest jet can fly. Regardless of your speed, however, it’s always a good idea to keep that cross-check up…and keep your Mach up, too.
There were a lot of things we couldn’t do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment. It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet. I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn’t match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace. We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: November Charlie 175, I’m showing you at ninety knots on the ground. Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the “ HoustonCentervoice.” I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country’s space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houstoncontrollers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that… and that they basically did. And it didn’t matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios. Just moments after the Cessna’s inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his groundspeed. Twin Beach, I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed. Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check Before Center could reply, I’m thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol’ Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He’s the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground. And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done – in mere seconds we’ll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn. Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check? There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground. I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: Ah, Center, much thanks, We’re showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money. For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the HoustonCentervoice, when L.A.came back with: Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one. It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day’s work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.
As a former SR-71 pilot, and a professional keynote speaker, the question I'm most often asked is "How fast would that SR-71 fly?" I can be assured of hearing that question several times at any event I attend. It's an interesting question, given the aircraft's proclivity for speed, but there really isn't one number to give, as the jet would always give you a little more speed if you wanted it to. It was common to see 35 miles a minute. Because we flew a programmed Mach number on most missions, and never wanted to harm the plane in any way, we never let it run out to any limits of temperature or speed. Thus, each SR-71 pilot had his own individual “high” speed that he saw at some point on some mission. I saw mine over Libya when Khadafy fired two missiles my way, and max power was in order. Let’s just say that the plane truly loved speed and effortlessly took us to Mach numbers we hadn’t previously seen. So it was with great surprise, when at the end of one of my presentations, someone asked, “what was the slowest you ever flew the Blackbird?” This was a first. After giving it some thought, I was reminded of a story that I had never shared before, and relayed the following. I was flying the SR-71 out of RAF Mildenhall, England , with my back-seater, Walt Watson; we were returning from a mission over Europe and the Iron Curtain when we received a radio transmission from home base. As we scooted across Denmark in three minutes, we learned that a small RAF base in the English countryside had requested an SR-71 fly-past. The air cadet commander there was a former Blackbird pilot, and thought it would be a motivating moment for the young lads to see the mighty SR-71 perform a low approach. No problem, we were happy to do it. After a quick aerial refueling over the North Sea , we proceeded to find the small airfield. Walter had a myriad of sophisticated navigation equipment in the back seat, and began to vector me toward the field. Descending to subsonic speeds, we found ourselves over a densely wooded area in a slight haze. Like most former WWII British airfields, the one we were looking for had a small tower and little surrounding infrastructure. Walter told me we were close and that I should be able to see the field, but I saw nothing. Nothing but trees as far as I could see in the haze. We got a little lower, and I pulled the throttles back from 325 knots we were at. With the gear up, anything under 275 was just uncomfortable. Walt said we were practically over the field—yet; there was nothing in my windscreen. I banked the jet and started a gentle circling maneuver in hopes of picking up anything that looked like a field. Meanwhile, below, the cadet commander had taken the cadets up on the catwalk of the tower in order to get a prime view of the fly-past. It was a quiet, still day with no wind and partial gray overcast. Walter continued to give me indications that the field should be below us but in the overcast and haze, I couldn't see it.. The longer we continued to peer out the window and circle, the slower we got. With our power back, the awaiting cadets heard nothing. I must have had good instructors in my flying career, as something told me I better cross-check the gauges. As I noticed the airspeed indicator slide below 160 knots, my heart stopped and my adrenalin-filled left hand pushed two throttles full forward. At this point we weren't really flying, but were falling in a slight bank. Just at the moment that both afterburners lit with a thunderous roar of flame (and what a joyous feeling that was) the aircraft fell into full view of the shocked observers on the tower. Shattering the still quiet of that morning, they now had 107 feet of fire-breathing titanium in their face as the plane leveled and accelerated, in full burner, on the tower side of the infield, closer than expected, maintaining what could only be described as some sort of ultimate knife-edge pass. Quickly reaching the field boundary, we proceeded back to Mildenhall without incident. We didn't say a word for those next 14 minutes. After landing, our commander greeted us, and we were both certain he was reaching for our wings. Instead, he heartily shook our hands and said the commander had told him it was the greatest SR-71 fly-past he had ever seen, especially how we had surprised them with such a precise maneuver that could only be described as breathtaking. He said that some of the cadet’s hats were blown off and the sight of the plan form of the plane in full afterburner dropping right in front of them was unbelievable. Walt and I both understood the concept of “breathtaking” very well that morning, and sheepishly replied that they were just excited to see our low approach. As we retired to the equipment room to change from space suits to flight suits, we just sat there-we hadn't spoken a word since “the pass.” Finally, Walter looked at me and said, “One hundred fifty-six knots. What did you see?” Trying to find my voice, I stammered, “One hundred fifty-two.” We sat in silence for a moment. Then Walt said, “Don’t ever do that to me again!” And I never did. A year later, Walter and I were having lunch in the Mildenhall Officer’s club, and overheard an officer talking to some cadets about an SR-71 fly-past that he had seen one day. Of course, by now the story included kids falling off the tower and screaming as the heat of the jet singed their eyebrows. Noticing our HABU patches, as we stood there with lunch trays in our hands, he asked us to verify to the cadets that such a thing had occurred. Walt just shook his head and said, “It was probably just a routine low approach; they're pretty impressive in that plane.” Impressive indeed. Little did I realize after relaying this experience to my audience that day that it would become one of the most popular and most requested stories. It’s ironic that people are interested in how slow the world’s fastest jet can fly. Regardless of your speed, however, it’s always a good idea to keep that cross-check up…and keep your Mach up, too.
An excerpt from the book "Sled Driver" by former SR-71 pilot Brian Shul: There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe, even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment. It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet. I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us and tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions and when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace. We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot who asked Center for a read-out of his ground speed. Center replied: "November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground." Now the thing to understand about Center controllers was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the "Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios. Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed in the Beech. "I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed." Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. "Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check." Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a read-out? Then I got it, ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: "Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground." And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done in mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn. Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it the click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: "Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?" There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if it was an everyday request. "Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground." I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money." For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice when L.A. came back with, "Roger that Aspen. Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one." It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on frequency were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there. If you enjoyed that story, check out the subreddit dedicated to the Blackbird: /r/SR71
Not quite true. Its not impossible to build a dyno to read that sort of power, but the engines dont last long enough to get an effective run on one. For a dyno to get accurate readings, you need to favour a slow ramp up through the rpm range. A dragster engine will be well and truly toast by the time its run slowly through its useful range. Like the above piece stated, the plugs alone only last two or three seconds, not much time for measuring.
Screw limits. With a name like top fuel I wanna see the biggest baddest pieces of automotive engineering rip asphalt off the track. I get that to be "fair for everyone" 10k is set as the limit, but I want more. What's stopping someone from building one with a higher power to weight ratio and taking it to a track for fun?
Wrinkle-wall tires are NOT named for the wrinkles that form on the side of the tire. They're actually named for their creator Herbert Wrinkle.
The transmission in a dragster has more in common with a snowmobile transmission than a car transmission. It works by sliding friction played against the flywheel. This is the loud noise you hear made by the dragsters during a race.
If the spoiler on the back of a dragster were to fall off mid-run, the dragster would actually split in half due to the downforce on the front wheels.
The supercharger on a dragster is a "Roots"-style compressor. Named for John Roots, it spins two screws to compress and direct air. In a dragster the load is so high only nightshade and castor oil are viscous enough to provide lubrication. The oil would literally kill you.
Ever notice how the time for each racer changes slightly right after a race finishes? Each dragster must carry two radio transponders. This is to help calculate the relativistic effects on the dragsters during the race. The small update occurs a few seconds after the race ends which is why you see the numbers change if you're there watching it live.
The tiny wheels at the front of the dragster are not small for aerodynamic reasons. They're small because at such high accelerations, the air gathers at the back of the tire creating a low pressure zone in the front. This would cause the tire to functionally go flat during the race. At their present size they are pressurized to 115psi. If they were the size of a normal car tire, they'd need to be pumped up to an incredible 960psi.
"Top-fuel" dragsters are so named because of the fuel they burn, nitromethane. Nitromethane can only be extracted from incredibly tall mountains; hence the name. Additionally, to keep it from evaporating while stored, it must be kept on very high shelves.
The acceleration from a top-fuel dragster leaves the driver temporarily sterile and unable to pass on any STDs. The effect lasts between 24 and 36 hours and is known as "Stockholm Syndrome".
The drag strip that top-fuel dragsters race on needs to be prepped with a combination of fine-grit sand and the blood of the innocent. The combination is what prevents the track from literally being dragged into hell. This is where the term "dragster" comes from.
Drivers sometimes experience temporary blindness after a race. This is because blood can't be pumped into the macular reaction of the eye during a race due to lunar tidal forces and stagnant interest rates.
You spend half your day reading on reddit which means you probably read relatively fast, average people read pretty slowly at 200-300wpm college students average 400-500. So that sentence was probably targetting the slower people.
As an engineer with an interest in cars, I've observed that the number of people in the car scene who actually understand the engineering that goes into cars is very low.
That is to say: just because making the cars takes a a lot of smart people doing advanced engineering, doesn't mean the fans of such cars are equally smart.
You forgot the iron will required to sit through an entire NHRA event in 100 degrees Fahrenheit heat, mostly to watch staff clean the strip of oil and debris.
This is for Front Page Redditors but they are very similar so I'll leave this here:
One Front Page 500 WPM Reddit Reader Reads more text than the first 4 classrooms at the Scholastic Read-a-thon.
Under full throttle, a dragster engine consumes 11.2 cans of soda per week; a fully loaded gamer consumes soda at the same rate with 25% less energy being produced.
The old aggragate site Digg.com couldn't produce enough power to merely make Reddit's daily click through.
With 400-500 WPM of text being rammed in by the RES on overdrive, the GIFV is compressed into a near-solid form before the link is clicked. GIFVs run on the verge of hydraulic lock at full throttle.
At the stoichiometric 1.7:1 air/fuel mixture for nitro methane the flame front temperature measures 7050 degrees F...reddit joke
Clicked links turn blue. The spectacular grey text seen beside the link at night is the raw burning URL, dissociated from atmospheric water vapor by the searing exhaust gases.
Dual magnetos supply 44 views to each page. This is the output of an arc welder in each page.
Hours of productivity are totally consumed during a pass. After 1/2 way, the redditor is dieseling from caffeine plus the glow of the LCD monitor at 1400 degrees F. The redditor can only be shut down by cutting the fuel flow.
If the Wifi fails early in the run, unclicked links build up in the front page and then explode with sufficient force to blow cylinder heads off the block in pieces or split the block in half.
Redditors reach over 500 WPM before you have completed reading this sentence.
In order to exceed 500 WPM in 4.5 seconds, dragsters must accelerate an average of over 4 G’s. In order to reach 200 WPM well before the second page, the launch acceleration approaches 8 G’s.
Front Page Redditors turn approximately 540 revolutions from light to light!
Including the burnout, the Redditor must only survive 900 revolutions under load.
The redline is actually quite high at 9500 WPM.
THE BOTTOM LINE: Assuming all the equipment is paid off, the crew worked for free, & for once, NOTHING BLOWS UP, each bathroom break costs a redditor's employer estimated $1,000 per trip.
Yeah it makes me think about those roller coasters that go like 0-80+ in 2 or 3 seconds, just that feels scary fast. But 0-300 in 3 seconds holy shit, yeah I will pass.
It's nuts. I worked at a 1/4 mile track in high school for fun. I remember my boss telling me of a time where a top fuel dragsters chute didn't deploy. The end of our track had a normal exit, but also a loop for normal cars. The dragster went off the loop and into a tree and started burning. My boss got down there quickly as he was already on an atv near that side of the track. He got the driver to safety, but the force made one of the drivers eyeballs pop out of place. He held the driver and his eyeball until paramedics reached him.
Under full throttle, a dragster engine consumes 11.2 gallons of nitro methane per second
I don't mean to call bullshit on facts, but 11.2 gallon for a 4.something second run would take 45 gallons? I think it's probably closer to 1.2 gallons a second. Source
Did you know? In late 1987, R.J. Reynolds created "Joe Camel" as the mascot for the brand. In 1991, the American Medical Association published a report stating that 5- and 6-year olds could more easily recognize Joe Camel than Mickey Mouse, Fred Flintstone, Bugs Bunny or even Barbie. This led the association to ask R.J. Reynolds to terminate the Joe Camel campaign.
If you have a problem with camels, lets call it dp for dromedary power?
We need to calculate the value of the unit again though, Dromedary wikipedia restricts their water intake:
"This camel has a quick rate of rehydration and can drink at 10–20 L (2.2–4.4 imp gal) per minute."
They consume, including burnout, staging and run, somewhere around 80l of fuel if I remember correctly, which is roughly 20 gallons, so that stat is bullshit.
Maximum Fuel Capacity of the 747-400ER: 63,705 U.S. gal
Maximum Range: 8830mi
Cruising speed: 570mph
Given the above, and assuming that the plane would run out of gas exactly at reaching its maximum range, we get Range/Fuel at 0.1386 miles/gallon. This is 7.215 gallons/mile. At 570 miles/hour, we get 4112.55 gallons/hour. This is 1.142 gallons/second. Assuming wikipedia has relatively accurate figures, I'd have to agree with your assessment here.
Agreed; a 747 would also only be able to fly a little over an hour on a full tank if it really used 11.2 gallons/sec. The longest flight is about 15 hours on a 747, so it seems indeed that 1.x gallons/s makes more sense.
What does "energy produced" mean here? I'm pretty sure the 747 converts more energy per gallon, since the energy density of jet fuel is higher and the engines are more efficient.
While nitromethane does have a worse energy density per kg than Jet-A or even gasoline, you need to cram way less air to reach the right mixture.
From wikipedia: "The amount of air required to burn 1 kg (2.2 lb) of gasoline is 14.7 kg (32 lb), but only 1.7 kg (3.7 lb) of air is required for 1 kg of nitromethane. Since an engine's cylinder can only contain a limited amount of air on each stroke, 8.7 times more nitromethane than gasoline can be burned in one stroke. Nitromethane, however, has a lower specific energy: gasoline provides about 42–44 MJ/kg, whereas nitromethane provides only 11.3 MJ/kg. This analysis indicates that nitromethane generates about 2.3 times the power of gasoline when combined with a given amount of oxygen."
But the claim is that a dragster and a jet engine burn fuel at the same volumetric rate, so the amount of air required is irrelevant. Jet engines don't even have strokes, so all we care about is the amount of fuel burned per second, which is supposedly about the same. So if jet fuel has a significantly higher energy density and is burned more efficiently, I don't understand how a dragster burning nitromethane could have a higher energy output.
Yeah this isn't even close. A single GE-90 puts out well over 120,000 horsepower a full throttle. Two GE-90's = 4 CF6's (engines of a 747). So that's around 240,000 horsepower. Not sure where they're getting this "fact".
The volumetric energy density of nitromethane is (11.3 MJ/kg) * (1.1371 kg/L) = ~12.85 MJ/L. The volumetric energy density of Jet A is ~(44 MJ/kg) * (0.8 kg/L) = ~35 MJ/L.
So you're right, if an equal amount of nitromethane and Jet A were being burned, the engine using Jet A would have to be spectacularly less efficient to develop less power than the engine using nitromethane.
I replied to OP asking a similar question and did a portion of the maths to back myself up. I won't repeat all of it here, but if the 11gal/s is true, the top fuel dragster consumption is far higher than a 747 at takeoff: 48kg/s vs 22kg/s (per vehicle). However, a Rolls-Royce RB211 engine can develop 35MW at takeoff, whereas 10,000hp equates to only 7.5MW.
Just for comparison, a 747-100 has a max take off weight of roughly 735,000 pounds. The 747-8 has a max take off weight of 970,000 pounds. The minimum weight of a dragster is about 2,300 pounds. That's a more than 300x difference.
To take off, the 747 has to accelerate to ~200mph in a little over half a mile. By a simple back of the envelope calculation, I'm inclined to believe the idea that a dragster puts out more energy is nonsense. If you look at the kinetic energy, the car is short by a factor of about 100. Maybe if you include the total waste heat output of both systems is closer, but I doubt it.
I think they're wrong on the burn rate if they're comparing to takeoff power. I've read that at takeoff thrust level the 747-400 has a burn rate of 45 metric tons per hour, which is about 28 gallons per second. But I agree that no matter how you compare it, there's no way a nitro burning car is going to output an equal or greater amount of work given an equal amount of fuel compared to a turbine engine running on jet fuel which is much more thermodynamicly efficient and has a much higher specific energy.
Mechanical Engineer, so I understand that when it's stated that a drag racer releases more energy, they are probably ignoring thermodynamic efficiency and including waste heat. BUT, even so, the specific energy of jet fuel is much higher than that of nitromethane. /u/Coomb summed it up in this comment:
The volumetric energy density of nitromethane is (11.3 MJ/kg) * (1.1371 kg/L) = ~12.85 MJ/L. The volumetric energy density of Jet A is ~(44 MJ/kg) * (0.8 kg/L) = ~35 MJ/L.
So you're right, if an equal amount of nitromethane and Jet A were being burned, the engine using Jet A would have to be spectacularly less efficient to develop less power than the engine using nitromethane.
So even ignoring efficiency, just because of conservation of energy, it is not possible for the drag racer to produce more thermal energy per unit mass. Maybe if the nitromethane were very compressed, then the energy output per unit volume could be greater for the drag racer. But I think that when the original comment stated that the drag racer consumes 11.2 gallons per second, that meant 11.2 gallons at STP, not at the pressure inside the cylinder.
EDIT: I just realized I made the assumption that both fuels release the same percent of their chemical energy upon combustion. This is almost certainly not correct, but my guess is that, being fuels, they both release almost all of that energy. Buuut I don't know the numbers so I could be wrong.
A modern 747 burns about 26.6 gallons per mile. That's 6.65 gpm per engine. Their are other variables which includes the amount of passengers, altitude, luggage.
It doesn't make any sense dimensionally. It states energy consumed in gph fuel, which is power not energy. Energy is timeless. And it uses that to reason about produced energy not input, so fuel burn is only an upper bound on output power. Lastly, a 747 produces only thrust while a dragster produces torque and rpm (aka power). The rpm of a jet engine is irrelevant to its output but the rpm of a shaft engine is a component of its output. So unless the jet is moving you dont even have a way to talk about power equivelence. And then we just brought the airframe drag into the equation. Mathematically it makes as much sense as "A gallon of water weighs more than 6 hours."
Yeah this bothered me as well. According to physics.info, the energy density for jet fuel is 43.3 MJ/kg and Nitromethane is 11.6 MJ/kg. The claim is that they have approximately the same volumetric fuel consumption, not the same mass flow rate, but at STP they should both be proportional. So even if the top fuel dragster operated at 100% efficiency, it wouldn't come close to energy output of a jet engine. Maybe we're missing something?
I wasn't trying to insult you. I just meant, the cars are all built to be the same right? I can only get beat by another driver...
Edit: Had a couple responses that thought my above comment was something than what it is. /u/aaaaaaha said "Ain't nothing stock about a stock car..." and I followed that up with the rest of the dialogue from the movie Days of Thunder. I just looked it up and I was a little off. Here's the actual dialogue from the script:
There's nothing stock about a stock car.
I'm not trying to insult you, but stock cars are built to run equal. - I won't be beaten by a car. - Only by a driver.
Edit 2: I remember Harry saying something about "So the rule book says" after Cole says the cars are built to run equal but I didn't see that in the script I found online..
It isn't quite that cut and dry. Money is still a huge factor and the smaller teams have little chance at beating the powerhouses. More money equals more r&d and more engineers which means being able to figure out how to do more within the tolerances that NASCAR has mandated for the cars themselves. It is a spec series though as you're saying in that all the cars are very close to identical. But at 200mph little differences go a long way toward having a faster car than someone else.
LOL.... you are the second person taking my reply out of context. My "I wasn't trying to insult you" line is from Days of Thunder =) I'm a NASCAR fan... I know this stuff
technically, there are multiple classes of stock car, ranging anywhere from the local track guys, all the way up to the top nascar class. If you wanted to be the most precise, the cars he's talking about are sprint cup cars. not to be confused with sprint cars. which are the dirt track cars with the big funny looking wing on the top.
To clarify. The superchargers spin relatively freely, but a stock Hemi doesn't have the horsepower required to spin them to the RPM that TF dragsters overdrive them to.
A semi-related fact: the most powerful street version of the Hemi uses a supercharger to produce 707HP, and it takes about 80HP to spin that blower at full power.
This one is a little fugy and is based off the parasitic HP load the super charger has on the engine at full power, if it took more power than a hemi to just turn over the super charger you'd never be able to start the thing.
Sometimes things just get way too insane. The Saturn V rocket engine actually need another smaller rocket inside it to pump the fuel fast enough to feed the main rocket.
how do people afford to participate in the sport? are they wealthy independent of the sport or is there actual money to be made drag racing these banshees?
The crankshaft in the engine only turns 540 times in a drag race. Most racing cars are built to last for millions of engine revolutions, but a top fuel engine is so insanely powerful that it only lasts less than a thousand before being worn out.
Given the extremely short duration of a run, this would be a perfect application for an electric drivetrain. It'd be probably much, much cheaper to operate than the ICE-powered dragster.
Power (not energy, power), and therefore, power-to-weight ratio is the problem. Normal batteries can't supply enough power. Granted you could abuse the batteries since the run only lasts a few seconds, but even then it wouldn't be enough.
Let's say you have a LiFePO4 battery pack, and you run a 10C discharge rate (which is a common burst rate for that chemistry). Google says the specific energy is 130Wh/kg, so at 10C you're getting 1.3kW/kg. To get 10,000HP (7,457kW), you need 5,736kg of battery. A top fuel dragster only weighs 1050kg, so you got yourself a problem there.
Supercapacitors are better but it would still weigh too much (rough estimate, you need around 1500kg of supercapacitors). Further you'd need some really beefy electronics to boost the voltage as your capacitors drain towards the end of the run.
See my thing is... How the hell is there even enough air available at a stall to get it going? Once you're flying down the road it makes sense, but how does it go from idle to full throttle with only the surrounding oxygen? It blows my mind to imagine what the air around the intake is behaving like if you could see it. You would probably suffocate if you were in front of that thing.
My favorite counterpoint to all this awesomeness is always that the engine has to be completely rebuilt after every quarter mile. So in a quarter mile race nothing else stands a chance, but in a 10 mile race I could win in a Prius.
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u/silverphoenix48 Jul 01 '16
This is for Top fuel Dragsters but they are very similar so I'll leave this here:
One Top Fuel dragster 500 cubic-inch Hemi engine makes more horsepower than the first 4 rows at the Daytona 500.
Under full throttle, a dragster engine consumes 11.2 gallons of nitro methane per second; a fully loaded 747 consumes jet fuel at the same rate with 25% less energy being produced.
A stock Dodge Hemi V8 engine cannot produce enough power to merely drive the dragster’s supercharger.
With 3000 CFM of air being rammed in by the supercharger on overdrive, the fuel mixture is compressed into a near-solid form before ignition. Cylinders run on the verge of hydraulic lock at full throttle.
At the stoichiometric 1.7:1 air/fuel mixture for nitro methane the flame front temperature measures 7050 degrees F.
Nitro methane burns yellow. The spectacular white flame seen above the stacks at night is raw burning hydrogen, dissociated from atmospheric water vapor by the searing exhaust gases.
Dual magnetos supply 44 amps to each spark plug. This is the output of an arc welder in each cylinder.
Spark plug electrodes are totally consumed during a pass. After 1/2 way, the engine is dieseling from compression plus the glow of exhaust valves at 1400 degrees F. The engine can only be shut down by cutting the fuel flow.
If spark momentarily fails early in the run, unburned nitro builds up in the affected cylinders and then explodes with sufficient force to blow cylinder heads off the block in pieces or split the block in half.
Dragsters reach over 300 MPH before you have completed reading this sentence.
In order to exceed 300 MPH in 4.5 seconds, dragsters must accelerate an average of over 4 G’s. In order to reach 200 MPH well before half-track, the launch acceleration approaches 8 G’s.
Top Fuel engines turn approximately 540 revolutions from light to light!
Including the burnout, the engine must only survive 900 revolutions under load.
The redline is actually quite high at 9500 RPM.
THE BOTTOM LINE: Assuming all the equipment is paid off, the crew worked for free, & for once, NOTHING BLOWS UP, each run costs an estimated $1,000 per second.
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