Acceleration....
13 March 2005, 05:54 PM
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Acceleration....
http://www.channel4.com/4car/feature...ed-freaks.html
"Every time Sammy drove it, his nose and ears bled".
"Every time Sammy drove it, his nose and ears bled".
13 March 2005, 06:05 PM
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Colonel Dr John Paul Stapp was a research officer at Edwards Air Force Base in California. During the 1950s he investigated the effects of acceleration and deceleration on the human body. His human body. He built a rocket powered sled and rode it 29 times during which he suffered, among many less serious injuries, concussion, retinal detachments, a hernia, several broken ribs and two broken wrists.
You'd need a decent book to do justice to Stapp so I'll give you just the last of those 29 rides. In 1954, at the age of 43, he and his sled accelerated from rest to 632mph in five seconds. But the test wasn't to see how fast the sled could go; it was to see how fast it could stop. From faster than the top speed of a Boeing 747, he came to rest in 1.4sec. During that time, Stapp decelerated at 45g. When he came round, he found he was blinded on account of his eyeballs becoming temporarily fused to their lids. It would be nearly 30 years before anyone travelled faster across the face of the planet. Incredibly, this and his previous 28 trips on the sled did no long-term damage. Stapp died peacefully at home five years ago, aged 89.
Andy
You'd need a decent book to do justice to Stapp so I'll give you just the last of those 29 rides. In 1954, at the age of 43, he and his sled accelerated from rest to 632mph in five seconds. But the test wasn't to see how fast the sled could go; it was to see how fast it could stop. From faster than the top speed of a Boeing 747, he came to rest in 1.4sec. During that time, Stapp decelerated at 45g. When he came round, he found he was blinded on account of his eyeballs becoming temporarily fused to their lids. It would be nearly 30 years before anyone travelled faster across the face of the planet. Incredibly, this and his previous 28 trips on the sled did no long-term damage. Stapp died peacefully at home five years ago, aged 89.
Andy
13 March 2005, 07:33 PM
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Originally Posted by brickboy
Bloody hell! What was stopping the sled, I wonder?
I reckon a Scoob would have it in the twisties, however
I reckon a Scoob would have it in the twisties, however
13 March 2005, 08:07 PM
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Fuzz,
This may interest you.
Not to do with acceleration but high speeds, without ANY vehicle.
Stapp recruited Joseph Kittinger for Project Man High, a project begun in 1955 that would use balloons capable of high-altitude flight and a pressurized gondola (the basket or capsule suspended from the balloon) to study cosmic rays and to determine if humans were physically and psychologically capable of extended travel at space-like altitude (above 99 percent of the Earth's atmosphere).
In 1958, Kittinger moved to the Escape Section of the Aeromedical Laboratory at Wright Air Development Center's Aero Medical Laboratory. There, he joined Project Excelsior, which investigated the use of a parachute for escape from a space capsule or high-altitude aircraft. At the time no one knew whether humans could survive a jump from the edge of space.
On November 16, 1959, Kittinger piloted Excelsior I to 76,000 feet (23,165 meters) and returned to Earth by jumping, free falling, and parachuting to the desert floor in New Mexico. The jump almost cost him his life. His small parachute, which served to stabilize him and prevent him from going into a fatal "flat spin," opened after only two seconds of free fall instead of 16, catching Kittinger around the neck and causing him to spiral uncontrollably. Soon he lost consciousness, as he tumbled toward Earth at 120 revolutions per minute. Only his emergency parachute, which opened automatically at 10,000 feet (3,048 meters), slowed his descent and saved his life.
In spite of his close call, he continued with the project and the flight of Excelsior II, which took place on December 11, 1959. This balloon climbed to 74,700 feet (22,769 meters) before Kittinger jumped from his gondola, setting a free-fall record of 55,000 feet (16,764 meters) before pulling his parachute ripcord.
The next year, Kittinger set two more records, which he still holds. On August 16, 1960, Kittinger floated to 102,800 feet (31,333 meters) in Excelsior III, an open gondola. Protected against the subzero temperatures by layers of clothes and a pressure suit--he experienced air temperatures as low as minus 94 degrees Fahrenheit (minus 70 degrees Celsius)--and loaded down with gear that almost doubled his weight, he climbed to his maximum altitude in one hour and 31 minutes even though at 43,000 feet (13,106 meters) he began experiencing severe pain in his right hand caused by a failure in his pressure glove and could have scrubbed the mission. He remained at peak altitude for about 12 minutes; then he stepped out of his gondola into the darkness of space. After falling for 13 seconds, his six-foot (1.8-meter) canopy parachute opened and stabilized his fall, preventing the flat spin that could have killed him. Only four minutes and 36 seconds more were needed to bring him down to about 17,500 feet (5,334 meters) where his regular 28-foot (8.5-meter) parachute opened, allowing him to float the rest of the way to Earth. His descent set another record for the longest parachute freefall.
During his descent, he reached speeds up to 614 miles per hour, approaching the speed of sound without the protection of an aircraft or space vehicle. But, he said, he "had absolutely no sense of the speed." His flight and parachute jump demonstrated that, properly protected, it was possible to put a person into near-space and that airmen could exit their aircraft at extremely high altitudes and free fall back into the Earth's atmosphere without dangerous consequences.
Stapp and Joseph Kittinger were incredibly brave men.
Cheers
MTR
This may interest you.
Not to do with acceleration but high speeds, without ANY vehicle.
Stapp recruited Joseph Kittinger for Project Man High, a project begun in 1955 that would use balloons capable of high-altitude flight and a pressurized gondola (the basket or capsule suspended from the balloon) to study cosmic rays and to determine if humans were physically and psychologically capable of extended travel at space-like altitude (above 99 percent of the Earth's atmosphere).
In 1958, Kittinger moved to the Escape Section of the Aeromedical Laboratory at Wright Air Development Center's Aero Medical Laboratory. There, he joined Project Excelsior, which investigated the use of a parachute for escape from a space capsule or high-altitude aircraft. At the time no one knew whether humans could survive a jump from the edge of space.
On November 16, 1959, Kittinger piloted Excelsior I to 76,000 feet (23,165 meters) and returned to Earth by jumping, free falling, and parachuting to the desert floor in New Mexico. The jump almost cost him his life. His small parachute, which served to stabilize him and prevent him from going into a fatal "flat spin," opened after only two seconds of free fall instead of 16, catching Kittinger around the neck and causing him to spiral uncontrollably. Soon he lost consciousness, as he tumbled toward Earth at 120 revolutions per minute. Only his emergency parachute, which opened automatically at 10,000 feet (3,048 meters), slowed his descent and saved his life.
In spite of his close call, he continued with the project and the flight of Excelsior II, which took place on December 11, 1959. This balloon climbed to 74,700 feet (22,769 meters) before Kittinger jumped from his gondola, setting a free-fall record of 55,000 feet (16,764 meters) before pulling his parachute ripcord.
The next year, Kittinger set two more records, which he still holds. On August 16, 1960, Kittinger floated to 102,800 feet (31,333 meters) in Excelsior III, an open gondola. Protected against the subzero temperatures by layers of clothes and a pressure suit--he experienced air temperatures as low as minus 94 degrees Fahrenheit (minus 70 degrees Celsius)--and loaded down with gear that almost doubled his weight, he climbed to his maximum altitude in one hour and 31 minutes even though at 43,000 feet (13,106 meters) he began experiencing severe pain in his right hand caused by a failure in his pressure glove and could have scrubbed the mission. He remained at peak altitude for about 12 minutes; then he stepped out of his gondola into the darkness of space. After falling for 13 seconds, his six-foot (1.8-meter) canopy parachute opened and stabilized his fall, preventing the flat spin that could have killed him. Only four minutes and 36 seconds more were needed to bring him down to about 17,500 feet (5,334 meters) where his regular 28-foot (8.5-meter) parachute opened, allowing him to float the rest of the way to Earth. His descent set another record for the longest parachute freefall.
During his descent, he reached speeds up to 614 miles per hour, approaching the speed of sound without the protection of an aircraft or space vehicle. But, he said, he "had absolutely no sense of the speed." His flight and parachute jump demonstrated that, properly protected, it was possible to put a person into near-space and that airmen could exit their aircraft at extremely high altitudes and free fall back into the Earth's atmosphere without dangerous consequences.
Stapp and Joseph Kittinger were incredibly brave men.
Cheers
MTR
Last edited by MTR; 13 March 2005 at 08:26 PM.
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14 March 2005, 10:11 PM
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Originally Posted by Fuzz
Colonel Dr John Paul Stapp was a research officer at Edwards Air Force Base in California. During the 1950s he investigated the effects of acceleration and deceleration on the human body. His human body. He built a rocket powered sled and rode it 29 times during which he suffered, among many less serious injuries, concussion, retinal detachments, a hernia, several broken ribs and two broken wrists.
You'd need a decent book to do justice to Stapp so I'll give you just the last of those 29 rides. In 1954, at the age of 43, he and his sled accelerated from rest to 632mph in five seconds. But the test wasn't to see how fast the sled could go; it was to see how fast it could stop. From faster than the top speed of a Boeing 747, he came to rest in 1.4sec. During that time, Stapp decelerated at 45g. When he came round, he found he was blinded on account of his eyeballs becoming temporarily fused to their lids. It would be nearly 30 years before anyone travelled faster across the face of the planet. Incredibly, this and his previous 28 trips on the sled did no long-term damage. Stapp died peacefully at home five years ago, aged 89.
Andy
You'd need a decent book to do justice to Stapp so I'll give you just the last of those 29 rides. In 1954, at the age of 43, he and his sled accelerated from rest to 632mph in five seconds. But the test wasn't to see how fast the sled could go; it was to see how fast it could stop. From faster than the top speed of a Boeing 747, he came to rest in 1.4sec. During that time, Stapp decelerated at 45g. When he came round, he found he was blinded on account of his eyeballs becoming temporarily fused to their lids. It would be nearly 30 years before anyone travelled faster across the face of the planet. Incredibly, this and his previous 28 trips on the sled did no long-term damage. Stapp died peacefully at home five years ago, aged 89.
Andy
NS04
14 March 2005, 10:19 PM
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Oscar Eightball was sent down the track at 150 mph wearing only a light safety belt. At the end of the run the brakes locked up, instantly producing 30 Gs. The belt neatly parted and Oscar, in meek obedience to Newton's Second Law of Motion, sallied forth. He went right through an inch thick wooden windscreen as if it were paper, left his rubber face behind, and finally came to a halt 710 feet downrange.
Andy
Andy
14 March 2005, 10:38 PM
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**** me it gets better ! (worse)
At X-minus ten on December 10, 1954, George Nichols helped fit a rubber bite block, equipped with an accelerometer, into John Stapp's mouth. Then with a final pat for good luck, he headed down to the far end of the track. As X-minus two approached, the last two Northrop crew members left the sled and hustled into a nearby blockhouse. Sitting alone atop the Sonic Wind, Stapp looked like a pathetic figure. A siren wailed eerily, adding to the tension, and two red flares lofted skywards. Overhead, pilot Joe Kittinger, approaching in a T-33, pushed his throttle wide open in anticipation of the launch. With five seconds to go Stapp yanked a lanyard activating the sled's movie cameras, and hunkered down for the inevitable shock. The Sonic Wind's nine rockets detonated with a terrific roar, spewing 35-foot long trails of fire and hurtling Stapp down the track. "He was going like a bullet," Kittinger remembers. "He went by me like I was standing still, and I was going 350 mph." Just seconds into the run the sled had reached its peak velocity of 632 miles per hour — actually faster than a bullet — subjecting Stapp to 20 Gs of force and battering him with wind pressures near two tons. "I thought," continues Kittinger, "that sled is going so damn fast the first bounce is going to be Albuquerque. I mean, there was no way on God's earth that sled could stop at the end of the track. No way." But then, just as the sound of the rockets' initial firing reached the ears of far off observers, the Wind hit the water brake. The rear of the sled, its rockets expended, tore away. The front section continued downrange for several hundred feet, hardly slowing at all until it hit the second water brake.
Then, a torrent of spray a hundred feet across exploded out the back of the Sonic Wind. It stopped like it had hit a concrete wall. To Kittinger, flying above and behind, it appeared absolutely devastating. "He stopped in a fraction of a second," Kittinger says, the shock of the moment echoing in his voice. "It was absolutely inconceivable that anybody could go that fast and then just stop, and survive."
Down below, George Nichols and the ground crew raced to the scene, followed by an ambulance. An agitated Nichols vaulted onto the sled, and much to his relief, saw that Stapp was alive. He even managed what looked like a smile, despite being in great pain. Once again, he'd beat the odds. He'd live to see another day.
But could he see? George Nichols wasn't sure, and what he vividly remembers from that day, fifty years later, were John Stapp's eyes. He had suffered a complete red out. "When I got up to the sled I saw his eyes... Just horrible," recalls Nichols, his voice cracking with emotion. "His eyes …were completely filled with blood." When the Sonic Wind had hit the water brake, it had produced 46.2 Gs of force. And for an astonishing 1.1 seconds, Stapp'd endured 25 Gs. It was the equivalent of a Mach 1.6 ejection at 40,000 feet, a jolt in excess of that experienced by a driver who crashes into a red brick wall at over 120 miles per hour. Only it had lasted perhaps nine times longer. And it had burst nearly every capillary in Stapp's eyeballs.
As George Nichols and some flight surgeons helped Stapp into a waiting stretcher, Stapp worried aloud that he'd pushed his luck too far. "This time," he remarked, "I get the white cane and the seeing eye dog." But when surgeons at the hospital examined him, they discovered that Stapp's retinas had not detached. And within minutes, he could make out some "blue specks" and a short time later he could discern one of the surgeons' fingers. By the next day, his vision had returned more or less to normal.
Andy
At X-minus ten on December 10, 1954, George Nichols helped fit a rubber bite block, equipped with an accelerometer, into John Stapp's mouth. Then with a final pat for good luck, he headed down to the far end of the track. As X-minus two approached, the last two Northrop crew members left the sled and hustled into a nearby blockhouse. Sitting alone atop the Sonic Wind, Stapp looked like a pathetic figure. A siren wailed eerily, adding to the tension, and two red flares lofted skywards. Overhead, pilot Joe Kittinger, approaching in a T-33, pushed his throttle wide open in anticipation of the launch. With five seconds to go Stapp yanked a lanyard activating the sled's movie cameras, and hunkered down for the inevitable shock. The Sonic Wind's nine rockets detonated with a terrific roar, spewing 35-foot long trails of fire and hurtling Stapp down the track. "He was going like a bullet," Kittinger remembers. "He went by me like I was standing still, and I was going 350 mph." Just seconds into the run the sled had reached its peak velocity of 632 miles per hour — actually faster than a bullet — subjecting Stapp to 20 Gs of force and battering him with wind pressures near two tons. "I thought," continues Kittinger, "that sled is going so damn fast the first bounce is going to be Albuquerque. I mean, there was no way on God's earth that sled could stop at the end of the track. No way." But then, just as the sound of the rockets' initial firing reached the ears of far off observers, the Wind hit the water brake. The rear of the sled, its rockets expended, tore away. The front section continued downrange for several hundred feet, hardly slowing at all until it hit the second water brake.
Then, a torrent of spray a hundred feet across exploded out the back of the Sonic Wind. It stopped like it had hit a concrete wall. To Kittinger, flying above and behind, it appeared absolutely devastating. "He stopped in a fraction of a second," Kittinger says, the shock of the moment echoing in his voice. "It was absolutely inconceivable that anybody could go that fast and then just stop, and survive."
Down below, George Nichols and the ground crew raced to the scene, followed by an ambulance. An agitated Nichols vaulted onto the sled, and much to his relief, saw that Stapp was alive. He even managed what looked like a smile, despite being in great pain. Once again, he'd beat the odds. He'd live to see another day.
But could he see? George Nichols wasn't sure, and what he vividly remembers from that day, fifty years later, were John Stapp's eyes. He had suffered a complete red out. "When I got up to the sled I saw his eyes... Just horrible," recalls Nichols, his voice cracking with emotion. "His eyes …were completely filled with blood." When the Sonic Wind had hit the water brake, it had produced 46.2 Gs of force. And for an astonishing 1.1 seconds, Stapp'd endured 25 Gs. It was the equivalent of a Mach 1.6 ejection at 40,000 feet, a jolt in excess of that experienced by a driver who crashes into a red brick wall at over 120 miles per hour. Only it had lasted perhaps nine times longer. And it had burst nearly every capillary in Stapp's eyeballs.
As George Nichols and some flight surgeons helped Stapp into a waiting stretcher, Stapp worried aloud that he'd pushed his luck too far. "This time," he remarked, "I get the white cane and the seeing eye dog." But when surgeons at the hospital examined him, they discovered that Stapp's retinas had not detached. And within minutes, he could make out some "blue specks" and a short time later he could discern one of the surgeons' fingers. By the next day, his vision had returned more or less to normal.
Andy
16 March 2005, 12:39 PM
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Originally Posted by Fuzz
Down below, George Nichols and the ground crew raced to the scene, followed by an ambulance. An agitated Nichols vaulted onto the sled, and much to his relief, saw that Stapp was alive. He even managed what looked like a smile, despite being in great pain. Once again, he'd beat the odds. He'd live to see another day.
Andy
Andy
