Peetot Pants - Help you go faster!
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Yes, this site wants
to sell you something! But I prefer to make my point (and selling argument)
with the following short story, which, I am sure, every glider pilot has
experienced one way or the other. So, to make a long story short, the following
one is about the urge to relieve yourself while flying in a glider.
Unavoidable. But I came up with a product which makes the procedure easy and
uncomplicated (and thus safe!), and also looks fashionable.
So, you do not need to read the story - you can go straight to the product page, where you find more photos and descriptions, and where you can order a pair or two of my Peetot Pants. In case you read on, I hope my experiences with nature's call will make you think about getting into those Peetot Pants - Fashion to go with!
Watching My P's and Cu's
There are times when sitting in the cockpit of the glider, that I wish I had decided to take up bowling instead of flying. Right now is one of those times, and should the Devil suddenly appear on the instrument panel wanting to cut a deal, I'd be mighty tempted to take him up on it. My recent obsession with trying to set altitude records has me flying in ever more difficult situations. Right now, I am unsure if I can safely make it back to the airport.
The wind at 6,000 feet is
blowing hard. Facing into the wind, I must hold an airspeed of 55 miles per
hour to maintain a ground speed of zero. Flying slower and the airport moves
farther away, speed up and I creep forward. The altitude loss of moving forward
so slowly, ultimately takes me no closer to a safe landing. I must find lift
and climb so altitude loss overcomes painfully slow forward progress. Producing
a bit more angst, is the fact I have a limited time frame for returning to the
runway; I have started late and only have an hour of daylight left to find my
solution.
Things could be worse. I am sitting stationary over the ground and in zero sink. In theory, as long as the wind blows, I can remain here forever if I have to. I would rather climb, return to the airport and trade my pilot's license for a pair of bowling shoes, a bad handicap, and a sixteen pound false marble patterned ball of polyurethane. I sit patiently dreaming of strikes, mowing down 7 - 10 splits, and finding the groove in every lane at the Bowl-R-Ama.
My patience is beginning to pay off. The vario needle moves up ever so slightly, and I am climbing at twenty five feet per minute. In the hour of daylight I have left it is possible to gain 1,200 feet and make it home. Soon twenty five feet turns to fifty, then seventy five, then one hundred feet per minute climb. After gaining several hundred feet I have the luxury of searching for stronger, up rising air. Crabbing to the north I encounter four knots of lift; the flight has now become fun and multi colored shoes and urethane balls are losing their attraction.
Prior to climbing into the cockpit, I dressed to ensure a warm flight. Long underwear, jeans, pile vest, down jacket, insulated leather boots, and a rag wool hat completes my attire. I had planned on being hot down low so I made sure to establish proper hydration. With delays caused by other aircraft and ground personnel, I drank two quarts of water during my wait. Passing through 8,500 feet in 3 knots of lift I am suddenly conscious of a sudden and overpowering need to relieve myself of some of that liquid. In anticipation of such an event, I have stowed the proper gear for inflight nature calls in the map pocket on the left side of the cockpit. I grab a handy zip-lock bag filled with a section of disposable diaper, to contain the liquid, and unzip the fly of my faded and torn 501s.
Sound Familiar? The Inspiration.
The reclined seat of the sailplane has caused me to slump down to the front of the cushion. I moved but my pants did not. The result being the bottom of the zipper is now above the anatomy I wish to use to direct the flow into the zip-lock bag. Blessed with the Irish Curse, I am unable to make a bend of large radius and aim in the direction of my toes. I have also relaxed the floodgates in anticipation of my gallon sized target. Liquid is on the move, and only by using my thumb and first finger to clamp down hard do I postpone the inevitable. In an emergency situation, my flight instructor always told me, "the first thing you do is fly the plane, fly the plane, fly the plane." I remind myself of his wisdom and use my free hand to reset the trim, increasing my speed to 65 giving myself a ground speed of zero, and the hope of buying time to fix my dilemma. To keep proper alignment with the wind, I use the yaw string as a gunsight keeping the mountain in front of me and on the horizon. The sailplane is stable, and by tapping rudder peddles I am able to keep the ship going straight while keeping both of my hands free for other tasks.
 The Solution - Peetot Pants |
With my available hand, I loosen each of the four straps of the safety harness and begin pulling down my pants. I raise one cheek by pushing on the rudder peddle and tug at the leg of my jeans gaining a bit over a quarter inch of pull down. Gunsight the mountain, straighten the aircraft and repeat. By alternating sides, I am able to reposition the zipper and alleviate the awkward alignment, and accommodate my shortcoming. To insure a completely empty bladder and spill free event, I drop my pants far enough to allow my thighs to act as supports for the bag. The thumb clamp has held back premature flow, but also created a slight tumescence requiring placement of the bag on my lower stomach. I say a quick prayer to the Pampers creator, hoping his design will fight gravity enough so my now inverted bag cannot leak. The Pamper holds and with one daring flip, I reposition the bag back between my thighs. |
Having the opportunity to scan my instruments, I discover I have climbed 1,800 feet since beginning my ordeal with the zip-lock bag. Realizing I am entering the cruising altitudes of commuter aircraft, I take one quick look around the sky in order to see and avoid any air traffic. The scan to the south shows all sky clear, I look to the mountain and tap the proper peddle resetting my course, and turn to scan the northern section of my flight area. My eye catches the flash of a strobe. I concentrate my focus on the area of the flash, and I see it again and it appears a bit brighter. A red light to the right of the flash and a green light to the left tells me the flash is the anti-collision strobe of an oncoming aircraft. I am on a midair collision course with another aircraft and must decide what type of accident I want.
If I hit another aircraft, the sailplane will spin out of control as a broken heap of mangled aluminum and fall to the earth like a crumpled ball of foil tossed towards the garbage bin. At the crash site, NTSB investigators will find me with my pants pulled down below my rear end, a urinary pressure induced chubby, and my hands most likely stuck into my pants. The report given to the local newspaper will ornately tell the public about the pleasure flight I was involved in, possibly ruining my eyesight, and that I was responsible for the crash.
|
I have not wet my pants in fifteen years and have no desire to do so now. Having spent many nights driving home after spending an unfulfilling evening with the voluptuous Jill Ann Bernard, I have experience with one hand in my lap and the other on the wheel trying to steer. Skills I learned in high school are instantly recalled. I grip the bag between the pinkie finger and palm of my right hand, a modified pinch grip with the remaining digits steadies my aim, and I grab the control stick of the sailplane with my freed up left and quickly pull back, raising the nose of the aircraft. My handiwork avoids a midair, and I watch the pilot of the Beech 9000 commuter plane adjust his tie and push up his glasses as I zoom over his head. The turbulence of the close call rocks the sailplane and manual dexterity keeps my fifteen year record intact. |
 Peetot Pants allow easy access |
My preoccupation with bodily function has kept me from looking at the flight instruments. During the time I was not directly flying the sailplane, I have attained an altitude of 14,400 feet, a new personal record. At precisely 4:00 PM I pull open the dive brakes and begin descending at 1,000 feet per minute.
I enter the pattern at the IP and turn downwind to cross the runway. The wind is blowing harder than my mother-in-law after a few Gin and Tonics. I have an airspeed of eighty and a perceived ground speed of over one hundred. Turning towards the runway the sailplane tracks sideways as I watch the ground apparently get sucked into one wingtip and blown out the other. Screw procedure. I'm headed right in and if I roll the aircraft into a ball, the recovery of my body will be greatly simplified.
Ten feet above the tarmac a gust of wind lifts the right wing. Full control deflection is needed to bring it back to the level I need for landing. With all of the commotion of the flight, I have forgotten to lower the landing wheel. By dumb luck I throw the gear lever forward; the wheel locks into the down position just as the tire makes contact with the runway. Every time needed a bit of luck to go my way on this flight, it did. Is it asking too much for the same luck o' the Irish, when I need it to make the dreaded 7 - 10 split?
Kevin Brooker
March 26, 2004
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avoid situations like the one you just read. The pants are functional, and have
more uses than just the one...
See for yourself and
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