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The Roadster was still driving on a surface when it was upside down. Its tires had something to push against. Then it le...
10/16/2026

The Roadster was still driving on a surface when it was upside down. Its tires had something to push against. Then it left the ramp, and that surface was gone.

Tesla's demonstration on 15 October 2026 crossed that line in a single night, and the two feats are solved by two completely different systems.

The first one is older than most of the people watching. Pictured with the Roadster is the Chaparral 2J, a 1970 Can-Am racer with two big fans on its back. A second engine drove those fans. They pulled air out from under the car while skirts around the bottom kept it from leaking back in.

The pressure difference pressed the car toward the track: more load on the tires, more grip. And because the fans made their own airflow, it worked at low speed too, where a normal wing has almost nothing to work with. It loaded the tires without adding an equivalent amount of mass for the motors to accelerate.

In April 2025, McMurtry showed how far that idea can go. Co-founder Thomas Yates drove the Spéirling onto a rotating rig. The rig turned the car upside down, and he drove forward, held to the surface by powered suction.

Tesla describes the same broad principle for the Roadster's fan and ground-sealing system, and its 2025 patent, Adaptive vehicle aerodynamics for downforce, is about the hard part: keeping the seal. Bumps and suspension movement open gaps underneath and let air in. The patent proposes adjusting the skirts and fans using ground-clearance and vehicle-motion data. McMurtry's earlier downforce patent appears among its examiner citations. These are proposals on paper, not a confirmed list of what the demonstration car carried.

Then comes the second feat. Off the ramp, there is no surface and no seal. The Roadster's cold-gas jets take over: gas expelled without combustion, pushing the car the opposite way, with jets positioned around the body able to rotate it as well.

Every firing spends propellant, so the battery gauge says nothing about how much airborne control is left. Tesla assigns this setup to the single-seat Rocket version, which it says is not approved for public road use.

Suction makes a surface work harder. Reaction thrust works when the surface is gone. Two problems, two answers, one very strange car.

This story is on its way into Shannon, our engineering-history archive, where it will be kept with its sources and connected to the earlier machines behind it. Explore the archive linked in our bio.

Hero: Tesla's current Roadster promotional image. Courtesy of Tesla, Inc. Inset: The Chaparral 2J, photographed in 2005 by Craig Howell, CC BY 2.0.

The Gateway Arch was one section short of a continuous curve. One section still had to fit between its two ends, 630 fee...
10/15/2026

The Gateway Arch was one section short of a continuous curve. One section still had to fit between its two ends, 630 feet above St. Louis.
The shape on the drawings was fixed. The steel waiting for that section moved with the weather.

Architect Eero Saarinen had designed the monument, and Fred Severud's firm worked out its structure. Crews built upward from both foundations, welding triangular steel sections together as cranes climbed the legs.

The stainless steel on the outside helps carry the loads. It works with an inner carbon-steel wall, with concrete between the skins in the lower parts of the legs. There is no skeleton hidden inside it. The walls themselves hold the whole monument up.

Before the top was joined, each leg acted as a cantilever, supported from its base with its upper end projecting into the gap. A temporary steel brace linked the legs high above the ground to keep their movement under control as construction continued.

Surveyors checked the growing structure at night, when the two legs were closer to the same temperature.

Daylight introduced another change. The sun heated the south leg more directly than the north. Uneven heating changed the leg's shape, shifting its unfinished end relative to the other side.

The contractors had weighed making the final connection at night, in the cool. The completion was arranged as a public daytime ceremony, so the team prepared to manage that temperature difference.

On 28 October 1965, the operation began in the morning. The local fire department sprayed cold water onto the south leg to help keep the steel cool.

Meanwhile, hydraulic jacks pushed the two ends apart to open room for the last section.

The jacks and the water had different jobs. Jacking created the installation gap. Cooling limited the extra movement caused by one leg warming more than the other while the crew worked.

None of it was guesswork. They were working with a structure whose movement they had measured and planned for.

As the final section was lowered into place, the crew aligned the adjoining ends, then eased the jacking force so the gap closed against the new steel.

With the top connected and the permanent joints completed, the two legs could work together as an arch. The temporary brace and climbing cranes could later come down.

The final fit depended on more than the dimensions of the last section. It also depended on controlling the position and temperature of the monument it was joining.

Hero, NPS/Jennifer Clark, the completed Gateway Arch. Inset, NPS/JNEM Archives, an earlier construction stage in 1965. Both public domain in the US.

NASA spent six years flying this fighter into thunderstorms on purpose.Between 1980 and 1986, the F-106B made 1,496 pass...
10/15/2026

NASA spent six years flying this fighter into thunderstorms on purpose.

Between 1980 and 1986, the F-106B made 1,496 passes through thunderstorms and received 714 direct lightning strikes. NASA engineer Bruce Fisher was aboard for 216 of them, working from the rear seat.

The aircraft was collecting measurements for a generation of planes that would depend more heavily on digital controls and composites, materials such as carbon-fiber-reinforced plastics.

An aluminum airframe can carry much of a lightning strike's current around the people inside. Yet current flowing through the structure, and the changing magnetic field around it, can induce voltage spikes in internal wiring. Those spikes can disrupt or damage electronics. Less conductive composite skins bring their own protection problems.

Engineers needed to know what their protection had to cope with. Much of the existing lightning data came from cloud-to-ground strikes measured from the ground. NASA wanted measurements from an aircraft flying inside a storm.

Langley Research Center's team, with Lightning Technologies, added shielding around electrical systems, devices to limit voltage surges, and improvements to fuel-system protection. Before each thunderstorm season, ground tests checked the protection with the crew aboard and the systems running.

Sensors recorded the electrical effects of strikes. Cameras watched where lightning attached, while ground radar helped researchers trace the flashes through the storm.

That combination exposed something a burn mark alone could not show. Often, the lightning began at the aircraft.

A thundercloud's separated electric charges create an electric field. A metal aircraft distorts that field, concentrating it around pointed parts such as its nose and wingtips. If the local field becomes strong enough, nearby air starts conducting electricity. Lightning channels can grow outward from the aircraft.

The storm supplies the energy. The jet can help start the discharge through itself.

Radar observations and the onboard measurements showed that most of the F-106's strikes were triggered this way. Some were encounters with lightning that had already begun.

The recordings also showed why engineers needed more than a peak-current figure. A flash could contain bursts of short, rapid pulses. Their timing and repetition mattered to the computers and wiring being protected.

Those measurements helped update lightning test standards for aircraft electronics. The fighter had carried the instruments into the electrical conditions engineers needed to reproduce on the ground.

The jet could help start a flash, then record the electrical effects that aircraft designers needed to protect against. That was the engineering purpose of sending people and instruments into the storm.

Photos, NASA. Hero, NASA 816 with lightning attachment locations marked, 1982. Inset, Bruce Fisher in the rear seat during a lightning strike.

James Watt once wrapped a piston in old hats to stop it leaking.Not a hat he wore. Cork, oiled rags, tow, old hats, pape...
10/15/2026

James Watt once wrapped a piston in old hats to stop it leaking.

Not a hat he wore. Cork, oiled rags, tow, old hats, paper: he packed them all around the piston, the disc that slides inside the engine's cylinder, and steam still slipped past. The cylinder itself was the problem.

On one of his early engines, 18 inches across, the bore was out of round by three-eighths of an inch at the worst place. When John Smeaton saw the engine, he said neither the tools nor the workmen existed who could build such a complex machine precisely enough.

Here is why it mattered. The engines of Watt's day pumped water out of mines. Steam filled the cylinder, cold water condensed it, the pressure dropped, and the air's weight pushed the piston down. Then the next charge of steam had to heat the whole cold cylinder again. Coal burned just to reheat iron, every stroke.

Watt's idea was to condense the steam in a separate chamber, so the cylinder stayed hot. He patented it in 1769. The reheating waste was gone.

But the older engines had a shortcut Watt could not use. Their pistons fitted loosely, and a layer of water sat on top of the piston, filling the gap between piston and wall so steam could not sneak past.

Watt's cylinder had to stay as hot as the steam itself. A pool of water on the piston would have chilled it on every stroke. So his piston had to seal on its own, packing pressed against the wall, and packing can forgive a wobble. It cannot forgive three-eighths of an inch.

The best boring machine of the day, Smeaton's, shown in the inset, rolled the cylinder on a cart into a cutter hung off the end of a bar, held at one end only. The bar flexed as it cut, and the cut wandered with it.

John Wilkinson bored cannon for a living, and a cannon bore has to be true or the gun bursts. In 1774 he built a machine that held the cylinder still and ran a heavy cutting bar straight through it, supported at both ends.

In the drawing above, the tube never moves. The bar turns inside it, and the cutter rides along the bar, so the cut follows the bar's straightness instead of the casting's bumps.

It worked. Boulton wrote in 1776 that the 50-inch cylinder they had set up at Tipton "does not err on the thickness of an old shilling in any part." Fifty inches across, and the surface never strayed by more than a coin's thickness.

The seal itself was still humble: h**p packing, greased and tightened again as it wore. The boring simply gave it a wall worth sealing against, stroke after stroke.

That is what Boulton then sold. His offer to the Carron Company that year: a licence paid from a third of the fuel saved, and if the engine saved nothing, they would take nothing, with the parts that needed exact work made at his Soho works. The saving was Watt's idea. It took Wilkinson's boring mill to make the saving real in iron.

Hero, Fig. 7 in J. W. Roe's English and American Tool Builders (1916), Wilkinson's cylinder boring machine. Inset, Fig. 1 in the same work, Smeaton's boring machine of 1769. Both public domain in the US.

Thank you to our partners. Their support lets us keep researching engineering history and sharing stories like this, here and in depth in our archive, Shannon. Meet them here ❤️: engineeringcommunity.net/partners/

Bureau of Reclamation engineers calculated what would happen if Hoover Dam were built in one continuous pour. They estim...
10/13/2026

Bureau of Reclamation engineers calculated what would happen if Hoover Dam were built in one continuous pour. They estimated 125 years for the concrete to cool to the surrounding temperature, with stresses that would make the dam crack and crumble.

The danger came from the concrete itself.

Cement releases heat as it reacts with water and hardens. In a pour this large, the concrete could become solid while its interior stayed hot. As that heat escaped, the material would contract. Rock and surrounding concrete could restrain the movement, creating stresses that could crack the concrete.

Hoover needed 3.25 million cubic yards of concrete to form a wall across the Colorado River, to control floods, store irrigation water and help generate electricity. The engineers had to get the heat out of that mass as the wall rose.

Their design office in Denver was led by chief engineer Raymond F. Walter and chief design engineer John L. Savage. Before Hoover's concrete placement began, Reclamation tested the cooling method at Owyhee Dam in Oregon. The original 1931 drawing for that experiment is in the first comment below.

At Hoover, Six Companies' crews raised the wall in separate columns, building each upward in five-foot layers. Cooling pipes about an inch in diameter ran through the concrete. Their network extended for more than 500 miles.

Getting them into place required an adjustment. An early method involved pressing the pipes into freshly poured concrete. Crews changed to laying them on top of the previous layer before pouring the next one.

The water circulating through those buried pipes carried heat away. Refrigerated water was used for a later stage of cooling. The temperature change had to be controlled, because cooling too quickly or unevenly could also produce cracking.

As the columns cooled, they contracted, and their joints opened. Workers forced cement-and-water grout into those spaces. The joint faces had been shaped to interlock, so filling them locked the separate columns into one wall.

That connection mattered. Hoover resists water pressure through its weight, and through its curved shape, which transfers load into the canyon walls. The arch can only push sideways into the rock if the wall acts as one piece, which is what the grouted joints created.

The dam's concrete was placed between June 1933 and May 1935. Cooling was part of assembling that wall: its sections had to contract before they could be joined.

The cooling pipes stayed inside the dam, and they were grouted too, separately from the joints. Once each column had cooled, workers cut off the pipe ends and forced grout into the coils under pressure. The pipes that had carried the heat out of the wall were filled with grout and left inside it.

Photo: Hoover Dam's concrete columns, 24 February 1934. Bureau of Reclamation. Public domain.

More engineering stories in our archive: shannon.engineeringcommunity.net

Minutes before Apollo 11 left Earth orbit for the Moon, Houston called the astronauts through a jet flying over the Paci...
10/12/2026

Minutes before Apollo 11 left Earth orbit for the Moon, Houston called the astronauts through a jet flying over the Pacific.

“Apollo 11, this is Houston through ARIA 3.”

Neil Armstrong reported a much clearer signal than the static he had been hearing.

ARIA meant Apollo Range Instrumentation Aircraft. These Air Force jets were part of the network connecting Mission Control with the spacecraft.

Apollo first entered orbit around Earth. To leave for the Moon, the Saturn V’s third stage had to restart its engine. During that burn, NASA wanted voice contact with the astronauts and a record of how the spacecraft and rocket performed.

But the burn would not always happen over the same stretch of ocean. Its location depended on the launch timing and which orbit Apollo departed from. Earth kept turning beneath the spacecraft, so waiting another orbit could put the departure over a different part of the planet.

Land stations and tracking ships already formed a communications network. Ships could sail into position ahead of a launch, but a late change could require coverage somewhere they could not reach quickly enough.

NASA engineer L. C. Shelton laid out the scale of that problem in 1965. Covering all possible departure areas for a particular mission without aircraft, he estimated, would require 20 to 30 additional ship and shore stations.

NASA and the Department of Defense had eight Boeing C-135 transports converted into flying communications stations. The original version, the EC-135N, could get to a new receiving position far faster than a ship.

For Apollo 11, the aircraft were assigned to fill gaps between the land and ship stations across the Pacific, between Australia and Hawaii. Each carried a seven-foot dish inside that enlarged nose.

The dish could turn inside its fixed covering, following the spacecraft’s radio signal as Apollo moved across the sky. Behind the cockpit were the operators, receivers and tape recorders shown in NASA’s cutaway in the inset.

The aircraft connected two different radio links. It received the astronauts’ voices from space and relayed them through the ground radio network to Houston. Houston’s replies travelled back through the aircraft to the crew.

The spacecraft and rocket also transmitted telemetry, measurements of how their systems were performing. The aircraft recorded those on tape for later engineering analysis while the voice link kept the conversation with Houston live.

By the time Armstrong reported that clearer signal, a receiving station was in place over the Pacific, ready for the Moon-bound burn.

ARIA gave NASA more flexibility in choosing when and where Apollo would leave Earth orbit. If the departure plan changed, NASA could fly part of its radio network to the new coverage area.

The hero shows a later EC-135E at the National Museum of the USAF (photo by Greg Hume, CC BY 2.5). Inset NASA’s 1967 EC-135N cutaway, 67-H-1237, public domain.

More engineering stories in our archive: shannon.engineeringcommunity.net/p/

In 1984, Grumman flew an experimental jet that looked as though its wings had been fitted backward.The X-29's unusual sh...
10/09/2026

In 1984, Grumman flew an experimental jet that looked as though its wings had been fitted backward.

The X-29's unusual shape was meant to help a fighter keep control during demanding maneuvers.

On a swept-back wing, air moving sideways across the surface tends toward the tips. Sweeping the wings forward encourages that flow toward the fuselage instead. This can delay the loss of lift at the wing tips. That helps the controls near the tips keep working, so the pilot can still raise one wing and lower the other to tilt the aircraft. Earlier studies also predicted less drag while maneuvering near the speed of sound.

But the force holding the aircraft up could also threaten its wings.

As lift bent a forward-swept wing upward, its leading edge tended to twist upward too. That increased its angle to the oncoming air, generating more lift, more bending and still more twist. Above a critical pressure from the moving air, the feedback could overwhelm the structure. Engineers call this aeroelastic divergence.
Building a metal wing stiff enough to resist it could carry a substantial weight penalty, undermining the aerodynamic gains.

Air Force fighter pilot and engineer Norris Krone investigated another way. In his 1975 paper, “Divergence Elimination with Advanced Composites,” he explored how carefully arranged composite materials could reduce the weight penalty of preventing that runaway twist.
Grumman used this approach in the X-29's load-bearing wing skin. The upper and lower wing covers were built from layers of graphite-epoxy, carbon fibers held in resin. The thickest sections reached 156 layers.

These composites can be much stiffer in one direction than another. Engineers chose the fiber directions to limit the leading edge's upward rotation as lift bent the wing. The wing could still flex, but that bending produced less of the extra lift that fed the bending-and-twisting loop.

Controlling the wing's deformation did not make the aircraft stable. Its configuration was highly unstable in pitch, so a small nose-up or nose-down disturbance could grow instead of settling out. Three digital flight computers, each with an analog backup, monitored the aircraft's motion and continuously commanded its control surfaces to counter those disturbances.

The X-29's first flight was on 14 December 1984. The research program brought together NASA, the Air Force and DARPA, with two aircraft built. Pilots flying the second X-29 reported excellent control response with the aircraft’s nose raised as much as 45 degrees above its flight path.

Flight testing confirmed that the tailored wing avoided divergence within the conditions flown. The overall drag reduction predicted by earlier studies was not demonstrated.

Krone's research had offered a way around the structural weight penalty. The X-29 turned that approach into a flight experiment to find out whether forward sweep could deliver better maneuvering control and lower drag.

More engineering stories at https://shannon.engineeringcommunity.net.

Photo: NASA. X-29 over the California desert, July 1987. Inset: NASA’s 1984 diagram showing the X-29’s forward-swept composite wings, canards and digital flight controls.

In 1874, gun and sewing machine maker E. Re*****on and Sons rolled out a new writing machine built in its New York facto...
10/07/2026

In 1874, gun and sewing machine maker E. Re*****on and Sons rolled out a new writing machine built in its New York factories. It looked like an ornate piece of Victorian furniture, complete with glossy black lacquer, hand-painted flowers, and an iron foot pedal to return the carriage.

Right on the front, though, was a keyboard you would recognize in a split second.

The mechanism hidden behind those keys was another story. The metal arms carrying each letter hung in a circular wire basket under the paper roller, swinging upward to strike an ink ribbon from below. Because the printing happened out of sight, you could not see what you had typed without physically lifting the entire roller assembly.

If two arms collided in mid-air, you had no idea. You just kept typing, hammering steel into steel, puncturing the paper, and ruining the page. Fixing it meant stopping, reaching your fingers into the oily basket, and prying the inked arms apart.

You have probably heard that the letters were scrambled to deliberately slow typists down. That is a myth. In 1874, the machine cost $125, roughly $3,500 in today's money. No business was going to pay a small fortune for a machine designed to handicap its operator when penmanship was already 30 words per minute. The whole point was speed, and stopping jams was how you got it.

The real fix was built around human rhythm. Christopher Latham Sholes and his partner James Densmore studied letter frequencies and split common pairs like TH, ER, RE, and IN across opposite hands. While your left hand hit T, your right hand was already moving toward H. That tiny split second gave the first metal arm time to fall back down by gravity, keeping the typing fast and continuous.

Then the inventors ran into an even tougher engineering problem: muscle memory.

In an 1872 letter, Densmore tested a changed keyboard and complained that he had to "unlearn as well as learn." By the end of the letter he was getting used to it, but he warned that once hands learned a layout, changing it caused massive friction.

Sholes himself was never fully satisfied. In September 1889, battling tuberculosis just five months before his death, he filed patent US 568,630. The drawing in the inset shows a completely different layout: its top letter row began X P M C H. Sholes died that winter, and the patent was granted posthumously in 1896, proof that QWERTY's creator never thought the debate was settled.

By 1961, the mechanical problem was gone. IBM introduced the Selectric, swapping individual metal arms for a single rotating typeball. Typebars could no longer clash because there were none. Yet IBM kept QWERTY.

Redesigning the hardware was easy. Asking millions of typists to rewire their brains was not.

Today, we tap QWERTY on flat glass with zero moving parts. The gravity-fed arms and circular baskets are long gone, but the interface outlived the machine it was built for.

Hero photo: Tony Casillo, via Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 4.0; cropped. Photo adaptation licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0.

Inset: C. L. Sholes, US Patent 568,630, sheet 2, Fig. 2 (filed 1889, granted 1896); public domain.

In 1967, engineers attached a nonworking engine model beneath the X-15’s tail. They wanted to find out how carrying it w...
10/05/2026

In 1967, engineers attached a nonworking engine model beneath the X-15’s tail. They wanted to find out how carrying it would affect the aircraft before attempting flights with a working engine.

The X-15 already had its own rocket engine. Released from beneath a B-52, it could accelerate to the extreme speeds needed for the experiment.
The model represented a ramjet, an engine that would use air from the atmosphere. It produced no thrust. These flights were testing its shape, its mounting and their effects on the aircraft.

The modified X-15A-2 had already flown beyond Mach 6 without the model attached. But adding the model changed the aircraft’s shape, so engineers needed to establish how this new arrangement would behave as speed increased.

They also added a protective coating for the higher-speed flights. Called an ablator, it would char and erode under heating while shielding the metal beneath it. A white sealing layer gave the aircraft the pale finish in the main photograph.

On 21 August 1967, Air Force test pilot Pete Knight flew with the engine model and protective coating installed, reaching about Mach 5. Afterward, the team found localized charring. NASA test pilot Milton Thompson later wrote that they did not consider it significant and repaired the affected coating.

On that aircraft’s next flight, on 3 October, Knight reached Mach 6.7, or 4,520 mph. It was the fastest flight of the entire X-15 program. This time, the airflow around the model’s support created a severe heating problem.

A shock wave from the aircraft’s fuselage struck the shock wave ahead of that support. Their interaction produced much greater local heating than expected. The protective coating was consumed, and the metal underneath burned through.

The coating had protected much of the aircraft. But around the model’s support, the interacting shock waves concentrated heating beyond what the protection could withstand. The engine model broke away later, as Knight approached Edwards. He landed safely.

The aircraft was sent to North American for maintenance and repair and returned to Edwards in June 1968. It never flew again. NASA’s history records that the unexpected airflow problems had ended plans for further flights.

Looking back, Thompson argued that the team should have increased speed more gradually with all the modifications installed. “We took too big a step.”

The X-15 had already demonstrated high speed without the model. The August test had demonstrated the model and coating at a lower speed. Neither established what would happen when that new arrangement went faster.

An engine did not have to run to create the problem. Its shape and position were enough to change how the aircraft heated up.

Hero: NASA. X-15A-2 launch from the NB-52B mothership, with ablative coating, external tanks, and dummy ramjet, 1967. Inset: NASA. Heat damage after the 3 October 1967 flight. Both photographs are public domain.

Sources: NASA SP-2000-4518, pp. 58-60 and 79; SP-2000-4522, pp. 43-44; TP-20205011524, pp. 9-11

The round dials in this cockpit tell you something about the aircraft's history. They tell you much less about the elect...
10/04/2026

The round dials in this cockpit tell you something about the aircraft's history. They tell you much less about the electronics working alongside them.

This is OE-LDM, the Flying Bulls' Douglas DC-6B, built in 1958 and based in Salzburg, Austria. It joined the collection after chief pilot Sigi Angerer spotted it for sale in an aviation magazine in 2000. The Flying Bulls bought it and flew it from Namibia to Austria. A major restoration followed from 2001 to 2004.

Sixteen years after that restoration, the team undertook a 2020 avionics retrofit, upgrading the aircraft's electronic systems while preserving the cockpit's historic appearance. The new equipment had to work with what was already there.

Two navigation units combined GPS capability with the ability to receive conventional ground-based navigation signals. According to the Flying Bulls, the upgrade opened up additional airport approach procedures for the pilots. That meant more ways to navigate the aircraft towards a landing, rather than simply a newer display.

Two digital air data computers were added too. These processed pressure and temperature measurements and supplied that information digitally to the navigation equipment.

The aircraft also received new transponders with ADS-B, a system for broadcasting flight information. ADS-B Out transmitted its position and other data. ADS-B In received broadcasts from other equipped aircraft and put that traffic on the navigation display, helping the crew see where those aircraft were and how they were moving.

None of that required replacing the analogue flight instruments with an all-screen panel. But retaining the familiar appearance created extra work.

The Flying Bulls' engineering team describes new instrument panels, dozens of drawings and circuit diagrams, and roughly four kilometres of new cable. The task was to integrate the new equipment with the existing aircraft, then demonstrate that the installation worked as intended. The flight instruments remained analogue, with digital navigation displays integrated among them. You can see that combination in the inset.

The retrofit itself took about 2,000 labour-hours. Several hundred more went into technical and certification documentation and project management. Routine maintenance was handled separately by another team.

Once the physical modifications were finished, the project moved into verification flights at different airports and under different conditions, coordinated with the licensing authority.

In summer 2026, the DC-6B flew from Salzburg to the United States, stopping overnight in Iceland and Canada.

Its cockpit still looks familiar to someone who knows old airliners. Yet the crew can navigate by satellite and see participating traffic on a digital map. Keeping the aircraft's character meant deciding what could change around the instruments they chose to retain.

More engineering stories in our archive: shannon.engineeringcommunity.net

Hero: Colin Kerrigan / Red Bull Content Pool. Cockpit image source: The Flying Bulls, 2020 retrofit report

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