The Year of the Comet
As far as celestial events go, 2013 may very well be a year for the history books.
During most years, Venus would be
invisible to Earthlings during the passage, because of the blinding Sun. But on rare occasions, Venus, Earth and
the Sun line up so that Venus actually crosses the Sun’s face. With a solar-filtered telescope, Venus
is visible as a black disc, taking about 6 hours to cross the Sun.
This month’s apogee of the moon
occurs on Saturday, May 19 when it is 252,000 miles from Earth. The next day, on Sunday the 20th,
the moon passes directly in front of the sun, creating one of nature’s most
breathtaking spectacles, a solar eclipse. Because the moon is furthest away from
Earth, it won’t entirely block out the sun. Instead it will leave an annulus
(ring) of sunlight around the moon. Fittingly, such an eclipse is called an
annular solar eclipse. A
total solar eclipse occurs when the moon is at perigee; the closer moon blocks
out all of the sun’s light.
Not all observers are lucky enough
to witness this month’s eclipse as a ring of light. That privilege is bestowed upon those living within the
narrow band in which the annular eclipse passes (See diagram to the right - those living within the red lines get an annular eclipse). Those living outside that band will experience a partial
eclipse. The further one is from
the band, the more partial the eclipse.
Only about two hundred miles wide, the band stretches from Southeast
Asia, across the Pacific, and angles Southeast across the Western U.S. ending
up in Northwest Texas.
One of the most awesome displays in the Cosmosphere collection is the SR-71 Blackbird that graces our front lobby. Mysterious to this day, the Blackbird is a plane that looks very much like an alien spaceship. It is so beautifully integrated into the lobby that people often miss it completely as they pass underneath it. Coming in at #7 in our top ten countdown of most fascinating artifacts is the SR-71 Blackbird.

Among the many positions I have held at the Cosmosphere is the role of Planetarium Director. Back then, I went outside at night and scoped out the positions of the stars and planets, so I could point them out during planetarium shows. Now, that I am Director of Education, I have let this activity all but slip away. It is my loss. If you haven’t taken a look at the night sky lately or ever, go out tonight after sunset and look east. That brilliant red star that doesn’t twinkle is Mars. Then, turn around and look west. The two bright lights close together are Venus and Jupiter. Venus is the brighter of the two. If you look at these planets for a little while, you may be struck with a small sense of how many people have come before you and seen this same thing and felt as you may feel about the wonder of it all. It only takes a few moments to make that connection, but the feeling can last a lifetime.
Once in awhile a seemingly onerous task brings unexpected clarity. I constantly talk and write about our numerous summer camp programs. There are thirteen distinctly different camps residing under the banner of Kansas Adventures in Outer Space and I was assigned the task of explaining our educational philosophy in 150 words. Here they are.Once upon a time the most put upon man in the world was forced to write a weekly blog.
Sometimes the best thing you can do is pull some old thing off the shelf or out of a drawer, dust it off and run it by again. Sometimes, it’s the worst thing you can do. Back in 2009 I did a series of short videos called “History in 90 Seconds”. They were somewhat less than a hit, but I thought they were good, so here they are again. Episode One dealt with why the Cosmosphere is in Hutchinson. Meredith is doing that right now in our 50th anniversary year, so I will leave that to her. Please, judge me, but not too harshly.
Reluctantly Yours,
Tom Holcomb


Once upon a time the most put upon man in the world was forced to write a weekly blog. He pointed out that he was an expert at nothing, that in fact; he despised experts in general and therefore was not at all qualified to write about anything. His arguments fell on deaf ears. So, it came to pass that I, the he referred to above, became The Reluctant Blogger.
Experts in my opinion, come in five distinct types.
The Real Expert
This expert knows their subject, their limitations and their place. They are as rare as hummingbirds in Antarctica.
The Blowhard
This expert knows a lot about one or several topics. More often then not they come to believe themselves experts on all topics, resulting in a stoppage of both listening and learning.
The Bore
This expert knows everything about a specific narrow topic, speaking only of their beloved.
The Phony
This expert is an expert in name only. They know almost nothing about their topic, but sputter and bluster as if they do.
The Reluctant
This is me. I work in a space museum. I can think of few fields of expertise filled with greater uncertainty than space and history, and I am immersed in both. My museum is called The Kansas Cosmosphere and Space Center. It is in Hutchinson, KS, and is, in my opinion, the greatest space museum on earth, and one of the world’s great museums, period. Bold statements, but I intend to prove them true.
The good news is that this is my dilemma and not yours. I will share with you the wonders of the Cosmosphere’s Hall of Space Museum and encourage you to decide if my boasts are true.
Reluctantly Yours,
Tom Holcomb
Director of Education
Brian Shul, Retired SR-71 Pilot via Plane and Pilot Magazine, provides an answer.
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 I 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 refuelling 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 levelled 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.