For a moment, I forgot myself in the sheer, giddy wonder of it, lofting like a blown leaf above forests, lakes, and an old railway winding into the mountains below. Then the first wave of turbulence hit. It felt like skidding on black ice—the sudden, sickening drop, the bewildering weightlessness—only I had no brake, no steering wheel, no hope of bailing out. The closest thing to grab was a large copper-colored knob on the dashboard, labelled “RELEASE.” But I’d been told not to do that under any circumstance, unless I wanted a very short flight. (I later learned that it was meant for the towing cable.) “We’re in that rotary stuff now!” Swenson shouted from the seat behind mine. When strong winds blow over a mountain range, they’re bent into huge, oscillating waves up high, while the air below spins down the slopes in ragged gusts, known as rotor clouds. It felt like driving over a row of logs. “I once had a passenger who threw up five times before we even released the rope!” Swenson said.
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unit record techniques—keypunch, sorting bins, mechanical totalizers—to present，详情可参考搜狗输入法下载
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