Discussion takes on that gearhead vernacular, like paintballers or motorcyclists. Drone enthusiasts look for people “to fly with.” Latest models are eyed with envy; someone calls a huge drone capturing race footage “the cadillac.” A non-pilot talks about the arc welding work on a drone he’s building that can hoist 68 pounds. Costs, rotor distance, battery, voltage, amperage, radio strength and weight, to name just a handful, are metrics bandied about with such regularity that they become a foreign tongue. Maybe someone switched to carbon fiber rotors; now the craft cuts on a dime. Maybe someone shaved off the landing pads; now there’s less drag. Maybe someone put a second HD camera on the rear; now there’s two reels of cool footage. Modifications are discussed with pride and one-upmanship. You did that — very nice — but check out this.

I chat with a 15-year-old boy who’s helping on the sidelines. He doesn’t play video games and is pretty excited about flying his own drone once he’s saved enough money. Why is he excited to race?

“It’s real life,” he says. “And the tinkering.”

That’s the word, or the concept you hear over and over on the sidelines, clearly the binding agent of the entire event. The competition is almost secondary. David Hitchcock, a self-described “blue collar kind of guy” who works on gas lines by day, has been tinkering with drones for over two years, typically from about 9 to 11 each night after he puts his two small children to bed. David doesn’t see how FPV drone racing won’t take off with kids. Rather than an Xbox birthday present, how about a drone. “He’s going to go down a rabbit hole to a whole new universe,” David says of this hypothetical kid.

Only in the last couple months has David been interested in racing. He’s just moved to Santa Cruz from Oakland and has been watching how racing has been taking off in parts of middle America.

“I was really surprised it took the East Bay so long,” David says.

I ask Zoe about her copter. “It’s all me,” she says. “Months of obsession.” She’s built the entire thing from parts. She has a huge black trunk with spare gear. She’s started building copters eight months ago and this is her first race. Fellow pilot Steven, age 16, tinkers with his rig nearby. He has been building copters with his dad since he was eight. He smiles and says to Zoe, “You’re going down!”

“Screw you,” she says, only returning half the fun.

Later I chat with Kathy, Zoe’s mom, about what drone racing has meant for her daughter. Turns out doctors had messed up some surgery for Zoe about 18 months ago. She was bed-ridden for a year. And then about eight months ago Kathy bought Zoe a small copter to fly from bed. A week later Zoe wanted a bigger one.

“A month after that, she was building them,” Kathy says.

Now Zoe runs Hexinair, a site dedicated to how-to’s on building copters, guides to local flying spots and videos of drone footage. Kathy watches her daughter, walking, out of bed, out on the racecourse retrieving her drone. She admits Zoe will probably be sore tomorrow. And then she begins to tear up.

“It’s been so good for her,” Kathy says.

The heats continue and while some are tight, Rotor Guru is clearly the pilot to beat. His drone is always quickest off the starter pad and slices the tightest turns around the gate. But there is something a tad eerie about watching him and any of the pilots race. They almost don’t move. Maybe a shoulder tilts on a tight bank, but for the most part they stare straight ahead — while out on the course their craft zips and dives everywhere. It’s tough to say whether FPV drone racing is more virtual or reality.

Of course, there are lots of crashes. Drones thwap into flags, lose control or just malfunction mid-flight. Most crashes are spectacular and spastic, the copter cartwheeling as rotors spin off and the crowd groans. But the pilots rarely flinch. Even still, you can’t help but picture the future, a floating arena with huge spacecrafts zipping around interstellar courses as humans cheer from space bleachers. And of course Star Wars references abound. A pilot on the sidelines starts looking through someone else’s pile of gear by accident and the owner jokes, “These are not the drones you are looking for.”

When you spend enough time looking for drones buzzing through the air, the rest of the world starts to feel a bit surreal. I watch something gliding over the trees and wonder who let their drone get that far away — but it turns out to be a seagull. An big housefly hovers over the starter’s table and buzzes away. Airliners pass way overhead and at first glance, they look like hovering drones. Over the loudspeaker the announcer paints a picture of a future overflowing with personal flying crafts. He mentions Zee Aero, a company in Mountain View building flying cars.

“No more traffic jams,” he promises. “That is the future.”

Chris Munoz rocks flip-flops, board shorts and an AC/DC shirt with the sleeves cut off to show off his tattoos. He runs his own finance company. “You wouldn’t know it.” He doesn’t race but likes to hang at the scene. His drone, black with carbon fiber rotors, looks like the batmobile. Chris points out to the road and then 180 degrees away, to the far trees, and claims his drone can cover that ground in a couple seconds; it can also fly to an altitude of 1600 feet. Today the law only allows drones to 400 feet.

“A lot of these guys are in online forums,” Rotor Guru says pointing around at the pilots. But “nobody goes by their real names” he says. One pilot’s t-shirt claims “Hacking is not a crime.” A lot of drone piloting is outside the law. The FAA is still trying to catch up to the exploding hobby. Chris worries about the FAA’s new rules on drones, due out sometime in the next couple years, will hinder his hobby with myopic rules. He says he writes a lot of letters.

The finals come around: Steven, Zoe and Rotor Guru. Some pilots had to bow out due to technical issues; others just plain lost.

The three lay their drones on the launch pads and step back to the sidelines. “Go!” The drones lift off and pitch forward. They weave around the first gate, bank hard right and head down the course. Zoe jumps to an early lead. Roto Guru is on her tail and now it’s hard not to see that scene in Star Wars where they’re racing speeder bikes through the Redwood trees.

The three complete a lap. But Steven dips too low. The ground snatches his drone and the craft cartwheels to a stop, pieces flying into the air. He pulls off his goggles and looks around with a sheepish smile. He’s out.

Now we’re down to Zoe and Rotor Guru.

This would be playing out like the plot of a cheesy sports movie except that Rotor Guru is a nice guy. But clearly the sidelines don’t expect him to lose to Zoe.

“Rotor Guru has to be a quarter prop down,” says someone.

No matter how he tries, he can’t catch her. Both of them sit statue still on the sideline, their thumbs working furiously. At one turn Rotor Guru cuts down the angle and closes on Zoe but her hexacopter is still too fast. On the final straightaway she blasts the engines, leaving him in the dust, and punches through the finish line.

In celebration Zoe sends her hexacopter high into the air. The crowd cheers. But she doesn’t move. She’s still staring straight ahead, fingers working the controller. Finally, she pulls off her goggles and takes in the accolades with another characteristic bow. When she thinks no one’s looking she snaps her fingers and pumps her fist.

She, Steven and Rotor Guru chat with the announcer like the post-game interviews at any sporting event. Rotor Guru is gracious in defeat, offering up support to all the racers. Zoe is awarded a new quadcopter for first prize. You can already see the gears turning on how she’ll modify the craft.

“I came in here to prove a point,” Zoe says later, easing back in her chair on the sidelines. “And not come in last.” A few pilots come by to check out Zoe’s rig. She gives one a card. Kathy beams at her daughter. The sun drops lower behind the trees and the stands empty of spectators.

Zoe takes it all in. “And this feels pretty damn good,” she says.

Photos by Caleb Garling

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