RSG GyroFly

04/09/2026

Friday Philosophy
There are moments in a project when you suddenly realise you’ve crossed a certain line.
We’re not flying yet. We’re not even standing on the runway. But the journey has already begun.
For a long time, RSG Diamond was an idea, a sketch, a question.
Now we’re slowly entering a territory where, alongside “Can we do it?”, another question appears:
“Are we allowed to?”
And this is where bureaucracy enters the stage.
It’s a word that rarely inspires warm feelings. But in aviation, bureaucracy didn’t appear out of nowhere.
Someone has to set the rules. Someone has to define minimum standards. And sometimes, someone probably should look over the constructor’s shoulder and make sure his brilliant Saturday-night idea isn’t based entirely on optimism, duct tape and “hold my beer.”
Aviation is not particularly forgiving of mistakes.
Regulations can save lives.
But there is another side to it.
Every procedure costs something: time, energy and money. And somewhere between protection and control, there is a very thin line.
Where does protecting people end — and clipping the wings of initiative begin?
Today, I feel a little like a ski jumper sitting on the starting bar.
Skis on.
Goggles down.
The ramp ahead.
The run has already started, and there isn’t much point looking backwards now.
Soon comes the take-off.
Will the system give us some wind under our skis, check the bindings and say:
“All right. Go fly.”
Or will somebody put a barrier across the take-off table with a sign:
“Form 17B missing. Form 17B may only be requested after receiving permission to submit an application for Form 17A.”
I genuinely don’t know.
And that’s why I don’t want to declare war on bureaucracy today. We’ve only just knocked on the door.
Instead, I want to leave one question:
How much bureaucracy do we actually need to protect people without discouraging those who are willing to build, experiment and try something new?
We’ll find out.
Perhaps sooner than we think.
And just in case…
the little shovel is ready.
Don Coyote doesn’t sleep. 😁

31/08/2026

The final shape of the hull has been frozen...

30/08/2026

From the Builder’s Log

On wedges, millimetres, and other reasons why normal people have hobbies

This week, the plan was simple.

Really simple.

We were going to make the floor.

THE FLOOR.

Not a rocket engine.
Not a fusion reactor.
Not a tunnel under the Baltic Sea.

A piece of foam whose main job, by definition, should be:

to lie there.

As it turns out, I overestimated the foam.

First, Blender informed me that something that looked flat wasn’t actually flat.

Fine.

We fixed it.

Then something that was supposed to fit stopped fitting.

We fixed that.

A wedge appeared.

We removed the wedge.

The wall thickness disappeared.

We restored the wall thickness.

The wedge came back.

And that was when I realised I was no longer designing a gyroplane.

I was raising a Tamagotchi.

Feed one thing — another one dies.

In the meantime, we discovered that three surfaces which, according to my brilliant plan, were supposed to become one panel needed about 18 mm of persuasion before they were willing to accept reality.

I gave them 20.

They were still complaining.

I gave them 30.

Blender got offended.

That was the moment when you sit in front of the screen, stare at your own creation, and finally understand why large aircraft manufacturers employ thousands of engineers.

It’s not because aircraft are that complicated.

It’s because one person simply wouldn’t survive this mentally.

But the funny thing is, it’s precisely these ridiculous little battles that are slowly turning Diamond into a real aircraft.

Because a computer can draw anything.

It can create a beautiful curve.

It can create a perfect transition.

It can even convince the designer that he knows what he’s doing.

The problem only starts when you ask:

“Okay, smartass. Now how exactly am I supposed to cut this out of a flat sheet?”

And suddenly…

silence.

So now we check everything.

Every panel.
Every mating surface.
Every angle.
Every gap.

Because one day, instead of CTRL+Z, there will be adhesive, laminate and a part that costs actual money.

And unfortunately, I still haven’t found the button marked:

UNDO

in the workshop.

So, this week’s progress report:

Diamond — slightly more finished.
Blender — still installed.
Computer — survived.
The wedge — the bastard is still fighting.
The builder — symptoms critical but stable.
Prognosis uncertain.

And the floor?

The floor is beginning to understand who’s in charge.

Although, knowing this project…

probably not me.

RSG DIAMOND
Built one questionable decision at a time. 😁

29/08/2026

https://ko-fi.com/s/78914d7c90

Like the music? Help Diamond get off the ground.
I made this little AI-Capella album while working on the RSG Diamond project.
If you’d like to add a few coins to the build budget, you can grab the album with 10 songs on Bandcamp.
You get the songs. Diamond gets another bolt, a little resin… or maybe half a bearing. 😁

Every little bit moves the project one step closer to the day when the songs about flying are no longer about a dream.

BUY SOME MUSIC.
BUILD SOME AIRCRAFT.
RSG DIAMOND. 😎

**AI-Capella — Bolts, Dreams & Other Bad Decisions** This album started as a bit of fun with AI and somehow turned into a musical diary of the RSG Di...

29/08/2026

A little fun with AI, and this is what came out of it. 😉

28/08/2026

# # # Friday PhiloZophy: When Does a Dream Stop Being a Dream?

Every project has that beautiful stage when it is still just a dream.

At that point, everything is simple.

The aircraft will be light.
It will be affordable.
It will be comfortable.
It will operate from grass.
It won’t burn much fuel.

And preferably, it should look good too.

You sit there in the evening with a cup of coffee, staring at the 3D model and thinking:

**“Of course this can be done.”**

It’s a very pleasant stage.

Then the dream makes one fundamental mistake.

**It starts becoming reality.**

And suddenly, instead of wondering what the finished Diamond will look like against a beautiful sunset, you find yourself wondering whether a piece of PUR foam should be 47, 50 or 52 mm thick.

You start counting kilograms.

Millimetres.

Angles.

Bolts.

Metres of aluminium.

Litres of resin.

Swedish kronor.

For some mysterious reason, there are always too many of the last ones.

Then come regulations, permits, suppliers, deadlines, and questions that six months ago you didn’t even know it was possible to ask.

And the 3D model that once looked so beautiful starts maliciously informing you:

**“You have a 7-millimetre problem here.”**

You fix it.

**Now you have an 18-millimetre problem over there.**

You fix that too.

**Congratulations. Now you have a wedge.**

Of course, there is one more element in the entire process that no CAD software is capable of taking into account:

**the designer.**

The kind of person who says in the morning:

**“Let’s not overcomplicate this. The simplest solutions are always the best.”**

And then spends the next six hours wondering whether it could perhaps be done slightly differently.

Eventually, he concludes that the first solution was actually the best one.

Undoes everything.

Looks at the screen.

And, with the deep satisfaction of a job well done, announces:

**“There. Now it’s exactly the way it was this morning.”**

Don’t ask me how I know this process.

At this point, a sensible person would probably find themselves a normal hobby.

Fishing.

Stamp collecting.

Maybe orchids.

I decided to build an autogyro.

Nobody’s perfect.

And I think this is exactly where the line between a **dream** and a **project** lies.

A dream exists for as long as you can say:

**“One day, I’ll do it.”**

A project begins when “one day” is replaced by:

**“Right. What are we doing tomorrow?”**

And paradoxically, that is when some of the romance disappears.

But something much more valuable takes its place.

The first aluminium profile you actually buy.

The first part you can hold in your hands.

The first problem solved not on paper, but in the real world.

And one day you suddenly realise that you are no longer talking about the aircraft you would like to build.

You are talking about the aircraft **you are building**.

And that’s when you discover that the dream hasn’t died at all.

It has simply…

**put on its work trousers.**

25/08/2026

*** TECHNICAL SNIFFER***

Brothers and Sisters of the Gyrokopterian Order!

Today’s story involves foam, math, and the discovery that a computer can casually draw something that cannot actually be built without personally offending several laws of geometry. 😄

As you probably know, the Diamond is supposed to look like a Diamond.

Not like a slippery stick of butter.

Not like a bathtub on wheels.

And definitely not like something that happened when the designer fell asleep on the “smooth everything” button.

The problem is that sculpting a good-looking cabin in a 3D program is relatively easy.

Things get more interesting when you actually have to build it from flat PUR foam sheets, which stubbornly refuse to change shape just because I asked nicely.

So right now, I’m trying to answer one simple question:

Can the Diamond’s silhouette be divided into flat triangles and quadrilaterals while preserving its character, symmetry, and the builder’s mental health?

Negotiations regarding that last item are still ongoing.

The plan goes something like this:

The aluminum frame handles the structure and carries the loads.

The PUR foam creates the shape, fills the gaps, and helps with insulation.

The laminate stiffens everything and works together with the structure.

The floor and firewall get 50 mm PUR foam.

The cabin skin, the panel behind the seats, and the shelf get 20 mm.

On paper, it all sounds simple.

Then you discover that an aluminum frame member takes up space.

A reinforcement plate also takes up space.

So does the neighboring frame member.

And suddenly the foam that was supposed to fit everywhere so elegantly has to accept that other tenants moved in first.

First example?

After accounting for just five frame members, the calculated foam volume in the floor dropped from 160.8 to 93.9 liters.

And one beautiful computer-designed panel turned into three very real parts.

That was before all the reinforcement plates raised their hands and said, “Excuse us, we live here too.”

That’s exactly why it matters to move beyond the question:

“Does it look good?”

And start asking:

“Can it actually be cut, assembled, and built without discovering twenty brand-new swear words along the way?”

The Diamond still has to look like a Diamond.

We’re just trying to give it one more rare and valuable feature:

It should also be possible to actually build the thing. 😄

Have you ever turned a 3D model into real-world parts? How many times did your computer promise that “everything fits” before reality demanded a revision?

23/08/2026

DESIGNER’S LOG — FREEZING THE SHAPE

There is a moment in every design process when exploring has to give way to deciding.

For RSG Diamond, we are approaching that moment.

The full-scale mock-up did exactly what it was supposed to do. It allowed us to confront the digital model with reality — human dimensions, headroom, visibility, cockpit space and proportions. Some details worked as expected. Others had to change.

That was the purpose of building it.

Now those lessons are returning to the 3D model.

The next step is not to make Diamond look better. It is to close the geometry: finalise the body shape, define wall thicknesses and structural interfaces, and establish the forward bulkhead.

Once that geometry is frozen, we can stop estimating and start calculating real material requirements for the PUR core and composite structure.

At some point a design has to stop being a collection of possibilities.

It has to become the aircraft you are going to build.

We are getting very close to that point.

RSG Diamond — from geometry to structure.

22/08/2026

I was there ;)

22/08/2026

It was a beautiful day in Malmen Air Base in Sweden 😁