|
|
|
Balancing a Pram on a Flagpole
Contributed by: Captain Cargo
Last weekend I went flying in a friend's microlight, a weight shift
machine with a Rotax engine on it. Basically, It's just a hang-glider
with an engine. Peter wheeled it out of the freight container it was
parked in, and I watched as he rigged it. I had a close look at the
bolt that holds the bathtub that you sit in to the kite-like wing. He
assured me the bolt was hardened steel, but being used to redundancy I
was a bit taken aback to find it wasn't fitted with any cable or other
pin in the unlikely case that the bolt sheared. Not even a ballistic
parachute. After getting dressed in what I was told was an Ozee suit,
pulling on the helmet and stepping gingerly on the centre member and
lowering myself into the rear seat, I wondered if I should be down the
pub instead . . . he only had about fifty hours total flight time.
He started the engine, which sounded like there were a few loose
bits clanging around in the crank-case, and we taxied to the end of
the muddy grass strip, where he did his power checks. I was sure he
hadn't checked the mags . . .
Take-off was fairly short, and the angle of climb impressive,
basically because the forward speed was so low. Peter stirred the bar
around as we hit some light turbulence, and we climbed to about a
thousand feet. I didn't feel particularly comfortable.
"OK?" he enquired, his voice suprisingly clear through the headset.
"Yeah. I'm fine," I lied. It was like sitting in a pram balanced on
top of a flagpole. There was way too much open space around me. I
prefer strapping on seventy tons of metal and being able to drink
coffee. Suprisingly, it wasn't very cold, even though the temperature
on the ground was only seven degrees. The engine, though loud and
still sounding like it was about to destroy itself, wasn't as
deafening as I'd expected.
"Here, you have a go," Peter said. I grabbed the flying wires, as
I'd been told earlier, and tried a few gentle turns. The control
forces were heavier that I'd expected, perhaps because I was flying it
on the wires. Peter had flown this machine to the south of France, and
Brian Milton flew one around the world. The one advantage they have is
to make aviation accessible to more people. Flying for me has become a
job rather than a hobby, and in a way I envy Peter his excited little
flips in VFR, floating round the countrside with the radio switched
off. I passed control back to Pete and watched the little fields and
roads inch by underneath us, looking like discarded shoe-laces. I
tried to relax, but never quite managed it. I won't get on the back of
a motorbike, and this felt a bit similar. Peter chatted away, pointing
out various landmarks. In the distance I could see the hazy outline of
Liverpool, and realised we were quite close to the approach for
Liverpool airport. I saw a 737 descending about a mile away. Somehow I
felt more vulnerable than I would at work, even though a mid-air
collision would have the same result.
Peter turned the aircraft round and headed back to the strip. The
descent was very steep, power off, the flare involving lots of pushing
and pulling on the bar. We touched down gently and taxied over to
where a number of other flimsy-looking machines were parked. The
engine stopped, and the only sound was a slight buzz in the headset
and the ticking sound of the engine cooling.
Later, in the pub, Peter asked me if I wanted to come flying with him the next week-end.
"OK. Why not?" I don't know if I agreed because I was ashamed of
being nervous or if I'd actually enjoyed it. I guess I'll find out
next week. Weather permitting.
Back to Stories Index
|
