Some of the stories in Cross Country magazine really strike a chord. This was published in the latest edition (issue 159, May 2015). if you like it, consider subscribing
Allen Weynberg gets back in the saddle. Photo: Allen Weynberg
Allen Weynberg’s been flying for 20 years – after a while away from the sport, he gets back on the path…
“Release, release!” The radio crackles. “Slow the glider… Stall, now.”
I’m tripping backwards. Spread out in the sky, even my fingers are splayed, grabbing at thin air.
“Resist and let up slowly.”
Bang! It reopens, surges and flies away.
Am I mad? How did I get here? Heart rate at 120, gasping, shaking, falling backwards.
A friend once gave me this advice: “If you want to know if someone’s mad look at their feet.” Believe me, since then I’ve seen some crazy footwear, dirty nails and bizarre tattoos. The same friend gave me his old flying boots with cracked soles and a garish nineties colour scheme. I’d look down at those boots and smirk: I could fly. Those boots where like a secret sign declaring my new passion to anyone doing the ‘mad check’ on my feet. Just the boots made me feel special; actually flying I felt invincible.
The winter was long the year I was a student in Sheffield in the UK. I soared above the snow-covered hills, dodged showers and often hung in a gale. Then spring hit and one April morning I was 900m up, heading for the next cloud, looking down at peat bogs between those boots. I vividly remember being out clubbing that night, eyes fluttering, feeling great, hugging mates and thinking, “You feel good but I was bloody flying today.” And I’ll fly again tomorrow, and forever, further, higher, faster, more.
Summer came, time for Europe. A competition launch is not a relaxing start. It’s mad; just check out the feet. Pent up egos fumble with instruments, maps and in those days cameras. ‘Picture of wing at take-off’, ‘Picture of wing in the air showing number’. The paragliding world was the earliest adopter of pointless selfies, all taken to score points. The photography was as important as the flying.
I hadn’t entered the competition. I had a beautiful Rainbow glider, purple salopettes and a vario that sounded like a duck.
“You’re gonna take off in front of this lot, now, before the competition starts?”
“Yep, I reckon I can stay up.”
The first half hour was really hard, scratching along the ridge, banking in bubbles. What was the advice about this place? Oh yeah, don’t get low over the pass. So I’m ridge soaring on a hillside that sways lazily with tall brown grass. Making hay while the sun shines, parting the fronds with the base of my harness. The duck begins to quack, I turn out and the quack squawks louder and I go all the way round. The hill recedes smoothly and the quacking steadily sings all the way to the wispies out in the flats.
I’m so high. Glide, climb, sing, repeat; glide, climb, sing repeat.
After an easy lift back from the walled town where I landed I walk back into the square in my boots. None of my friends won today’s task but they all congratulate me, I won my day. I bask in the belonging. No looking backwards.
The next year’s glider is not a beautiful rainbow. It’s a storm cloud, lightning fast with a mood like thunder. The boots are still good though and I see them pass over the Alpine crags and a huge (for me) chunk of outback. One memorable Alpine experience stands out on an XC training camp to which I’d been invited. On our way across the valley the squadron leader’s voice crackles “Time to push forward on the bar.”
I fumble around with my boots and out of the corner of my eye I see J go full bar then deflate, cravat and spiral past. “Throw your reserve.” He has a happy landing. Five minutes later and the Squadron Leader’s back on the radio: “I’ve thrown my reserve, heading for the trees.” I’m not so confident now, looking back.
One more summer. The new glider’s pink, better, tauter, ok. It’s a pink year all in all. I’m father to a baby girl by the end of it. And you thought paragliding was important. I had one good trip that year. We toured the lake and I got the lowest, luckiest save I could imagine. Lining up to land the pilot in front touches down and the whole field lifts. So good I caught up with the pilot above and we circled to base together, back, across the lake.
The summer also had a darker side. I stole a day from work to fly. On launch it was looking great, pure blue sky and fluffy cu’s. The mountains were pumping and a little twisty began to lift a friend before he pulled hard and stayed on the ground with a spiral flapping mess for a glider. While we sorted it another friend took off, hooking into the first turn, happy to be on a newer safer glider.
Then the glider pitches, spins back towards the hill and there’s an inhuman yelp as he crashes in. I see him bounce. His Facebook profile now shows a picture of a shadow of him sat in a wheelchair. I saw that light turn into a shadow right in front of me.
Further, higher, faster, no more. I gave up. We moved. I’d never flown near my new home but it was always in the back of my mind.
Slowly, after a few years I scratched the itch again. Newer, safer glider. Older, wiser attitude. New boots. There was no one moment when I jumped back in. There were a few flights on holiday. A borrowed glider, nervous singing, stomach muscles taut like corrugated iron and the metallic taste of fear in my mouth. Then some coastal floating, smooth as silk on a solid new wing. Then the more I scratched the more I itched and cloudbase beckoned. I looked back to find answers on how to go higher, further, faster, more and still land next to my kids.
And here I am on an SIV course. Like inoculation for pilots, inject a few collapses and hope when the big infection sweeps in you have the reactions to cope.
“You’re going to stall again, in your own time.”
I pull down, fall back, resist and release. With a surge of joy I’m flying forwards again, not back.
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