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Authors: Joe Simpson
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Hang-gliders were lethal when they were first developed and it took a lot of risks to get them to today’s standards. When we were flying in the late 1980s we didn’t really have a hope of getting anywhere. We could only soar in gale-force winds and none of us ever left the hill. Now we can fly cross-country, moving from one thermal to another. We can stay up on the lightest breezes when before we would have dropped like a house brick.’
‘That was true,’ I said, remembering the high winds we used to try flying in. ‘I don’t know how we survived it all. We didn’t have a clue.’
‘Yeah, but it was fun, wasn’t it?’ John smiled. ‘I thought it was the most exciting thing I’d ever done. Remember our first lesson? Jumping off a chair to simulate a parachute landing roll and then Geoff just threw us off the hill and bang, we were flying.’
‘Not for long, mind,’ I added. ‘We used to hit the ground – fast.’
‘True, but put it into perspective. When we first started flying the British cross-country distance record was 18 kilometres, now it’s over 175.’
‘Bloody hell! I didn’t know it was that far.’
‘The world record,’ Richard Haszko added, ‘is 330 kilometres. And despite the limits being pushed so far, it’s still relatively safe.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ I snorted derisively. ‘I’ve heard that one before. Anyway it’s not saying much is it? Within eighteen months of John and I starting we knew seven people who had crush fractures to their backs and Geoff Birtles had broken his neck. It nearly bloody killed him.’
‘I know, but it is safe now.’ John was passionate about his paragliding. It was about all he did, having given up climbing and mountaineering trips. ‘Well, as safe as any of these sports can be. I mean you choose the level of risk. You choose how much you want to push it.’
‘So it’s similar to mountaineering, then?’ I said. ‘Climbing is as dangerous as you make it.’
‘Exactly,’ John agreed, ‘the only difference being that the fatality rate of the top fliers doesn’t compare with that of top mountaineers.’
‘So how many pilots get killed?’
‘Hardly any, really,’ Richard replied. ‘Most commonly it’s through mid-air collisions or low-altitude collapses, that sort of thing. It’s about two or three a year, I suppose.’
‘Yeah, but there’s not as many people doing it as mountaineering.’
‘Quite, but you also have to remember that our experience of climbing isn’t really the norm,’ Richard pointed out. ‘I mean we came from a community of climbers, many of whom were climbing at the very highest standards. In the end we experienced a far greater loss of friends than someone who came from a less competitive climbing culture. That made it seem more dangerous than it is.’
‘Well, yes, I see your point,’ I said. ‘But the climbing didn’t seem more dangerous. It was more bloody dangerous.’
‘Yes, but by choice,’ John said. ‘This doesn’t happen in flying accidents. Pilots don’t suddenly get banged on the head by rocks, or struck by lightning, or inexplicably buried under tons of snow …’
‘No, you just fall out of the sky and hit the ground at a stupendously painful speed.’ I finished my pint. It was my round and I wandered towards the bar.
I thought of what Gaston Rebuffat had written in Starlight and Storms : ‘I like difficulty. I hate danger.’ To his mind testing the very limits of his climbing skills, pushing the ‘outside of the envelope’ as test pilots say, was the essence of climbing. Dying had nothing to do with it. Rebuffat understood that danger was a component risk and did his best to avoid it, but he never embraced it for its own sake and never chose to do something simply because it was very risky. He had put up countless bold and difficult ascents all over the world and had survived to a ripe old age, outwitting the mountains, until cancer eventually stole him away.
John and
‘That was true,’ I said, remembering the high winds we used to try flying in. ‘I don’t know how we survived it all. We didn’t have a clue.’
‘Yeah, but it was fun, wasn’t it?’ John smiled. ‘I thought it was the most exciting thing I’d ever done. Remember our first lesson? Jumping off a chair to simulate a parachute landing roll and then Geoff just threw us off the hill and bang, we were flying.’
‘Not for long, mind,’ I added. ‘We used to hit the ground – fast.’
‘True, but put it into perspective. When we first started flying the British cross-country distance record was 18 kilometres, now it’s over 175.’
‘Bloody hell! I didn’t know it was that far.’
‘The world record,’ Richard Haszko added, ‘is 330 kilometres. And despite the limits being pushed so far, it’s still relatively safe.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ I snorted derisively. ‘I’ve heard that one before. Anyway it’s not saying much is it? Within eighteen months of John and I starting we knew seven people who had crush fractures to their backs and Geoff Birtles had broken his neck. It nearly bloody killed him.’
‘I know, but it is safe now.’ John was passionate about his paragliding. It was about all he did, having given up climbing and mountaineering trips. ‘Well, as safe as any of these sports can be. I mean you choose the level of risk. You choose how much you want to push it.’
‘So it’s similar to mountaineering, then?’ I said. ‘Climbing is as dangerous as you make it.’
‘Exactly,’ John agreed, ‘the only difference being that the fatality rate of the top fliers doesn’t compare with that of top mountaineers.’
‘So how many pilots get killed?’
‘Hardly any, really,’ Richard replied. ‘Most commonly it’s through mid-air collisions or low-altitude collapses, that sort of thing. It’s about two or three a year, I suppose.’
‘Yeah, but there’s not as many people doing it as mountaineering.’
‘Quite, but you also have to remember that our experience of climbing isn’t really the norm,’ Richard pointed out. ‘I mean we came from a community of climbers, many of whom were climbing at the very highest standards. In the end we experienced a far greater loss of friends than someone who came from a less competitive climbing culture. That made it seem more dangerous than it is.’
‘Well, yes, I see your point,’ I said. ‘But the climbing didn’t seem more dangerous. It was more bloody dangerous.’
‘Yes, but by choice,’ John said. ‘This doesn’t happen in flying accidents. Pilots don’t suddenly get banged on the head by rocks, or struck by lightning, or inexplicably buried under tons of snow …’
‘No, you just fall out of the sky and hit the ground at a stupendously painful speed.’ I finished my pint. It was my round and I wandered towards the bar.
I thought of what Gaston Rebuffat had written in Starlight and Storms : ‘I like difficulty. I hate danger.’ To his mind testing the very limits of his climbing skills, pushing the ‘outside of the envelope’ as test pilots say, was the essence of climbing. Dying had nothing to do with it. Rebuffat understood that danger was a component risk and did his best to avoid it, but he never embraced it for its own sake and never chose to do something simply because it was very risky. He had put up countless bold and difficult ascents all over the world and had survived to a ripe old age, outwitting the mountains, until cancer eventually stole him away.
John and
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