Old Birds Can Fly

I am not a pretty sight.  My upper arms are bruised red, blue, and black, less visible, yet just as painful, is a bruise on my chest, and my legs hurt when I walk.  Although I am in Colombia, this damage is not the result of a violent mugging, it is self inflicted.  These are the consequences of being an overly ambitious, yet slightly inept, paragliding student.

Bucaramanga, Colombia, is among the world's top paragliding destinations, providing thermals in the morning, and ridge soaring in the afternoon.   As we arrived at the launch site it was hard to decide what to watch, the panoramic view of the city below, or the sky, filled with primary colored parachute wings.  Some pilots were enjoying relaxed cruising way up in the air, others demonstrated aerobatics, and the more adventurous swooped, with great speed, inches off the grass.  Richie, the raspy voiced paragliding school owner, described his operation, and I knew that here, I could finally fill the gap in my flying experience.  I enrolled in a ten-day course.  At the hostel which is part of the school, I met  an international group of students, all of them in their twenties.  Although I chose to commute rather than sleep in the hostel, I got to know and like this friendly group.  I grew especially fond of angelic Ellen, who is always ready to help, and Susan, who, spent seven months in Israel, and chatted with me in colloquial Hebrew.

Due to wind conditions, I ended up practicing the takeoff routine for three and a half days.  The practice consists of  attempting to raise the wing, and then maintain it in the air.  However, it inevitably collapses to the ground.  As this happens, two helpers would rush to my side, and assist in rearranging the wing for the next attempt.  This luxury arrangement, turned out to be less than ideal for me, because it provided almost no rest time.  As the hours and days progressed, my quadriceps were overworked trying to move forward with great force,  my chest bruised while pushing against the harness, and my upper arms were damaged by the straps as I was trying to raise the canopy over my head.  Unfortunately, it would take more practice, before I will learn how to 'finesse it' (Richie's term) rather than apply brute force.



Finally, on the fifth day, I took my first flight (and two consequent ones).  I had a very enjoyable experience in the air.  Even though in principle, a paraglider is not that different from any of the other aircraft I piloted, it is the first time that I controlled one by shifting my weight.  The feel and the sound of the air rushing past my face added an extra dimension to the flight, a sensation that in some ways was similar to windsurfing.

At the end of that day, I realized that I may have miscalculated what a seventy one year-old body can do.  The difficulty lay not learning the skills.  Aside from my usual flexibility challenge, I could perform almost as well as the younger set. The difference was the extended recovery time which my body required, but did not get.  Day by day, I was feeling more pain and getting more tired.  The allure of flying kept me going, but on the sixth day (a bit sooner than God) I decided to stop and rest.  I accomplished the main part of my goal.  I could quit now, and without (too many) regrets, continue happily on my travels.

For a video of my first Takeoff, click the link below.
First Takeoff (video)