Strap a powered propeller to your back, launch an oversized kite above your
head and run like a lunatic across a field. With luck — and perhaps a little
judgment — you’ll fly.
It’s almost that simple. And this simplicity is at the heart of what makes
paramotoring the fastest growing form of aviation and one of the most
exciting new adventure sports.
Invest in the proper training and equipment, and all you need is a patch of
open ground and co-operative weather to find yourself soaring serenely at
3,000ft or gunning along the beach with your feet dragging in the surf.
That’s the target, at least. But first you have to sweat.
It feels faintly comic being harnessed to what looks like one of Caractacus
Potts’s home-made flying machines, while running up and down a Spanish
airfield, practising takeoffs, and drenched in perspiration. All that
dehydrating, knee-buckling effort is forgotten once you’re airborne and
indulging in one of mankind’s most enduring passions — flight. At that
moment, 500ft up on my first solo excursion, I barely notice the whine of
the engine or the roar of the wind because I’m knocked out by the view, the
sense of freedom and the apparent calmness of life in the sky. All mixed
with a healthy knot of panic about what might happen if the engine fails,
the canopy collapses, or a freak storm blows in.
Paramotoring — sometimes called “parajetting”, although there are no jets
involved — was invented in the 1980s when a French paraglider pilot modified
a lawnmower engine, attached it to his harness and jumped off a hill.
For years it remained largely the preserve of lone daredevils, skydivers and
paragliders. But in recent months it has, well, taken off. There are between
40,000 and 50,000 active paramotor pilots worldwide. This is in part down to
the latest “ram-air” wing technology and engine design advancing to the
point where paramotoring is more affordable, safer and easier to master. The
rising cost of fuel also means small-aircraft pilots are searching for
cheaper ways to get their airborne kicks, while skydivers seek a less
intense but more sustained buzz.
The experts recommend a six-day training course before you attempt to fly
solo. I’m attempting to pack it into about half the time. Thankfully I’m in
the expert hands of Alex Ledger and his team at SkySchool Flight Centre
(www.skyschooluk.com), at Aerodromo Ordis, near Figueres, in northeast
Spain.
Ledger, 25, set up SkySchool in 2004 and is leading the UK campaign to
regulate the sport in terms of standardised training and qualifications. We
kick off with a run through some basic aeronautical theory and the
equipment: a wing of about 280 sq ft attached to a harness from which the
pilot hangs, and a 120cc 18bhp two-stroke engine, which powers a propeller
measuring about 4ft
in diameter strapped to your back. Not to mention the helmet and parachute.
The first thing you have to learn is how to keep the wing, also known as the
kite but actually a sort of inflatable elliptical canopy, above your head.
I’m handed a 130 sq ft training wing and it’s out into the sun for a spot of
kite flying.
“No problem,” I think, having taught my children to master their stunt kites
on Wimbledon Common. The trouble is that this kite is huge, unwieldy and
boasts four sets of lines for each hand, which change the shape of the wing,
inflating and deflating it in subtle ways, depending on the wind. Instead of
wrestling with it you’ve got to “feel the wing”, says Ledger, with gentle
hand movements.
Launching and controlling the wing is the non-scary bit, of course. Taking off
and landing are a different matter. We are eased into this process by the
towing technique, whereby a pair of instructors prevent you from hurtling
off into the clouds by running ahead of you with a rope attached to your
harness. This way you fly for 100 yards or so, at a maximum altitude of
about 20ft, before returning to earth with a bump. At this stage we’re still
relying on the lift provided by the wing alone — we haven’t even fired up
the motors yet.
I lie in bed that night exhausted, my arms covered in Amy Winehouse-style
abrasions from the wing’s lines and as excited as a six-year-old on
Christmas Eve. At 7am the next day the weather is perfect for beginners
(there’s no wind) and I’m trying to convince myself that the hollowness in
my stomach is down to forgoing breakfast. It’s finally time to fire up the
engine and take off. I’m mentally racing through the things to remember:
stay upright and keep running; hands up off the brake lines on takeoff; feel
the wing; be aware of buildings and pylons; keep checking the weather; and
always land into the wind.
The paramotor itself is cripplingly heavy and when you start it with a
hand-held lever it will knock you off your feet if you crank it up to full
power. The prospect of combining the launching of the wing, guiding it with
my far-from-featherlight touch and controlling the engine is daunting.
My first takeoff attempt ends in humiliating failure as the wing collapses
when I’ve barely left the ground. Ledger assures me this is due to the lack
of breeze. A second try and we’re off, Ledger calmly talking into my ear via
a radio to remind and reassure.
I climb steeply, limbs tight, heart in mouth, brain blocking out the “what
ifs”. Only once I’m up a few hundred feet and I’ve wriggled into my seat do
I remember to breathe, relax my body and take it all in. The thrill of
cruising the skies, open to the elements but harnessing them to your
purpose, is almost indescribable. The world is a more beautiful place from
the sky.
I shift my weight one way or the other to turn with a little help of a gentle
tug on the brakes above my head. Increase the power and I’ll climb, ease off
and I’ll drift downward. It’s magically simple once you’re up there.
I start scanning the earth below, looking for emergency landing spots. I’m
also adjusting my perspective, picking out landmarks and the geography of
the area. Only occasionally do I experience panic: when a small gust of wind
pushes me involuntarily in one direction, or when the people on the ground
look so small it brings home how high — and exposed — I am.
Overall I feel surprisingly in control of the paramotor and wing, if not quite
enough to execute the spiralling pirouettes and high-speed ground-level
fly-bys the instructors demonstrated.
Too soon it’s time for landing. Gauging my approach, I line up into the wind
and shuffle out of my seat. Once above the airfield, kill the engine, weight
forward, gently on the brakes — am I going too fast? — one foot forward,
pull hard on the brake lines. One heart-stopping moment as the ground races
below my feet, and I’m down, with a big smile of relief and an immediate
rush of adrenaline. Now, of course, I can’t wait to get back up. Addictive,
this flying business.
THE SECRET OF GETTING AIRBORNE
1 The wing is about 26ft long, with small air pockets, or cells, lining the
leading edge. When you run into the wind, air is forced into the cells,
inflating the wing
2 The two-stroke 120cc engine gives a maximum 18bhp. Power is adjusted by a
hand-held lever
3 The propellor is 4ft in diameter and rotates at up to 9000rpm
4 Getting the wing off the ground is a bit like flying a kite, except you have
four lines in each hand. These divide into many more lines before connecting
with the wing, enabling subtle changes to its shape and inflation
5 Two more lines, attached to the right and left trailing edges, act as the brakes.
They are used with the throttle to control speed, direction and altitude
