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. Their 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.

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