What does my microlight say about me?
Nigel got his microlight pilot’s licence five years ago. He has flown all round the country in his plane. ‘When you’re flying, nothing day-to-day crosses your mind,’ he says. ‘And the views are fantastic.’
And what it really says
A flexwing microlight looks a bit daft when it’s not in the air – a cross between a motorbike sidecar and a kite. It seems flimsy. It doesn’t look like anything much: a bright and shiny piece of aero-kit. But it is closer to heaven than a Popemobile.
Nigel is a man with much on his mind, but when he’s flying a microlight, there can be nothing else to think about. If you don’t concentrate, work the controls correctly, get the propeller going, catch the wind and sail on it, you will fall out of the sky. I like the fact that you have to wear a helmet. As though that would make any difference if anything went wrong. Perhaps the helmet keeps some of Nigel’s heat in, for a microlight is not a cosy place. It’s as though he’s wearing a slightly heavy sleeping bag with wheels attached. I hope he has decent thermals.
What flying a microlight says about Nigel is that he’s organised and dedicated. You need to clock up a certain number of flying hours to be let up there on your own, and you need to be utterly sure of your aircraft, to know that there are no defects, no wear and tear, that it is in as perfect nick as possible.
And then, while you are flying, like a bird, like a spirit, steering with your hang-glider frame, you can look down on the world. See its patterns and shapes, the rhythm of it, how the natural and the man-made fit together. You can look down, in the silence and the noise, and witness it all, without having to talk to anyone while you do so.
No need to see the crunch of human and nature where they actually meet, on the ground. You are busy being God, for a while.
If you would like Miranda to cast an eye over your favourite possession, email a photograph to magazine@observer.co.uk
