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Barry’s Flash II
Burscough, England March 1985
Leaping out, I ran to the back of Barry’s, creamy white, Daihatsu van.
There she was, rested upon her silver aluminium, two wheel, trailer. It was hard to believe, hidden beneath a red weather proof cover, was an aircraft.
Sticking out, front and back on the van’s roof, a ladder supported a thirteen foot long, horizontal, bag, which again, was red and made from the same waterproof fabric as the cover. The words, FLASH11, italicized in black were printed on it, starting about a foot from the rear end, on a sewn in strip of yellow. Dangling from it was a long tether of bright red, limp in the cold still air.
I was warm enough though. Barry told me to come wrapped up and wearing Wellies. It was good advice. The grass was very wet and muddy in parts. A cold mist hung around the tops of the trees. Like spectral monsters, grey and crooked branches, reaching out and disappearing into the white, watery, colloids.
My first thoughts were fears that I wouldn’t be able to fly again. The last time I had travelled out with Barry, some months earlier, he had a Flash 1. The main difference was the petrol can was on top of the engine which was inverted. His new Flash 2 looked much better.
The front passenger van door clunked open again and a rather thin man climbed out. He hadn’t spoken to me, on the way over and I drifted in and out of the two oldies conversation without interest. If I was being honest, I wished he hadn’t come. I wanted to fly and I didn’t want to be waiting around for someone else. The man had short, brown hair, a thick tartan jacket, blue jeans, and black Wellies. He looked like he was doing alright though.
For a minute or two, I sensed him looking over the whole thing, as I had done, and the man was probably feeling apprehensive about putting his life into Barry’s hands, and this little thing, made from metal tubes, fibre glass, and cloth.
I heard Barry slam the door shut on the other side, and immediately, he set to work untying thin black rope from around the ladder with what looked like a ship’s black mast on it.
“Here, give us a hand, won’t yer,” he said looking at the man. The man moved instantly to the back end of the long roll. “You lift that end, and I’ll lift this,” he said grabbing it firmly, in both hands, above head height. The man reached up, doing the same. “Okay, after three. One, two, three,” and they both lifted it up, and off the top of the van, resting it on the floor at the side of the trailer.
The man gave a little groan and I sensed there must be quite a lot of weight in it.
Barry smiled at him, a sort of, ha, ha, I might be old, but I’m stronger than you, then he began working on the trailer, untying and freeing the wheels, unbuckling the red fabric cover then throwing it off. He scrunched it up in his arms and threw it onto the front seat in the van.
After closing the door again, Barry stared proudly at the little, fibre glass pod, which looked like, a giant red, bullet shape, with a piece of black fabric trailing off to the back. A thick metal tube ran over the top of it and beyond the front of the pod.
Where am I going to sit? There were no visible seats, and the thing didn’t look like I had imagined it would, at all. The two blade wooden propeller, even faced up toward the sky, like a helicopter. I toyed with ideas about how this was going to work, but couldn’t figure it out.
“Do yer want some help with that?” said the man in the tartan jacket, distracting me from my thoughts.
Barry dropped down two metal ramps from the back of the trailer and gazed up smiling again. “No, I’m better doin’ this bit myself.”
We both stepped back, as Barry heaved the back of the aircraft up, its wheels now on the top of the ramps, and Barry was immediately taking its weight, with his shoulder then his hands pressed firmly against it.
He stepped back slowly, allowing the aircraft to carefully descend the ramps onto the ground then he marched around to the front where a single front wheel remained perched on the edge of the trailer. Barry wasted no time; it was obvious he had done this many times before, lifting up the front, he walked it backward, a little way, and rested the whole thing on the grass.
I still couldn’t see how this was going to work. Even so, I knew that somehow it would, and felt excited at the prospect, as well as a little nervous and hesitant about something so small, carrying two grown men up into the air.
“Right, if you want to get an end on this.” Barry pointed and I stepped forward eager to help, but Barry stared to the man, so once again I stood down.
The man looked pleased and quickly danced across the grass. He lifted his end up at the same time as Barry and they moved some distance away from the van, further onto the field.
I was beginning to feel like a spare part, rejected, second in line. I wanted to help. I wanted be a part of the whole process, but that wasn’t happening and I felt like Barry didn’t even care I was there. On the way over he barely spoke to me. “Ten pound toward the petrol would be helpful, and you are over eighteen aren’t you?”
That was a bit worrying, but I didn’t care. My desperation to experience Microlight flying, was so strong, it kept me from showing my displeasure.
A short distance away, Barry took big strides along the length of the bag, his back bent low over it, and a zip opening was the only sound coming across the field. I stepped closer with keen interest, and the bag spilled open.
Barry reached in and lifted out a much smaller, thin, red, bag, about six feet long, with black fabric handles, and placed it on the grass at the end of the large one.
Inside, a ship’s mast length of red and white fabric ran from one end of the bag to the other, and red wires, curled like long thin snakes from silver, tubular, metal. The bag still lay trapped beneath it, protecting the white fabric from the wet grass. Barry grabbed the metal, bent it at a joint and formed the shape of a large triangle. He joined two pieces together and slipped a pin through a whole, securing it with a ring clip.
“I’m going to roll it over now, so step back,” he said, waving his arms, shooing me away. “Ready, Bob?”
Bob lifted the back end up out of the bag, a few feet from the ground. Barry positioned the triangle on the grass, walked to the front and together they lifted, stepped sideways, and rolled the long length of fabric over, so that the triangle was now on the grass and the fabric mast and some long metal poles were on top of it.
Now I understood why Bob was getting all the attention. He had done it before. This wasn’t the first time he had set up a Microlight wing.
Barry released the cloth binds, which had held the whole thing together in a roll and the long metal poles separated. He moved to the centre between the two tubular lengths and pulled up a much smaller one. “This is the kingpost,” he said, slotting it in the centre.
I moved closer, sure he was talking to me. Bob will have heard it all before. He looked up meeting my eyes with a gentle smile. “Not too close, lad, you’ll see why in a minute.” Moving to the end of the wing, he slowly, barely lifting it from the ground began to step away from the centre, stretching out the fabric. Only a few feet at first then he moved to the other wing and did the same. Back to the first one and then the other until finally a very limp shape of a wing with wires came up from different parts of its edge to the kingpost.
He stood up, pressing on his sides and back, for a few seconds. I guess he must be aching. Barry wasn’t a young man, lots of grey curly hair and a rugged, worn, face. He was a worker, but not a jeans man. Below his thick khaki green jumper he wore dark brown trousers and a pair of black wellington boots.
I didn’t really know him, even though for two minutes every morning, our lives crossed paths. As you know, I worked on the dock in Rigby’s dairy, dragging crates of empty milk bottles up to a conveyor. When I wasn’t doing that, I’d take my turn, throwing them on.
The conveyor took the crates inside, to a bottle washing machine, and eventually they would go out again, filled with fresh milk. It was a miracle of modern engineering.
Barry pulled alongside the dock in his Daihatsu van, slid back the door and unloaded his empty crates in front of me.
One day, after talking to Keith about hang gliding, he said, “Barry Crommit has one of them flying machines that look like a hang glider, with an engine.”
The following morning, I asked Barry if he would take me flying, and here I am, freezing cold, but very excited.
Barry opened the zip, on the small red bag. He withdrew lengths of thin white plastic, which curved on one end and had a green V shape on the other. He laid them down on the grass, largest at the centre working out to the smallest at the tip on the right wing then he pulled out some more with red V shapes on the end, and again laid them out, largest at the centre and smallest further away, along the left wing.
I knelt beside him, fascinated. “What are these for?”
“I’ll show you in a minute,” he said, taking the largest green one and sliding it into a sewn pocket beneath the wing.
“Do yer want me to help?”
“No, better do it myself,” he replied, slotting in the next one and then the next.
Eventually they were all in place, the ends of each one sticking out beyond the trailing edge of fabric. Barry knelt over them, one at a time using a curved piece of metal to pull string ties over the V shapes, holding the fabric tight.
“Now for the hard bit,” he said sitting on the grass with his legs either side of a piece of raised red fabric which I could only describe as its tail.
I heard Velcro tear apart then Barry stuck his hands inside, there was the chink of metal then I saw two lengths of thin white rope in Barry’s gripped hands. He let out a muffled straining sound and leant back taking the cord with him. At the same time the wings expanded and the fabric became taut.
When I peered in from over his shoulder, I could see there was a piece of metal on the rope with a hole in it and he stretched until it lined up with a metal peg, slotted it over and secured it with a ring clip.
Staring up at me, he smiled. “I’m glad that’s done.”
I stepped back, slightly embarrassed for letting my curiosity get the better of me. His eyes and his affronted expression said you’re in my space. I stared down at the white fabric with a red leading edge. It looked very much like a wing now, strong and curving along the front, like an aeroplane.
The man in the tartan jacket walked around to the wing’s nose as Barry stood up. His face appeared happier, and I wondered if he had been dreading that part, and now it was over. He should have let me do it, or the man in the jacket; we’re both younger than him.
“So have you ever flown before?” he asked.
“I was pleased, he was showing a bit of interest, finally. “Yes, I went hang gliding in Ruthin, North Wales, when I was sixteen. I saved up from a Saturday; window cleaning job, and my dad signed something, so I could do it. I think I was the youngest person to hang-glide at the time. The guy there, Paul, said I was anyway.”
“Right, step back, a bit, whilst we lift her up,” he said, bending down, gripping the tubular metal at the end of the tail. Bob did the same at the front nose section. “After three,” Barry said, “One, two, three,” and they lifted the wing into the air. The triangle sort of pivoted around, with the horizontal edge remaining on the ground, and the other two lengths went up to each other, connecting at the centre of the keel, near a square metal plate. Barry rested the back of the keel on his shoulder.
“Have you got it?” asked Bob.
“Yes, it’s fine,” Barry replied.
Then Bob let go and bent to the ground, picking up a metal catch. Two wires ran from it to the corners of the triangle, and two more wires ran from the corners to the underside of the tail, close to Barry’s hand.
Bob hooked the catch over something, a metal plate, with a small bar across it, at the nose. With one hand he pressed firmly on the catch forcing it firm against the plate. His face appeared strained and the wires tight. With his other hand, he pushed another metal peg through a hole, securing it with a ring clip. I could see his body relax once it was done. “Right, nose catch is in and secure,” he said, staring back along the keel to Barry.
“Okay, I’m going to let her go to you.”
Bob smiled and nodded, holding tight on the wing then Barry released the tail. Slowly, Bob lowered the nose onto the grass by his feet, and the tail swung up into the air.
I strolled around behind Barry, amazed at how enormous the wing looked. It was clear he was inspecting it, running his eyes across the trailing edge. “I’m just checking all the battens are secure.”
Was this his way of training me? He looked up at the V shapes and the string holding them in. Then he ran his hand along the leading edge, stopping at a curved zip on the wing’s underside. Pulling the zip open, he peered inside. It looked very odd with head completely out of sight as if it had been chopped off.
“Come on, have a look if you want,” he told me, his head reappearing from inside the wing.
I sensed I was starting to enjoy this experience, and for a second I stared into his blue grey eyes.
He nodded toward the zip hole, encouraging, “Take a look.”
Inside the wing, a big tubular bar ran the length, from the tip to the keel, and I could see how the battens, like ribs formed the shape of the wing, curving ends tucked around the thick, tubular metal, on the leading edge. Bending my knees I lowered out of the zip hole.
“Come around here,” he said, urging me to follow him to the top side, where the nose stood on the ground. “We always need to check the nose catch is in and secure.” Barry lifted up the wing and pointed at it. “See where the peg goes through?”
I nodded and smiled.
“And the ring clip,” he said, flicking it with his finger, “It ensures it can’t come out.” He placed the nose back on the ground and stepped quickly around to the underside again. He grabbed a hold of the triangular bar, running his hand up and down on it. “This is the control frame and down here,” he said, kneeling down touching it with his finger, “Is the control frame corner. We need to always check the peg is through and a ring clip is securing it.”
At the top of the control frame, where it meets the keel, there was a black metal block with a hole in it. “What’s this for?”
“Oh, you’ll see in a minute.” Barry stood up and walked away from the wing toward the red bullet shaped pod. “Just step away now, whilst I drag her over.” He picked up the front end and wheeled it over to the wing, stopping near the square metal plate. Barry moved around it, lining up the tubular pole above the pod with the plate then he slipped a thick metal bolt through it, connecting the pod to the wing. “This is called the hang bolt and it’s what keeps us connected to the wing when we are flying.”
Yikes, that doesn’t sound good. My life hangs on one little bolt. I think Barry saw my concern because in the next breath he smiled and said, “It’s very strong and it’s not going anywhere.” He screwed on a wing nut and secured it with a ring clip then he moved around to the front of the wing again. “I think you had better move out of the way.” He started lifting the nose of the wing up and the pod rolled backward. I jumped out of the way and the wing’s tail rested on the propeller’s hub, which still faced upward.
I couldn’t see how it was going to work. “So where are we going to sit?”
Barry laughed. “You’ll see in a minute.”
I realised I sounded a little confused and impatient.
Suddenly a tinny sound, like a lawnmower engine came out of nowhere. I couldn’t see anything, just greyed out trees in the distance and a very misty white sky. But the sound was getting louder and all three of us stared into a blanket of white and a hazy sun. Very quickly, a grey shape in the sky became dark then a triangular wing, a bullet pod and two people with helmets descended into the field in front of me. The engine hummed and it glided over the ground, like a giant yellow bird, gently touching down. It slowed on the grass then its engine revved up again, the propeller span even faster, as the pilot steered the aircraft over, parking it beside us.
It looked very similar to Barry’s, except it was bright yellow. The pilot rested the wing tip on the field, slipped off his helmet, placed it on the ground, unbuckled his seat belt, and stepped out onto the grass. I almost laughed out loud seeing the man stood there in his boiler suit. He looked more like Bob the builder than a pilot.
Barry strolled over and shook his hand. “Good flight?”
“Yeah, not bad, once you get through the mist, it’s a bright blue clear sky up there. I was a bit worried when I couldn’t see the field though.”
“I know, I was thinking about setting up and waiting for the sun to burn it off,” Barry replied.
“It should do, but the fields a bit muddy, slipping all over the place when we touched down.” The man turned around, as a lady stepped out of the pod, unaided. She slipped off her helmet, placing it on her seat. He looked like he started to run to help her then realising he was too late, stopped and turned around to Barry again.
The woman stared daggers at him, and he looked uncomfortable, pretending not to notice. I thought it was very funny.
“Right, see you later then, I think we’ll go, and see if we can get a coffee.” The man walked off across the car park, to the pub.
Barry nodded at the woman and turned away. “Let’s get this wing up, shall we,” he said to Bob.
Bob held the back of the cockpit, where the engine and the propeller were then Barry bent down and lifted up the control frame from the floor. He lifted it into the air, at which point, the propeller rotated back from a horizontal to a vertical position. The engine did the same, and the frame where the black fabric attached to the pod, clipped together, leaving two clearly visible black fabric seats.
I could hardly believe my eyes. What a great idea. One minute a scrunched up piece of black fabric, the next, two seats with seat belts and somewhere for me to put my feet.
Barry fastened the control frame, back against the seats with the rear seat belt then he collected another metal pole from the van, and slotted it, top and bottom, into place using yet another peg and circle clip.
Now Barry’s Microlight looked identical to the other one, except for the colour and I knew it wouldn’t be long until we were ready to go.
“Bob, I’ll take you up first and when we get back, I’ll give, young Mike, here, a little go around the field.”
Once again I was feeling dejected. I didn’t want a little go, I didn’t want to be second best, but what could I do? Not so much without losing my chance to fly.
I followed Barry and Bob back to the Daihatsu, finding great amusement in them dressing up in their Bob the builder outfits. Barry must have noticed because he said, “Stops things from falling out of our pockets and going into the propeller.” I nodded, as if I cared, and Barry passed Bob one of the two white helmets.
“Cheers, Barry,” said Bob.
Barry looked me and smiled. “Sit in the van if you want, it’ll be warmer.”
“Okay, in a bit, when you’ve gone.”
The mist was starting to lift, but it still wasn’t great and I worried, hoping they would find their way back.
Suddenly the man from the other Microlight appeared, “Ready for the off then?”
“Yes, I think it should be okay.”
The man agreed, and the two of us watched, as Bob then Barry climbed into the little aircraft and fastened their seat belts. Barry reached into the pod, by his feet, and came up holding a handle attached to a cord. He flicked a switch, on the right side, not far from where I was standing.
He looked around on both sides to the back. “Clear Prop!” then he heaved on the cord and the propeller span around a couple of times and stopped. He tried again, flying back in his seat, and slamming into his passenger. He was determined to start it, but again it didn’t. His face filled with fight and on his third attempt, the engine zoomed into life, and the propeller became almost invisible.
I stepped back, instinctive to my own closeness to it. The engine noise was even louder and the propeller spun even faster, but the aircraft didn’t move. Barry must have given it as much power as it was willing to give, the engine screaming out like a banshee, but still it wouldn’t move and after a minute or so, he reached to the side and flicked a switch, cutting the engine. “We’re stuck.”
The man and I strolled over to him. “It’s the mud, the wheels have sunk into it and it’s stopping you from moving. Do you want me to give you a push?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind,” replied Barry.
I stepped away on the shale and the man went around to the back and started pushing on the propeller’s centre plate with his shoulder.
“Bloody hell,” he said, huffing and puffing, and pushing, and slipping around. His wellington boots were sliding all over the place, on the brown sodden mush, and I thought he was about to give up, when he dug his heels in, and heaved again. “Arrg, come on you bugger,” he moaned, putting everything he had into it. This time the Microlight moved forward then up and out of the muddy dip, which had held it still.
It was free and rolled quickly away, as the man’s wellies slipped backwards and he landed face down in the wet and mud.
For a few seconds he lay there, sprawled out, face down and I couldn’t help laughing raucously. He looked up, his face covered in brown mud, making me laugh so hard it hurt.
Two white eyes glared at me and I tried to stop. He climbed to his feet, shaking mud from his hands. All down the front of his boiler suit was ruined.
Barry glanced back to each side of his propeller, unaware of what had happened. “Clear Prop,” he shouted, again. The engine fired into life and the propeller rotated wildly, but this time as the engine noise increased, the Microlight rolled down the field.
The man looked at me, embarrassed. “What you looking at?” he growled.
I just smiled, whilst trying to control the laughter inside me, which was bursting to escape, and he walked off back toward the pub.
I was so glad I came, even just to see the man in the mud, but my adventure in a Microlight had only just begun and I could hardly wait for Barry’s return.
At the far end of the field, he, and Bob were two small, grey shapes, merged into the aircraft. The wing moved from side to side, and up and down, then for a second or two it remained horizontal, and still.
The trees, greyed out behind it, looming, crooked and bent, over the little machine then suddenly the engine screamed with all its might and Barry, and Bob, tear arsed down the field toward me. They flew up into the air, and I watched with excitement, until they disappeared into the mist and the screaming sound of the engine faded to a distant hum.
Strolling back to the van for a warm, I wondered how long they would be gone, and hoped they would make it back alive.
If you are enjoying this story you might want to leave a comment or you might want to read more of my stories:
Sam and The Sea Witch
http://www.amazon.com/Sam-The-Witch-M-P-Ward/dp/1771273976/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1398201334&sr=8-1&keywords=sam+and+the+sea+witch
Sam and the Beast of Bodmin Moor
http://www.amazon.com/Sam-Beast-Bodmin-Moor-Witch-ebook/dp/B00HWKVIPW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1398200221&sr=8-1&keywords=sam+and+the+beast+of+bodmin+moor