Paragliding is a matter of maths.
You launch, fly, land, bash or crash.
How you meet the ground depends on maths.
Maths is key to survival.

Allowances for maths out of your control, will drive your fun.
Wind, heat, thermals and other pilots in the sky.
Unforgiving ground is gravity's final aim.
The wind will blow, thermals will lift, but gravity's maths will always win.

Your time in the air, and possibly life's end, will depend pilot error.
But gravity's maths doesn't care, he is all.
Gravity is annoyed with paragliders aiming at the ground with miss.
Gravity has calculated it's maths.

He spies those who fly forever, and wishes them on the ground.
With silence and invisibility, he draws those pilots in.
Some follow the maths and land with ease.
Some ignore the maths with peril.

Gravity's maths will always win.

Ian rules the skies, or so he thinks.
He sweeps, swoops and flies.
Ian flies high, but often sinks.
This chimp thinks he is a master of the skies.

Wind strong, gusty and more east.
#Ianthechimp eyes up his strong launch stance.
Paragliding wing is placed in full view of the beast.
The beast, the east, sees his chance.

With gusto, malice and a cheeky blast.
The east wind has no regret.
Ian, launch, lifted as he is turned fast.
Words wafted up high ... OH ****.

A wild swing as the chimp holds rake.
The beastly east tries some more.
One eye closed, Ian applies brake.
East is beaten, Ian is secure.

Yet the east, the beast, lies at height wait.
Ian climbs out of Cayton Bay.
The wind is hiding high with lifty bait.
Ian takes the leaving line, refusing to stay.

The beast announces himself with malice.
Ian regrets his cross country aim.
Losing speed and height palace.
Reach for Filey Brigg, or run without shame.

Turn, aim home and fly fast.
The beast has one more trick.
Return to the bay with turn last.
He hits the paraglider like a brick.

Wobble, rotor, accelerated flight.
A return to the safety of the bay.
To land on top would cause fright.
****** that Ian, beach landing with obey.

What have we learnt about the beastly east.
With its mean, malice and playful unfun.
Don't challenge, else decease.
Play in the air, climb and top land shun.

It’s as though Filey Bay with its east-facing rifts and cliffs were visible;
as though the full-bodied gusts that blow over it, freighted with lift, sea thermals and the bloated bodies of over-ripe chimps, were thermals, sideways tracking and printed with spirals that mark a slow convergence of warm and nutrient-rich, cold air.

What rides this marriage of elements
does so with a paragliding wingspan
hammered from great distances,
its leading edge containing worn emblems and fading lines, such as might be found within the pages of a flight log from a time when travel was slow, when destinations involved a leaving of land based friends and tidal lines while crossing of Bay of Filey.

Soaring and gliding are this flying chimps only reasons, in all type of weathers and seasons cold, for flight. Reighton in from the south, it angles away and down, almost wetting the tip of his leeward wing before braking alternative, for upswell of Ian's wing, missing the cliff and sampling his own reflection, where he brays a holler, from missing Micks tree, so this long-range survivor.

And when, after days of gliding, its Ians bones take on the ache of flying high above sea, Ian will follow a fellow wing, inspecting it for a fellow chimp pilot, a friend or foe, for anything upon which to follow.

To find a paragliding mate, the female paragliders gather on barren Speeton cliffs surrounded by suitors, each one expectant and competitive in the sleek, highly coloured wings of their kind.

Flying chimps having found each other, they remain at the centre of flying weather cycles, expecting to fly, remain in company and lack separation for up to eighty years (Eighty YEARS!), despite some absences, despite their differences.

See them coming in – multicoloured gliders with harness gear and boots that paddle for purchase on the stones of slippery landings and wet beaches where their paragliding friends are waiting, alike
and yet unique, their singular wants and call to flying, dividing a raucous field with welcome.

One paragliding want. One life, together. And for every chimp that crashes and breaks under terrible weather, a fledgling pilot will emerge to test his wings and stand its ground after 2 long weeks training, and then leave the paragliding school to circle the globe, solitary in its preparations for flight, #Ianthechimps flying in thermic air made manifest in his I love to fly chimp brain.

I wandered lonely as a chimp
That flies on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a shrimp,
A ghost, of golden thrills;
Beside the lake, beneath Ian's knees,
Flying and fluttering in the breeze.

Cumulus clouds building before the rain
And thermals lifting on the way,
They stretched in never-ending plane
Along the margins of Filey bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The clouds over Filey Bay danced; they
out-did the sparkling waves containing wee:
#Ianthechimp is definately not grey,
The hairy chimp did not ***:
Ian gazed—and gazed—but little thought  (as usual),
What lift the clouds to me had brought:

For this aft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in grumpy mood,
They flash upon that final fly
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And paraglides with ok, but adequate flying skills.

Harry, 27 years of flight and knowledge
Flies, has flown and will to fly.
Who taught his skill and grace.
To launch soar, to climb and land.
Long experience is no replacement.
Perhaps a want to listen, even with my only 5.
Primrose eats unwary or over ripe pilots.
The ones who think rotor is flyable.
The ones who think rotor is kind.
Primrose rotor is a monster lying in wait.
He will bite any pilot, whether 1, 5 or 27.
Be warned, listen to those who have seen others damaged.
Don't walk away with sarcastic thanks.
Listen ... avoid the Primrose rotor monster.

I smile more than most I know,
I look down at many pilots below.
I laugh at those of equal height,
I look up to others with envious might.

Clouds with beckoning feel,
draw my want without reveal.
To look down on birds in flight,
paragliding is my delight.

Those who offer venomous spite,
will suffer fools contrite.
Flying restricted on various days,
with onlooker bewildered daze.

Begger them and with angry call,
those who fly will avoid the squall.
We laugh, we hollow, we fly,
best to avoid the obvious lie.

Live to paraglide, live to glide,
avoid stupid behaviour cause of collide.
Sink, soar, climb or thermal,
delay the inevitable deferral.

Land with full public gaze,
out of seat, hands up with awesome grace.
Just a want to fly and sky play,
with sky gods I pray.

Avoid stupid maniac behaviour,
the club is heading towards failure.
For we, the coastal pilots may vote,
to tell the hill types to revoke.

I because I Iove to fly,
not to to fight with overlie.
Reasons to fly, avoid obvious scorn,
I because paragliding ****.

Free flight is freedom in its purest form,
To cloud play with must to avoid storm.
To roll, glide, dive, spiral and avoid spin,
To feel the scream that swells within.

Climb thermals, leave the earth, troubles and fly,
Know thermic air warmth of a clear spring sky.
Back to ground at the end of a day,
Tensions, stress and worries which have melted away.

Should my terminal come while I am in flight,
Sky clear, rain or darkest blight;
Your unwanted pity, I shrug off the pain.
My knowledge is secure that I'd do it again.

For each paraglider pilot was created to fly,
Gravity, earth and water defy.
And within me I know, I was born to soar,
With life, to live, to fly and restore.

I wandered lonely as a chimp
That floats on high o'er Brid and bay,
When all at once I saw a gull,
A host, of golden soaring birds;
Beside the sea, over the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

I must paraglide up to Speeton cliffs again, to the orographic and the grey,
All I ask, to launch high or low, and the chance to get away.

I quest wing’s surge, dynamic song and cliff clouds’ drifting,
A warming suns face on exposed tidal rock, offering warm air’s lifting.

I must climb the skies again, the desire to soar and glide,
Free flight's call, aching clear, that may not be denied.

All I ask is a sun filled day, with bright height’s gaining,
Least worry about cu-nim, with its towering dominance maintaining.

I must soar across the transition again, with glide and hopeful flight,
Follow the soaring sea birds ways, gully filled rocks with free wings delight.

Things I ask are friendly words with fellow paragliding rover,
And to avoid landing disaster when the long flight’s over.

Caravan avoid, rear flying and flapping wings with their last breath,
Please, please, avoid potential death.

When I was 49, I dreamed of being a paragliding King and having everything I wanted.  But that was long ago, and my dreams did not unfold, so I'm still the King of nothing.

When I was 50 I dreamed I gave my email to a flying Queen and then I held her.  But that was FlySpain's fault for I have no job at all, and I'm still the King of nothing.

If I could rule, I'd fly my cares away, find lifty air every day.  I wouldn't have to listen to other Kings and Queens, poor fool say I'm the King of Kings, I'm the King of nothing.

All Hail the King and Queen

There's nothing untoward counting the aftermath facing everyone latter beckoning a risky endeavour.  Soaring inward masks a 'orrible through east down overbeach.

I've seen paragliders you people wouldn't believe.
Race D wings on fire off the shoulder of Le Saleve.
I watched C wings glitter in the dark near Troinex landing.
All those moments will be lost in the summer of 2019, like… farts in wind.
Return to the UK. Time to fly.

What a plan, to fly, to paraglide, to leave the land and soar like a bird.

What a plan, to travel along cliffs, to climb thermic air, to aim at the horizon and spy lesser birds far below.

What a plan, to land where chosen, to pack away, to smile ear to chimp ear and walk head held high.

What a plan, to give grace to others, others who have kissed a train, untwisted tight lines and still laugh at the spectacle.

What a plan, to look back, laugh at knocks, unpick decisions and live to fly another day.

What a plan, spite and bad feeling behold, may the flying go flying and ignite that paragliding feeling.

What a plan ...

Gazing with a distant soft saddened stare, on a paragliding landing zone and I'm staring out there.

Turbulent emotions are mangling my soul. Incoming pilots flying solo with no self control.

Headfirst - a nose dive in progress, post collapse.  Thinking twice - a complex process.

Falling aimlessly towards the ground with constant flashbacks in mind. Gusting wind, and vortex turns rushing my eyes forcing them blind.

Gravity's strong pull is more than the wings want.  No turning back, a decision full blown.

Ground zero near, it's closing in fast. Seconds from death, my breath at its' last.

I'm screaming so loud, "For fecks sake, don't flap".   A nightmare will repeat, my mind is shook up.

I stand and stare at launch, with pilots falling to the ground.  Please stop this madness, this flapping, this turbulence, this potential death.

I cannot work.
I cannot work.
I cannot work.
(Really Ian, is that the best you can do?)
Ok, will try again

I cannot work.
I shall not work.
Far too lazy to work.
Did you ever really work?
Oh my god, what can I do next.

My nose hair grows.
My ear hair grows.
My little single pointy hair in between my eyebrows on my nose also grows.
My head hair doesn't

My man ***** are growing.
My waist is growing.
My fat head is growing.
My golden years of eating drinking and doing bgger all is behind me.

Hobbies to pass the time.
Flying, fishing and complaining about stuff.
Grumphing, moaning and grumbling.
Telling people to **** and bgger off.
Learning more from The Big Barnsley Book of Swearing.

The Paragliders Wish

High in the sky a paraglider does soar, fast and swift asking no more.

It beckons wing lift, as the thermals drift.
With majestic breath, and avoiding Death.

Flying is so free, he doesn't agree.
For he who is Death, beckons all those fools drawing last breath.

I wish those failing, choosing to ballot.
Land safely without break, avoiding sadness and forsaken pilot.