High Flying

I've tucked my flying away for a while so that I could properly focus on my Ironman pursuits this year and so that the fly rig could remain a sanctuary of joy in my life rather than a source of stress and frustration. However, in celebration of recovery week, my itchy fingers clicked on the sign-up button for Sunday's intermediate fly class out on Pier 40.

After a relatively relaxed but restless week, I eagerly rode my bike downtown, backpack full of grips, twisting belt, lock and knitting.  Windy conditions greeted me on my ride, but I thought nothing of them.  Arriving at the rig, I was happy to see several familiar faces that I had missed nearly as much as the rig itself.  And still, until I climbed that ladder and stood on the platform, I didn't recognize how much of an impact the wind would have on my psyche.

If I thought coming back after a month without flying would be frightening, it was nothing compared to being on that board with the (mostly irrational) fear of being blown off during a particularly powerful gust.  While each turn found me a bit more acclimated, a little more at home than the one before, it nonetheless felt like each was a tour of duty from which I needed to recover when getting down.  Truthfully, I haven't felt quite this nervous flying in years, and I felt a little like a beginning flyer - nervous on the board, worried about not being able to get that second hand on the bar, and oh so relieved to be in my belt.

Layouts were the order of the day -reminding my body what was expected from it on the rig.  While mediocre,  I was relieved to discover that I hadn't forgotten 8 years worth of training in a single month.

And now, a few days later, muscles that were neglected still complain about being woken from hibernation, while my soul thanks me for taking to the air.