It was truly a majestic sight: There I was, swinging high above the ground, gracefully dangling upside down, more bird than human, my perfect form outlined against the azure sky as spectators gathered below to cheer me on…
That’s how the fantasy version of “My Flying Trapeze Story” goes. The reality looks more like this: The sky is azure, all right, but nothing else is going as planned. Hands sweating, heart palpitating, extremities trembling, I stand at the top of a very tall platform, digging my heels into the thin metal railing that is the only thing separating me from relative safety and what I imagine to be certain death. An instructor is urging me to lean out ever further into the abyss, where I can (theoretically, anyway) catch hold of the trapeze bar. She’s holding me firmly by a corset-like harness that is digging into my ribs. “Go ahead,” she prompts me kindly. “You can do it.” No, I think to myself, unconsciously shaking my head. I don’t think I can.
When I look down past my feet, I can see the other class members staring up at me, shielding their eyes from the sun, willing me to go ahead and swing already so they can have their second or even third try at the trapeze. I’ve cleverly chosen to go last, so that I could watch everyone else and, I vaguely hoped, work myself into such an enthusiastic state that I would defy my abject terror and swing into space. Clearly that was not a good strategy.
The afternoon class, run by the Flying Gaonas at the Waveland Clock Tower in Lincoln Park, started out reasonably well. I took part without incident in the mandatory warm-up session, then chalked up my hands and headed over to the “practice” trapeze set, where we all took turns doing pull-ups. This is where my impressive lack of upper-body strength first asserted itself. “Gaaaaack,” I said, hauling myself up and, with huge effort, hooking my knees over the bar. “Good,” said another sympathetic instructor. “Now let go with your arms and dangle.”
Dangling, and the vulnerability it implies, is not one of my skills, but I did as I was told, gamely hanging there, upside down. “Nice job,” someone said, as I carefully unwrapped myself from my bat-like position. “Now it’s time to swing.”
We all headed over to an actual trapeze bar, suspended about six feet in the air. The idea was to climb onto an elevated mat positioned below the bar, grab hold and start swinging, using our legs to pump, slowly gaining momentum. After everyone else had gone, I gamely hopped up, gripping the bar in my chalk-coated (but remarkably still sweaty) hands, and hung there, waiting as the mat was removed from underneath me. That’s when the fun began: Grabbing my legs, the instructors pushed me backwards, yelling, “One, two!” at intervals.
That was my cue to pump my legs, as I would on a swing set. As I gained speed, my stomach started to flip over, and then, finally, I was zipping back and forth, swinging with alarming velocity until I was parallel to the ground. “Okay, drop!” came the call, and, feeling positively nauseated, I let go of the bar, surrendering to the six-foot free fall, tumbling in a most ungraceful manner into a tall, soft mat. “You need to try to keep your legs together,” came a voice. I squinted, and saw a concerned face floating overhead.
Then it was time to climb the tower-some three stories up-to face my fear, to fly through the air with the greatest of ease.
Instead, I stared into the void for 10 minutes and carefully climbed back down. Call it what you will; upon reaching the ground, I experienced a new awareness of my own mortality and an appreciation of the sheer pleasure of not being on a tall platform. “How good does that ground feel right now?” asked a grinning instructor. “Pretty good,” I muttered, looking up from my enthusiastic kissing of the soil.
In an interesting psychological twist, I found that no one in the previously friendly group wanted to talk to me or even make eye contact after my failure to fly. I was so happy to be down from that platform that I didn’t much care.
Later that day, when I told my parents about my (mis)adventure, they seemed utterly unsurprised.
“Yes, well, let’s keep in mind that you’re the same person who almost got the entire family trapped on top of a mountain in Switzerland,” my mom reminded me. “Remember? We were at the peak, and you refused to get on the tram that would take us back down. You said you didn’t trust that the ropes would hold. I think you just weren’t happy about giving up control.” Hmmm.
When I saw my therapist the next day, he had the good grace not to laugh.
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jreaves@tribune.com
