My favorite Five for Fighting song croons, "Men weren't meant to ride with clouds between their knees." Every word in that song has resonated with me. Soulful delivery of spine-chilling, soul-baring lines, except this one. I don't agree with this one.
There are no clouds between my knees today, but there is a throttle that controls every roll, pitch, and yaw of this glider. I've never seen anything like this, this engine-less plane. It's small and flimsy, like a big-people version of the paper-airplanes you used to make to annoy your teachers.
There's an unnerving elegance and grace to these gliders, though. Their narrow wings are sleek, and they cut silently through the air. The clear cockpit is barely a barrier between you and the open sky.
There's no noise except the wind rushing past, no roar of an engine, no smell of gas. The freshest mountain air hits through a small window vent, and if drive it right, you feel like you're floating.
I've never seen Lake Tahoe like this, but now I know why birds fly and eagles soar.
"I can't stand to fly," my favorite song begins, and here I literally disagree. All my life I've tried to fly high, whether it's the wind whipping my hair across the ice, blood-chilling snow flying down a ski trail, or silks whooshing past my ears as I free fall and catch. There is no feeling like flying, and these gliders are one of the most unique ways to get there. The only thing I would have done differently is lunch. Skip the mayo-heavy glutton-graze that I did at Adele's and eat lightly before becoming airborne.
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