Sometimes I want to be a child again. That first me – mostly instinct, there to play and play, full of life and promise and that feeling it will never end, of immortality in hand, his little hand that’s not my hand, but I remember.
If not a child today, then we can try another way Continue reading
Sharing the moment with my friend Vesso Ovcharov, 15km NW of Pazardzik.
As this tandem season is starting, I remember the last one – in Norway.
Let’s go fly, people! As the song in the video goes, “Kiss your fist and touch the sky”.
The curves of a woman or the curves of Pirin, it’s a similar affair, the passion is real, and love is strongest in spring and spring is strongest in love is strongest in the crisp air, between snow and sky, all is clear, the peaks are calling, goats and people feeling the urge, subconscious, go up, go up and feed yourselves, my children, says god, and we obey, in snow and sun and happiness, passengers on these slopes crossing paths, marking territory, we are here, and we’re alive, scavenging for the food these bodies crave, stalks of grass or fields of snow, we go feeding, eyes wide open, reflecting the shine of the crystals and things as they are, as they should be, pure and beautiful, we are players in the white garden.
As the winners, from 10th to 1st place, were called one by one to the loud applausе of the Mexican spectators and fellow pilots to the flooding lights of the podium, I was saluting them all at slightly different volumes, each determined by my respectometer, but saving my loudest to that one and only first place, to the Champion we have this year. Not just because he was first – I don’t care much about that (the respectometer determines your ranking better than the World Cup formula) – but because of the sheer style in which he won. Continue reading
It was two years ago, here in Valle de Bravo, that I lost my friend Rafal Luckos. But, back in the same narrow cobble stone streets, between the same traditional white-and-red houses, in the town garden in front of the same cathedral with the crazy pyromaniac priest shooting rockets from its roof at dawn, at a table at one of the cheap local restaurants at the market where we would have late lunch after a task, in the vans taking us on the red dirt road to launch, in the pine forest behind launch where we’d prepare our wings before takeoff, and, of course, back in the epic Valle skies – I remember my friend. And, with every letter and every word I write about him, I am reminding the world too that he existed, that he was here among us, laughing his big booming Polish heart out, shining his handsome teeth to any friend or passerby who would look his way, and, shouting the classic Rafal “ATTACK!”, charge the skies with the fastest and the best of us. Continue reading
Yesterday was the last day of the annual classic Monarca Open, here in Valle de Bravo, Mexico. Continue reading