Pure speed

As the scream becomes overwhelming, I twitch my lower
legs slightly. I wobble. Trying to save myself, I flex an arm,
and suddenly, I’m spinning wildly. My arms are flailing,
and my body absorbs the crushing energy of the
screaming air. Although I am more than 10,000 feet up in
the sky, people on the ground can hear me grappling
with the atmosphere. I regain control, accelerating again, but it’s too late. I now have to save myself. I open my arms and legs. I feel the strain as my limbs soak up the speed. The scream dulls to a modest roar. After falling another 1,500 feet, I deploy my parachute, but I’m still a little fast. The risers yank me to a vertical position as the air is forced out of my lungs in a big grunt. My canopy opens. I inspect it and turn toward the landing zone while taking care of my “housekeeping” tasks. No traffic, slider stowed, chest strap loosened, visor up. As expected, I’m the only one in the area. I check the tetrahedron and prepare for a normal pattern and landing. It’s been a hell of a ride. Welcome to the world’s fastest nonmotorized sport: speed skydiving.

It’s round five in event two of the International Speed Skydiving Association (ISSA) World Cup Series hosted by Axis Flight School in Eloy, Arizona. Niklas, Brianne, Joel, and Alex have already landed. I gather up my rig, walk off the field, and surrender my helmet to the competition official. Attached to my helmet is the position logging device, or PLD, a small box that records my GPS position, allowing contest officials to determine my score. The official points to a scale. We all weighed in yesterday, but as allowed by contest rules, we are all being “ramp checked” again to ensure no one is cheating by adding additional weight. Once weighed, I drop my rig with my packer and report to the conference room to await the scores.

With only 200 jumps under my belt, I am a rookie compared to the others in the room, who are all members of the United States Parachute Speed Skydiving Team. I know I don’t have a chance of winning, but the atmosphere in the room is friendly, and the others are free with helpful advice while we wait for the scores to be tabulated. The judging is done remotely. Yesterday, the people who run the scoring software warned us that they were under a tornado watch and that if they had to evacuate, the results may be delayed. But this morning they let us know that the weather is fine and they “are ready to be judgmental.” The scores start coming in. As expected, Nik’s score of 530.8 kilometers per hour (329.8 mph) is not just the best of the contest but is a new unofficial world record. Brianne turns in a respectable 461.6. Joel and Alex turn in 401.5 and 385.1. I’m last with 269.1, the tumble having cut my speed dramatically.

Since GPS altitude can vary significantly from barometric altitude, for official speed skydiving jumps the jump airplane is equipped with a special GPS display and tracker to ensure no one exits higher than 14,000 feet agl, the maximum altitude allowed by the rules. All scores are valid for this round. No re-jumps are required. Yesterday’s round one saw Nik and Brianne a couple of meters above the upper limit on exit, requiring them to re-jump that round. Unfortunately, the jumpers can’t see the official altitude, so they are at a disadvantage if the pilot lets the airplane creep upward a few feet.

Brianne has already manifested us on a load. As soon as the results are in, we all grab our rigs from our packers and start suiting up for a 15-minute call. I’m wearing my usual jump outfit, long sleeved T-shirt and BDU pants. They are comfy and have a pocket for my phone (which also has a GPS jump logging app running) but are not likely to help my scores. The rest of the group is wearing tight-fitting free-fly gear. Nik is sporting a shiny red skintight polyester-lycra-polyurethane suit, which he rubs down with silicone polish before each jump. It is a unique look to say the least. Coupled with Nik’s 6-foot frame and Viking beard, it’s a look that would make any Marvel comics villain have second thoughts about what his superpowers might be.

We load up last to be first out. Since there are five of us, we get our own jump run. Like Indy racers, we are staged by our expected speed—I’m last. The yellow light comes on and we open the sliding door. Nik leans out to check our “spot,” the location above the drop zone. At the green light, he crouches with his foot braced against the rear of the door jamb like an Olympic sprinter. His exit isn’t just falling, he pushes hard off the door, mostly horizontal, but slightly head down so the speed of the aircraft helps accelerate him downward. The others do the same. I haven’t practiced the sprinter exit, and I know that blowing the exit and tumbling for five or 10 seconds will not help my score. I rotate out into the cold air, hanging on to the “curtain rod” atop the door. I lean forward and release my grip, instantly sweeping my arms aft before pushing clear of the side of the fuselage with my feet. As I come off “the hill” and my forward momentum tilts downward, I twist my shoulders slightly making a planned 90-degree right turn, the opposite direction Alex went a few seconds earlier.

I now do everything my accelerated freefall instructor taught me not to do. I try not to arch while I tilt my head forward and sweep my arms even farther back. I’m accelerating, but even this high, I can tell I’m still tracking across the ground and not going straight down. As I move my shoulders ever so slightly, I feel like my head is about to tuck under and put me on my back. I stiffen—but not too much, I have to be able to feel the air. It’s an odd combination of stiff as a board, yet relaxed. I wobble a little but catch it by spreading my legs slightly. I sweep my arms back even more until my palms are touching behind my back in a position they won’t even reach on the ground, without the crushing force of the wind pushing my shoulders. It seems like only an instant has passed when my visor lights begin counting down the altitude—8,000, 7,000, 6,000—and at 5,500 feet, my visor lights twinkle white. It’s time to slow down. I swing my arms forward and feel the full effect of the wind trying to dislocate my shoulders. The screaming wind again eases to a dull roar. As I pass through 4,000 feet, I wave off and pull a little higher than normal. Because I wasn’t traveling straight down, I’m again quite a way east of the landing zone. I quickly do my “housekeeping” tasks, and with elbows close to my head to reduce drag, pull my rear risers to increase my canopy’s glide. With insufficient altitude for a full pattern, I set up a slightly modified base to final approach.

Back in the scoring room, I turn in a respectable 362.9. Still last place, but much better than the previous scores in the 270s. Two more jumps to go, and I’m realizing that this is taking a toll on my almost-65-year-old body. Round seven is good but not as good as round six. By round eight, I’m tiring and not holding my form very well. I try to go fast without losing control. My score falls into the high 200s. Nik, on the other hand, scores a record-shattering 535.4 (338 mph). We celebrate with a small award ceremony. Nik, Brianne, and Joel are first, second, and third, respectively. A few minutes later when I’m in the packing room, Nik says he’s glad to see me getting into this crazy niche of skydiving. I lament my slow speeds and low scores. He says, “Hey, look around.” There are probably 50 skydivers packing, talking, getting ready to get on a load. “You’re still faster than anyone else in this room.” I’ll get some practice and be back for the event in December.

Thanks to Nik Daniel and Brianne Thompson of Axis Flight School, the pilots and staff at Skydive Arizona, our contest judges, Toby Adams and Alix Raymond, and to our officiating observers Jochen Althoff and Martina Voeller.

Bob Carlton of Vertigo Airshows began flying in 1979 at the age of 19. He has since logged more than 2,000 hours in a wide variety of aircraft and holds a commercial pilot certificate. He has flown airshows professionally since 1993.