It was a high-winged, tail-dragger monoplane and it was bought to pull girls. Except it didn't. And that's where the solution to everything began . . .
Antony Woodward wasn't interested in flying, he was interested in his image. So in his world of socialising and serial womanising, a microlight plane sounded like the ideal sex aid. So why - once he discovers that he has no ability as a pilot, it costs a fortune and its maddening unreliability loses him the one girl he really wants - does he get more and more hooked?
As he monitors the changes to the others in the syndicate; as he learns that there is a literal down-side to cheating in flying exams, shunning responsibility and pretending to know stuff you don't, the question keeps on surfacing. Why? As the misadventures mount - accidents, tussles with Tornadoes, arrest by the RAF - he keeps thinking he's worked it out. But it isn't until The Crash, in which he nearly kills himself and Dan (taking a short cut in the Round Britain race) that the penny finally drops . . .
Flying is the antidote to modern life he didn't even know he needed. It's the supreme way to feel real.
