Time Out: Flying High

Despite finishing the 2014 Red Bull Air Race season in a very respectable fourth place, there’s no rest for Frenchman Nicolas Ivanoff. Preparations for 2015 have already begun, and with a top three finish and possibly a championship in sight, it’s nonstop for Ivanoff and his team. There are the odd days off, however, and that includes the day Ivanoff took me up in his two-seater Zivko to show me what it’s like to be flown on the ragged edge of human limits.

Nicolas Ivanoff, Red Bull Air Race pilot, at his most excitable. Seriously, it’s unbelievable how laid back he is

It’s a tiny little thing, the Zivko. ‘It’s just been flown over from the factory,’ declares Ivanoff casually, ‘I’ve not flown it yet.’ Great. Resplendent in bright orange, it could be described less as agile and more as flimsy. Still, there’s no backing out now. ‘The ailerons have a device that reduces resistance on the stick,’ team manager Jean-Paul Kieffer explains, ’so the plane can roll 360 degrees in less than a second.’ He demonstrates what he means with a particularly sudden and violent hand gesture, further adding to the terror building in my stomach.

Strapped front and rear in the diminutive cockpit, we taxi to the runway. I note, as I desperately try to think of anything other than my impending spaghettification, that everything in this plane is built to be lightweight. With less than 600kg to drag about, the 340bhp modified Lycoming engine should have no trouble pulling the plane forward, and the realisation is confirmed as we round the end of the runway and launch into a full-throttle takeoff.

The Zivko Edge 540-T, the two-seater version of the plane Ivanoff thrashes through Red Bull Air Race courses

No creature comforts here—if it ain’t needed, it don’t go in. As such, the Zivko tips the scales at an astonishing 600kg

But before I have a moment to think about the colossal speed pressing against my chest, Ivanoff banks hard right, flinging us out towards the countryside. We climb gently, Ivanoff offering a few words of encouragement, and some of warning. ‘When I tell you, tense as hard as you can.’ It’s a warning I take seriously, but one I find out I haven’t taken seriously enough. Imagine a roller coaster: climbing, climbing, climbing, it reaches the peak, dangles, then drops into a stomach-churning rush of speed and adrenaline. Pretty fun, right? That’s what I was expecting. But no—Ivanoff gives me the verbal nod, then proceeds to beat the living daylights out of me with gravity. He’s saying something—I think it’s a running commentary of the manoeuvres he’s flying—but I don’t have the ability to listen. All my concentration is spent keeping me from flailing around the cockpit like a rag doll caught in a tornado.

The 340bhp modified Lycoming engine likes a drink. Ivanoff fills up on the pad; pay at pump wasn’t available

Everything is performed with such brutal immediacy that it took a few hours after landing to fully comprehend it. I’ve been in a 70mph car crash before, and as horrifying as that was, it’s nothing compared to this. We roll right—smash—we pull back—thud—we roll left—crunch—we level out—splat. And that’s only the warmup: what comes next is what I can only describe as complete discombobulation. The horizon—what I can see of it—appears everywhere at once, and I’m repeatedly squeezed into then dragged back out of my seat in a full demonstration of Newton’s third law. It’s a full body workout, if being pulverised by an invisible MMA fighter can be considered a workout.

Finally, we level off. Ivanoff asks me what I think; I make a noise of some sort, can’t remember what. Then he asks me if I want to experience really high levels of g-force. ‘Sure,’ I say. Ivanoff rolls right and, in what I am discovering is his usual, immediate style, bangs the stick back. I can’t move. Not an inch. Sir Isaac Newton himself has his boot in my chest. We keep going, going, going, my vision falling back to tunnels pinpricked by bottle-end blurs. Eventually we roll out and Ivanoff asks, ‘More?’ and we go round again. The force piles on, crushing my innards against the seat, pulling my skin taught about my face. It’s like nothing else I’ve ever felt, and it’s relentless. Eventually, we roll out, and Ivanoff chuckles. ‘8G,’ he says.

A (terrified) aviator needs a timepiece: Hamilton’s limited edition Khaki Takeoff ought to do it

What’s the time? I’ll check. Wait, what? What happened to the horizon?

We come into land. I take some time to come to terms with what’s just happened to me, letting sink in the mind-bending realisation that, while I was only a participant in this fifteen-minute brush with mortality, Ivanoff was in control, keeping track of where we were in three-dimensional space as we tumbled through the air. But the most unreal part of it all? Straight after we landed, Ivanoff got out and had a sandwich. Crazy.

With thanks to Hamilton watches and Nicolas Ivanoff and his team for the experience. Visit hamiltonwatch.com and nicolasivanoff.com for more information.