The Flying of the Bulls

I expected to have a similar experience as Kafka, which he recorded in his story Aeroplanes in Brescia, but there were two problems. First, I don’t know what it was because I didn’t read the story, and second, there was no Red Bull in 1909. Of course, I’m talking about going to an Air Race event on Sunday.

Officially, it was called Red Bull Air Race Duel, and a duel it was indeed. Two pilots, a guy from Austria and a guy from Hungary (I think), flying between giant inflatable cones built up on pontoon platforms on Mozart’s Blue Danube. (Only the river’s sort of green/brown and anything but beautiful.) It was a timed race, and the idea was to fly the course faster than the other guy. Well, obviously. But instead of watching this race, I got to see other things that in their own way were even more interesting than two blue planes performing death-defying acrobatics under the Bratislava castle hill.

I went with my sister, who was mostly interested in taking pictures of the race, not the race itself. I pretended to be completely uninterested, only there as company, but I was actually going in hopes of seeing some cool flying and maybe a plane crash killing thousands. So there we were, getting off the bus at the bridge off-ramp and walking to the desperately crowded river bank. The organizers said a hundred K would attend, but I, never being good at guessing the number of people in a crowd, thought it was a lot more.

We decided to walk back to the bridge, onto the actual road, as did many other people. Maybe not the safest thing, but who cares, it was an adrenaline sports event. We walked up a grassy knoll leading to the asphalt-topped two lanes our bus covered just minutes ago. It was no place for lone gunmen, as someone decided to use the steep hill as a toilet, and the few meters of hiking were a test of the senses: the smell, the even worse sight of the shit-covered napkin. What a great day to be a fan of dangerous flying.

Merging with ongoing traffic may be pretty risky for two people, but since a rather large mob already decided to do so before us, the cars and semis, or their drivers to be precise, were alert and went by slowly. Our view of the river was OK, but the inflatable cones, the important part of the river, were blocked by trees on the river bank. We did see a plane fly through the obstacles a few times and do some wacky stuff, but our position was less than ideal for observing and practically useless for taking pictures. Also, leaning over the railing was anything but pleasant. We were on the part of the bridge that wasn’t above water, but it was still a pretty nasty fall down to all the people on the ground.

Speaking of people, I did have the chance to observe some pretty interesting stuff. First, on the bridge there was a couple of Russians standing all around me and the sis. To be honest, I only assumed they were Russian based on their looks, but I was unable to distinguish any words, so maybe they were speaking Ukrainian or whatever. But there was one guy with them who had the looks of a mobster on vacation from the underbelly of Moscow or Yekaterinburg. He had the shirt unbuttoned to reveal a hairy chest, the golden chain and big golden watch, the rascally, rugged looks, and the cool sunglasses. You know, a Russian.

Down under us, the people I was afraid I would crush as I’d fall on them, they were mingling among parked cars of the Red Bull people. There was this shiny new Hummer, the kind (and color) they have on CSI Miami, which is exactly what we both told ourselves, probably because the car is the only memorable thing about that catastrophe of a show. And this being Europe, and not exactly the rich part of it, big cars like this are rather rare, so a few people were taking pictures with it; something I found pretty stupid. Later I made my sister take a picture of me standing in front of an old Soviet car we found in a different parking lot, just to privately parody the hillbillies with the H2.

Of course, we soon abandoned our position on the bridge, not just because it was no good, but also because two metro cops were attempting to crowd control us all off the road. I though the two of them would make a wonderful couple on a TV show. One really thin and short, the other so fat you’d think he ate the small guy’s family for breakfast. But before we departed, we had the honor of hearing a man from the crowd argue with the cops in a very disrespectful manner. It had me thinking how cool it would be if the two cops called in a SWAT team and arrested our collective ass for slowing down traffic or something.

The plane we just barely saw from the bridge, that was just one of the pilots doing a test run and then flying back to a small airport which I didn’t even know existed before. Now, as we climbed back down the grassy knoll and didn’t shoot anyone, as we merged with the masses on the river bank and failed to be awestruck by Horatio’s truck, four planes flew above our heads, making people look up and stare straight into the shining sun. My parents’ daughter took some pictures, the shutter clicking rapidly to the sound of the four engines. The planes, by the way, reminded me of all the WWII movies I never enjoyed; their motors sounding the same as all those Junkers Stukas and Messerschmidts. If only they released bombs instead of the green smoke trailing their every complicated spinning move. Now that would’ve gotten the adrenaline flowing.

We did see the planes flying overhead, but from our position on the river bank, the inflated cones were now completely hidden behind the same trees that were in the way when we were back on the bridge. There was no chance of moving closer to Mozart’s muse, there were just too many people. Small children and everything. But, naturally, I had a plan. The bridge is not just the road. It also has a walkway for us regular pedestrians, and I wanted to go up there, but it was crowded as well. We tried anyway, but all we saw was a kid sitting on a bench in the shade and gasping for air. He was the nerdy metalist type. Long hair and concert T-shirt, but also glasses and outdated slacks. Then, more people everywhere, and no planes to be seen through either more tress, the bridge’s pillars, heads of other people, or lack of trying hard enough.

Anyway, it was a hot day and I couldn’t blame the nerdy metalist for almost fainting. The only refreshment available to the masses was a Red Bull stand selling (or giving away, I don’t know which since we couldn’t get near it) cans of their sugary beverage. In a more developed country, or a more fierce capitalistic society, there’d be Pakistanis and Gooks selling lemonade all over the place. This once again being the lamer part of Europe, where everyone‘s still so used to not being able to get anything they want (a thing we had here under the big red star and hammer and sickle), nobody thought of complaining or opening their own refreshments stand. They all brought their own water, everyone but us. My sister, the poor thing so used to better services from the time she spent in England, didn’t want to bring our own water, thinking we could buy some there. Here. But no. We were thirsty the whole time.

There was a dark blue chopper filming the whole thing, probably a Red Bull company copter documenting this promotional happening for the suits back in wherever’s their HQ. Naturally, it wasn’t in the air all the time, because neither were the planes. It landed in a field behind some more trees, where no one would stand even if there weren’t any fences closing it off. We decided to walk over there, giving up on seeing any of the stunts and the whole race, mostly because the sister of my nonexistent brother wanted to take pictures of the chopper landing. I admit it’s a pretty cool thing to see, and it was always my dream to fly (in) one of those things. Maybe a Huey cruising above the rice fields of southern ‘Nam. But this Bell they had here would do, too.

Probably because this just wasn’t our day, we missed the landing, but at least we got close enough for the wind from the rotor to cool us off. Then it went back to action, and my genetic double got the money shot done. We walked back to the mob under, on, and above the bridge, and this is when I posed with the ancient Lada Samara, a car named after the creepy girl in the creepy Japanese movie. Or, more likely, a car with absolutely no relation to the creepy girl from The Ring, or Ring-u if you will. This is also when my sister complained about the lack of political immigrants selling soda, and so we decided to walk to the nearby mall and buy bottled water suitable for infants. Not that I’m particularly picky when it comes to water, but that’s what they were selling. Evian or pool water, it all comes from the same source.

The mall and the subsequent bus stop on our way home were both filled with people who, most likely, gave up on seeing any airborne action just as we did. But it wasn’t all a useless waste of time, I suppose. I got to see crappy police work, crappy organization of a public event, and even someone’s old dried up crap. And at the end of the day, I got to wonder. All the people who had the good spots and saw everything, they probably had to arrive hours before the thing started, and they baked in the hot Sun we’ve come to hate and fear so much, because it kills the glaciers and causes cancer. So were the two planes flying between four cones worth all the trouble? Probably not.