Anthony Woodward wasn't interested in flying, he was interested in his image. So, in his world of socializing and conquest shagging, 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? What is it about this absurd pastime that begins to devour every idle thought, converts any open space into a landing strip, requires days of planning to make journeys that could be taken in a couple of hours by car; that, finally, becomes even more important than girls? 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 that the penny finally drops.