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Outside Magazine April 2003

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Out There
Joy Ride (Cont.)

TO GET A TASTE OF HOVERING, I would have to go elsewhere. So I traveled to Sebastopol, California, to visit the fine people at ZAP, a West Coast scooter retailer that has a couple of Airboards in stock. Inspired by the flying skateboards of Back to the Future Part II, the Airboard is the invention of Kevin Inkster, a 51-year-old Aussie who rode one around the Olympic stadium at the opening ceremonies of the 2000 Games in Sydney.

The fiberglass shell of the Airboard shone like a Corvette, but I could see that underneath its slick exterior it relied on the same physics as my homely Air Car. Under a five-foot circular hood sat a small gas engine, and around its circumference was a rubber skirt. When I pushed a lever, a fan attached to the motor exerted a downward force and lifted me four inches. I pulled on another lever, which engaged the drive wheel, which reached down to the ground at the back of the deck and sent me rolling across the parking lot. The Airboard did everything it promised, yet with its modest speed and primitive handling, it rode more like a municipal street sweeper than a flying saucer. For 15,000 bucks, I expected something that elicited stronger panic from my reptile brain.

So I plunged back into the construction of my own vehicle, settling on the plan with maximum payload, a circular model that uses two vacuum motors. A quick call to a local Electrolux repair shop secured a pair of dump-bound 1205s, the Rolls-Royces of canister vacuums. With a little strategic tinkering, I was able to install their motors and reroute the exhaust to the desired direction: down. I bought plywood and random support lumber. I attached the motors to the platform; I installed a plug salvaged from a dead VCR. The trickiest part was the skirt, which had to be made from material that was both flexible and airtight. I found an old tent in the basement, tore it apart, and cranked up my ancient Sears sewing machine to stitch it together.

The entire assembly weighed about 35 pounds and looked like a wooden pizza with a tutu. Eddie and I loaded it into the back of his Jeep Cherokee and hauled it to the gym where we play hoops every Tuesday morning. While my basketball buddies looked on, I plugged it in. The motors whined, the disk levitated on the hardwood, but when I sat in the saddle, I instantly lost that floating feeling. Eddie was able to push me hard enough that I glided to the end of a 50-foot extension cord before the plug yanked out of the wall. Then I came to a deflated stop.

My friends were philosophical. "Little kids like being disappointed," said Eddie.

"This is an important lesson for children to learn," said Sam, who has three of his own. "Don't trust adults."

But I was not easily consoled. In my frustration I worked up a new teaser for the old Boys' Life come-on:

"FLOATS ON A THIN LAYER OF DISAPPOINTMENT!"

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