by Nelson L. Eshleman

By the foolhardy age of forty-five, Percival Elliot McMahon had never previously attempted the high bar's back giant swing. In a way, he prepared his whole life for this fanciful articulation. The spry fellow was uncommonly agile.

He'd mastered the handstand in high school. Of this he was preternaturally proud. Still he only watched on as other more talented classmates flung themselves in further accomplishment. Were these fearless acquaintances brimming with over-confidence or simply oblivious to the manifold risks?  Thin comfort of skimpy blue floor mats offered limited assurance to Percival.

No doubt this dexterous manoeuvre requires a formidable degree of athleticism. A three hundred and sixty degree rotation around the high bar, conducted entirely at arm's length.

For Percival, it didn't seem to be a question of upper body strength. Through the years he had proven himself, beating his father in an arm wrestle when he was only sixteen. In his time, he had ended three street fights with a single punch. One just last week. 

Most recently, Percy had gleefully boasted to his own kids, after performing lithe back handsprings on the lawn, "Show me another Dad in the neighbourhood who can do this!" It could get rather monotonous.

Still, he usually kept one eye on self-preservation. Like that split second of hesitation he'd felt for the first time, hanging off the strut of a single engine Cessna, as his parachute instructor ordered him to "Jump!" Somehow Percival always managed to land on his feet.

It was at a children's birthday party that the spectre of second chances finally smirked upon Percy. A theme arrangement, held at the Jack Simpson gymnasium.

Imagine if you will a gleaming high bar, invitingly situated above a swimming pool filled to the brim with large blocks of soft foam.

Percy had no audience to speak of. Unconcerned acrobats performed wobbly ballet on a nearby balance beam while a pack of playful hellions stretched the limits of the overburdened trampoline.

No, this was simply man against apparatus as Percival resolutely climbed to the top of the bar. He didn't even bother to talc his palms.

Far from perfect form, it wasn't pretty as Percy slid along his crotch to the middle. Maintaining a shaky balance with clenched fingers and one foot, he kicked into a handstand, just like he'd done a dozen times on his own backyard fence.  

Percival swung down in an easy motion, but coming up the other side, near the top of his arc, he lost momentum, falling back safely into that tall pit of foam. It was like a dream, this merciful landing, an eerie sensation of weightlessness among these billowy cushions. Nonplussed, Percival climbed again to the top.

Repeating this elusive equation, he pumped into a handstand, bent on solving the rotation that would send him full circle, but once more, came up short, falling gently back into the pit.

Unfortunately, Percival knew nothing of proper technique, keeping his chest forward during the downswing or pulling up on the bar at the bottom of his arc. All he could ascertain from recent failure was that he required more speed.

With utmost resolve he returned, vowing not to leave himself lacking propulsion. Gritting his teeth, Percival launched one final attempt.

Coming into the turn, he could feel the added thrust on his downward descent, the pull of extra torque through his wiry arms, but his unconditioned muscles were weary from the strain of two previous tries. Three quarters of the way through this third operation, at the point of maximum acceleration, Percival's fingers slipped, he lost his grip.

It shouldn't have been the end of the world.

Hurtling through the air, backwards and inverted, Percy barely had time to realize he had failed. In all of his vulnerability, he felt completely relaxed, anticipating yet another padded landing. Scarcely could he have imagined that an untrained gymnast might vault himself beyond the outer periphery of the pit.

In mean conclusion to this infortuitous dive, Percival landed upside down. The back of his neck bore full brunt of first contact against the hard edge of the concrete pool.

Percy still had not mastered the art of the back giant swing.

His final spasm of consciousness focused upon the crepitous rattle of cracking vertebrae, hushed exclamations and hands reaching to help as he slid limply to the bottom. Above this, a question was raised, some stridulent voice hissing sharply, from where, Percy could not tell, whether bystander or the dark recesses of his own blackening mind:  "Was it worth it?"  
 

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