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Condor was airborne for only 7⅓ min. But once this Everest of aviation had been conquered, Kremer laid down another challenge: £ 100,000 for a human-powered crossing of the English Channel. MacCready realized the problems were far different, perhaps insoluble. He needed a plane so light that Allen could keep aloft for some two hours, yet strong enough to survive a sudden gust of fickle Channel air. MacCready combined subtle aerospace technology with a pair of strong human legs. Using a computer to simulate stress, winds and other critical factors, he determined that Albatross should have slimmer and lighter wings; he cut crucial weight "an ounce at a time," with materials donated by Du Pont —Mylar film for the sheathing, Kevlar fibers for control lines and graphite fabric for struts. When he had finished, the stripped-down Albatross weighed a precious 13 Ibs. less than Condor.
The plane's "pilot and engine," as Allen likes to call himself, was also tuning up. A bicycling enthusiast since high school, he rode three hours a day, slept eight hours a night and ate prodigiously. Arriving at Folkestone last month with MacCready and a crew of 16, Allen gazed out on the Channel from the cliffs like a boxer pondering the ring on the eve of his big fight. "It just seemed to go on and on," he recalls. "I concluded that everybody here was right—we were crazy."
The main event came with only a night's notice. MacCready had been waiting for a rare windless dawn. Even a breeze of six knots might endanger Albatross; head winds would put extra strain on the engine. When the forecast indicated go, Allen ate a high-carbohydrate Chinese dinner; just before the 5:10 a.m. takeoff, he wolfed down large plain rolls and fruit—the best possible fuel, Allen insisted. Watching them gathering in the early light, one veteran Channel skipper decided: "These Yanks are balmy." With crew members alongside, Allen calmly climbed into the craft, took a deep breath and pedaled furiously down a makeshift wooden runway laid on the concrete quay, trying to generate the ½ hp. needed for takeoff. Abruptly, Albatross swerved and stopped. One of its two tiny plastic wheels had broken.
The wheel was quickly replaced, and Allen tried again. This time his flying bicycle took off easily, climbed to 20 ft. and moved out over the glassy water. Cheers went up from the small flotilla of rescue and press boats: "Son of a bitch, he's flying it!" "You're beautiful!" "Come on, Bryan!" Allen, who had never before flown over water, concentrated on pedaling at a steady 70 r.p.m. As he explained it: "If you start sinking, you've got to pedal faster."
For Albatross and its entourage on the water, including TIME Correspondent Art White, almost every minute was nerve-racking. In midpassage, a supertanker appeared; tipped off by MacCready, who was in contact with his pilot by two-way radio, Allen gave it a wide berth. Snooping helicopters that could have whipped up the air stayed away, but twice a press boat bulled in too close. It was shouted back by the rescue teams. At the halfway mark a head wind rose up, and Albatross's speed dropped from 12 m.p.h. to a precarious, near-stalling 9½ m.p.h.