Oh, He Flies Through the Air With the Greatest Unease

“W hatever you do, don ‘ t look down,” Alex Ramos shouts . Now he tells me.

I’ve already climbed what seems to be a hundred tiny rungs on a ladder, and, at 50 feet above terra firma, I’m about to swing on a trapeze under the Circus Vargas big top.

“When I am up there, I feel like Superman,” Alex says.

“I feel more like Clark Kent,” I shout.

“Relax. Don’t look down.”

Alex is the one who really knows how to swing.

He and his two brothers, nephew and sister-in-law are known as the Flying Rodogels (a name they, well, grabbed from thin air). They sweep through the air and somersault, pirouette and twist their spandex-covered bodies in an aerial ballet in which there is no room for acrophobia.

“Fear of heights? Me?” asks Alex. “I was born doing this.”

According to family lore, three days after Alex was born, aerial artist Antonio Ramos took his newborn son in his arms, stepped into the ring of a Mexican circus and announced, “This is your life, my son.”

Says Alex: “I’m pretty sure he pointed up there.”

“Up there” is pretty close to nosebleed level. At least that’s what it feels like as I accept Alex’s invitation to soar above a net during a midnight rehearsal in Covina. I wanted to find out for myself what it was like to fly through the air with the greatest of ease.

Alex has been swinging since he was 6. First, because his father and grandfather did it. Later, because he didn’t want to do anything else. For the last eight years, Alex and brothers Bernardo, 34, and Eduardo, 22, have performed in the United States with various circuses, the last year with Circus Vargas.

Alex is proud of his job. And his heritage.

“I am a third-generation trapeze artist from the Yucatan,” he says, arms flexed like Hercules. And he is pleased that his 14-year-old nephew Douglas is carrying on the tradition during the summer. At least, for now.

Some day, Douglas hopes to be a scientist. His younger brother, Oliver, 11, would like to become a lawyer. The two attend school in Las Vegas, where they live with an uncle who flies with his two sons at the Circus Circus Casino. Both boys spend summers with their parents. Their father, Bernardo is one of two “catchers” on the trapeze, and mother, Lupe, 30, is a former trapeze artist who now designs and stitches the family’s costumes. When she’s not sewing, Lupe peddles Vargas souvenirs on the midway.

Lupe wouldn’t mind if her children chose the circus life. “I performed on the trapeze for 14 years,” she says. “Now, I am too heavy to fly. But it has been a good life, a fun life.”

“Ready to party?” Douglas asks.

He and Eduardo are preparing me for my first swing. A safety harness is wrapped around my waist and a net is secured below me. The Flying Rodogels never fly without a net.

Alex’s mother, and other performers and stagehands have congregated around the ring. Word has spread throughout the Vargas camp that I’m about to make a fool of myself.

Eduardo, standing behind me, wraps his arms around my waist while Douglas readies the trapeze for my grip. I’ve coated my hands with chalk. My heart is racing. Perspiration slides down my cheeks. My ears have popped.

“You look scared,” says Eduardo.

“You must the get the fear out of you . I’ve got you. You’re not going to fall. This is what I want you to do. Raise your legs, grab the bar and I’ll give you a little push.”

“Hold on, buddy,” I tell him.

Douglas snickers.

“It’ll be OK. Really,” Eduardo says. “When you’re ready to drop, let me know. Say ‘HUP!’ When you get over the center of the net I’ll shout ‘Now!’

“That’s when you let go.”

“My grandfather,” says Alex, “was a horseback rider, tightrope walker, acrobat, trapeze artist and a clown. I was 12 when my father died (of a heart attack) but he also had a full life with the circus. He loved the people and to make children gasp whenever he was up there.”

Alex looks heavenward.

“That’s my playground,” he says.

His eyes focus on the trapeze and a small platform hanging from cables, the Ramos’ launching pad for feats such as the “double-double”--in which several members of the family defy gravity--and the most difficult stunt of all, the triple somersault, usually accomplished with ease by Eduardo.

When Alex isn’t flying, he and another partner are racing motorcycles--at dizzying speeds--inside a giant iron sphere. The act, which took a year of practice to master, is called El Globo de la Muerte , the Globe of Death.

“You have to handle many jobs in the circus,” says Alex, who also hawks programs. His mother, Bertha Lara, 55, sells tickets. Oliver and Douglas work the midway’s fish pond game booth. “We’re not too proud,” Alex says. “We’re entertainers. It’s part of show biz.”

I take a few deep breaths.

I clutch the trapeze.

I raise my legs.

I want my mommy.

“OK, I’m ready,” I tell Eduardo.

“Vaya con Dios,” he says and swings my 145-pound frame over the net.

On the first swing, I let out a sound that is a cross between a laugh and a bloodcurdling scream.

On the start of the second swing, I kick out for momentum. I feel the breeze hitting my face, tickling my ribs. My stomach sloshes.

Hey, this is fun.

Alex can’t imagine doing anything else. At least for the next 10 to 20 years, when, he says, he’ll either end up as a clown--like his father and grandfather--or open a business in the Yucatan.

Circus life, he says, is filled with extraordinary experiences. Traveling has provided him and his siblings with an education he says they would have never received in a classroom.

“My mother was a secretary when she met my dad, married him and ran away with the circus. We never went to a real school. But our mother taught us three hours every day, everything from math to grammar to geography,” Alex says.

“Mostly, we got our education through life on the road. And from up there. The trapeze is the best act. From up there you learn about challenges, you get courage, you take risks.”

On the third swing, I feel like I’ve gained 50 pounds.

My speed has slowed, but my coaches try to coax me into one more swing.

For some reason, I agree.

But, in a nanosecond, I can feel my grip slipping. My nose itches and my boxer shorts are bunching. I remain cool on the outside even though my confidence is melting.

In another nanosecond I shout: “HIP, HAP, HEP.”

“NOW!” Eduardo shouts back.

I let loose and pray I don’t end up like Wile E . Coyote in all those Roadrunner cartoons.

Somehow, I remember to fall on my back, and bounce, bounce, bounce--amid laughter everywhere.

No matter, for 30 seconds I bolted through the air. I felt like an aerodynamic dynamo. Mighty Mouse in motion.

Next time, I’ll open my eyes.