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  • Anatoli Bugorski and the Splitting Headache. (Hit in the Face with a Particle Accelerator)
    Sep 22 2025
    Episode 9: Anatoli Bugorski. Anatoli and the Splitting Headache. One more story to tell today in our mini series of scientific heroes who work in dangerous mediums and, like the last couple of episodes, today's story is also a cautionary tale of sorts, but it's a story of a mistake most of us won't even have a chance to duplicate even if we wanted to. I'm looking forward to telling you about today's subject, Anatoli Bugorski, but even MORE looking forward to the next few episodes when we dive into the primary sources - pre all of this societal polarization and vitriol - and learn in their own words what a Nazi is and what a Fascist is. What did each of those parties believe, what were their planks, and how did they behave? In a world where everybody who disagrees with you politically is a vile Nazi or Fascist, it might just be helpful to look up what each party was all about. That's history-history, and a time period that is right in my wheelhouse, a few years before and after WW2. Sometimes science brushes so close to the edge that it leaves a scorch mark. Today's story is about a man, unlike our other heroes of science, who escaped the flash "brighter than a thousand suns" ( Discover), even though it hit him square in the head. It's also about how a human life can thread the needle between disaster and miracle and keep on going, to finish a PhD, show up to work, and survive. This is the tale of Anatoli Petrovich Bugorski, "a Russian retired particle physicist … known for having survived a radiation accident in 1978, when a high-energy proton beam from a particle accelerator passed through his head." Yep, you heard me correctly. Essentially, he is the Phineas Gage of the nuclear era. And if you don't know about Gage…look him up. Ouch! We start in Protvino, in the Russian SFSR, at the Institute for High Energy Physics. Bugorski "worked with the largest particle accelerator in the Soviet Union, the U-70 synchrotron" (..). On July 13, 1978, he walked into the kind of malfunction that turns a routine check into legend: "he was checking a malfunctioning piece of equipment when the safety mechanisms failed. Bugorski was leaning over the equipment when he stuck his head in the path of the 76 Giga electron volt proton beam" (..). He didn't really feel pain as such, at least not immediately. Instead, he saw light. Specifically, he "reportedly saw a flash 'brighter than a thousand suns'" In that instant the beam "passed through the back of his head, the occipital and temporal lobes of his brain, the left middle ear, and out through the left-hand side of his nose" The dose in the exposed pathway: "200,000 to 300,000 roentgens Discover puts the energy another way: "2,000 grays … on the way in, and … 3,000 grays by the time it left. A dose of around 5 gray can be lethal to humans" (Discover). How do those two things cohere, considering that Bugorski didn't die? I've no idea. Like Homer Simpson, I'm no nuclear scientist, and unlike Homor Simpson, I don't even work at a nuclear power plant. Somehow, someway, Bugorski "understood the severity of what had happened, but continued working on the malfunctioning equipment, and initially opted not to tell anyone" (..). That detail feels very Soviet, very scientist, and very human: finish the job, then process the catastrophe. It reminds me of the time I was bit by a racoon…..And, you know what? Don't expect anybody to make a podcast in the future about my raccoon incident…Bugorski's story is a billion times better. Let's talk about What Particle Beams Do (And Don't Do) to Flesh There's a reason we generally don't put our hands in beams. When I was a kid, if I heard my mom say that once, I heard her say it a million times. As The Atlantic frames the broader thought experiment: "What would happen if you stuck your body inside a particle accelerator? The scenario seems like the start of a bad Marvel comic" (The Atlantic), according to the Atlantic, but a GOOD Marvel comic if you're asking me. Accelerators "allow physicists to study subatomic particles by speeding them up in powerful magnetic fields and then tracing the interactions that result from collisions" (The Atlantic). But that neat chalkboard world becomes very real when "a beam of subatomic particles traveling at nearly the speed of light meets the flesh of the human body" (The Atlantic). Discover says it plainly: "protons are still very much physical objects, and when you take trillions of them and force them through something as delicate and complex as a human cell, the collisions tend to tear biological structures apart" (Discover). Radiation harms by "breaking apart chemical bonds that hold DNA and other cellular components together" (Discover). With enough energy, "cells are unable to duplicate and begin to die, leading to organ failure" (Discover). And yet, unlike fallout or whole-body exposure, "the particle beam was narrowly focused," meaning "only his brain received any ...
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    33 Min.
  • Quicksilver: The Life and Loss of Karen Wetterhahn
    Sep 21 2025
    Quicksilver: The Life and Loss of Karen Wetterhahn Hello friends, and welcome to episode #8. Today we have another riveting but tragic story for you. If you haven't listened to episode 7 yet, it isn't absolutely necessary, but it would do you well to hear the stories of early nuclear pioneers like Louis Sloten, Cecil Kelly, and Harry Daghlian, and the dangers that ended their lives. I think this is going to be an intriguing episode, with a fascinating scientist that most won't be familiar with. Today is not so much in my wheelhouse - Nuclear history, toxic chemical history, safety history, and high velocity subatomic history. I'm not a scientist, and I didn't stay recently at a Holiday Inn, but I am certainly a science hobbyist, and keep up with science news daily, and the fact that the last few topics are out of my milieu, so to speak, means I've had to research them more thoroughly, fact-check my assumptions, look up terms, and generally do the due-dilligance to get things right. I may miss something here or there, but I am trying hard to get it right. Just let me know where I whiff, and I can tell the DJ to fix it in the mix. You know the podcast things. Sharing the show, telling people about it, posting about it, and leaving Apple Podcast reviews all help…a lot. I appreciate those of you who do that. Thank you! Some stories make you hold your breath. Some make you check your gloves. Today we'll do both, and hopefully, when we do - we'll be all the better for it. We begin with the story of Dr. Karen Elizabeth Wetterhahn, chemist, teacher, builder of programs, and teacher of people, and of one "tiny glistening drop" that rewrote laboratory safety across the world . It's a story I want to tell with reverence and a little warmth, because we are talking about a person who balanced world-class science with backyard pool parties and baby rabbits. We're also going to talk frankly about a super-toxic compound, because Karen would have insisted that we learn everything we can. And I know what you might think when you hear the word Karen, but let's be fair. Karen Wetterhahn was anything but, and the Karens I've known have all been lovely. Don't judge people by their name - they had no say in it. Karen Wetterhahn was born October 16, 1948, in Plattsburgh, New York. She grew into a scholar of the highest order. "She earned her bachelor's degree from St. Lawrence University in 1970 and her doctorate from Columbia University in 1975," and joined Dartmouth in 1976, publishing "more than 85 research papers" (Wikipedia). Dartmouth later remembered her as "the founding director of Dartmouth's Toxic Metals Superfund Research Program," an "expert in the mechanisms of metal toxicity," and a scholar with "expertise in biochemistry and molecular toxicology" (Dartmouth Tribute). She rose to become Dartmouth's Albert Bradley Third Century Professor in the Sciences (Dartmouth Tribute) and in 1990 helped establish the Women in Science Project, which "helped to raise the share of women science majors from 13 to 25 percent" … and has become a national model for recruiting more ladies into STEM careers. She didn't just research metals; she organized people. She "played an integral role in the administration of the sciences at Dartmouth," serving as Dean of Graduate Studies, Associate Dean of the Faculty for the Sciences, and Acting Dean of the Faculty of Arts and Sciences (Dartmouth Tribute). She "trained 14 postdoctoral research associates, 20 graduate students and over 50 undergraduate research students" (Dartmouth Tribute). And she did this while building programs that actively welcomed women into the lab. She was "co-founder of Dartmouth's Women in Science Project … and was active in the Women in Cancer Research group" (Dartmouth Tribute). Now bring in the home front—because Karen's life was never just pipettes and publications. Neighbors remembered that "we never knew she was a world-famous scientist," because, in Lyme, New Hampshire, "she was just Char and Leon's mom" (The Tennessean/AP). She loved "rock music—heavy metal was her favorite," she "tended her garden," and she hosted some great neighborhood pool parties. (The Tennessean/AP). This is the paradox and the beauty: the same person who would lecture in Norway and Hawaii would also her drag family to the golf course and cheer at Ashley's hockey game (The Tennessean/AP). A life in balance. On a summer day in 1996, the story turns. Karen was "studying the way mercury ions interact with DNA repair proteins" and also investigating cadmium (Wikipedia). She was using an incredibly dangerous substance that we really don't mess with much anymore called dimethylmercury—Hg(CH₃)₂ She did what a careful chemist does. She wore "safety glasses and latex gloves," worked "in a fume cupboard," handled "very small quantities behind the fume cupboard sash," and the sample arrived in a "sealed glass vial" cooled in ice water to reduce volatility (...
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    34 Min.
  • The Nefarious Demon Core and the Physicists it Killed in the Pursuit of Nuclear Dominance. (Dangers in the workplace #1)
    55 Min.
  • Balloon Boy and Jetpack Guy Take to the Skies! Wacky History of Flight #4.
    Sep 4 2025
    EPISODE 6: Balloon Boy and Jetpack Guy Take to the Skies! Wacky History of Flight #4. Well, we finally made it! This is the final episode of our look at the lesser known facets of the history of flight. I thought this would be a short task, but each week's research unearthed more and more fascinating stories and interesting characters to the point where my shownotes for all four episodes put together check in at almost 25,000 words - enough for a short book. Maybe one day! Next week we launch into an entirely new series of episodes, which I hope should be fascinating too, as we learn about the immensely dangerous demon core that killed two fantastic physicists, as well as the pioneering toxicologist killed by a single drop of lethal poison that bled through her safety suit, and the still living particle physicist who was literally blasted in the face by a particle accelerator. But today's episode is much lighter than that - both literally and figuratively. But before we get to that, let me do the typical podcast host drivel for a moment. SHARE THE SHOW. One example of those different times happened much more recently, and also involved a balloon and a backyard launch. "Live From Fort Collins: A Silver Saucer, a Missing Kid, and the Media's Longest Two Hours" October 15, 2009. Fort Collins, Colorado. A homemade, helium-filled craft shaped like a silver flying saucer, equal parts science project and shiny backyard UFO, just like Larry's contraption, slips its leash and rises into the bright mountain air. Two parents, Richard and Mayumi Heene, ostensibly panic with fear their six-year-old son Falcon is inside that backyard UFO. Newsrooms do the fastest pivot known to man: from morning show banter to rolling Breaking News. National Guard helicopters scramble. Commercial planes adjust. America stares at live video of a silver dot drifting for miles and miles and wonders: Is there a child in that thing? By late afternoon, the balloon lands near Denver International Airport. Rescuers rush in, pry, peer—and find nothing. No child. Cue a wider-than-Colorado search. There are actually alarming and terrifying reports that someone saw "something" fall, and then, finally, the twist: The boy, named Falcon - you can't make this stuff up! - is alive, uninjured, and at home, discovered in a box tucked up in the rafters above the family's garage. I remember this story, and if you do too, If you felt whiplash watching it live, imagine being the sheriff. Or the pilots chasing the balloon. What happened? Let's rewind a few years, all the way back to 1997, where Richard and Mayumi Heene met at an acting school in Los Angeles and married. If you're a detective, you just got a big fat clue. These two people met at ACTING SCHOOL. Unlike Agatha Christie, I just spelled it out for you. They tried acting and stand-up comedy, produced demo reels for actors, and Richard worked as a handyman and storm chaser. Accounts describe him as a "shameless self-promoter who would do almost anything to advance his latest endeavor." He chased tornadoes (once on a motorcycle) literally and said he flew a small plane around the perimeter of Hurricane Wilma in 2005. The Heenes took their kids along storm-chasing and UFO-hunting; they also appeared on a tv show called Wife Swap twice—once as a fan-favorite return for the show's 100th episode. Reality-TV pitches (including The PSIence Detectives) were floated before 2009; network interest, not so much. By the way, I'm happy to report that Wife-Swap - a show I've never watched - has been off the air for five years, which I think is a good thing for the collective nation's psyche. Enter the saucer. Richard - Mr. Heene, the dad, called the contraption an early prototype of a vehicle people could "pull out of their garage and hover above traffic." He also claimed that with "the high voltage timer" on, the balloon would "emit one million volts every five minutes for one minute" to move left and right—statements that set off approximately one million eyebrow lifts among engineers, and probably more groans and laughs than that. The craft was about 20 feet in diameter and 5 feet high, built from plastic tarps taped together and covered with aluminum foil, tied up with string and duct tape. The gondola area was a thin plywood/cardboard box, also lashed by string and duct tape. At full inflation, the balloon held a little over 1,000 cubic feet of helium, with lift estimates ranging—under ideal conditions—from roughly 65 pounds at sea level to 48 pounds at 8,000 feet, so this podcaster ain't flying around in that thing. Fort Collins sits around 5,000 feet; authorities later measured the balloon and concluded it couldn't lift a 6-year-old of Falcon's size. More on that in a bit. What we know from the calls and reports: the family contacted authorities; there were media calls; a 911 call at 11:29 a.m. in which Richard referenced the balloon "emits a million volts on the ...
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    34 Min.
  • Lawnchair Larry, the Floating Hero-Priest and Backyard Aeronauts Take Flight. (History of Flight #3)
    Sep 3 2025
    Interesting Pod #5 - LawnChair Larry and Backyard Aeronauts Take Flight. Today we finally get to the inspiration for this set of episodes: Lawnchair Larry himself - the man who tied a bunch of balloons to his lawnchair and flew off into history. A great, great story - and a cautionary tale. But before we get to that, let me do the typical podcast host drivel for a moment. As an Indie show not hosted by a celebrity, the Interesting Pod relies on word of mouth. Please tell folks about us, and share episodes on social media. Our growth depends, in large part, on you guys. Leaving a review on Apple Podcasts would be helpful as well. I've been podcasting since 2005, and believe in the medium as an excellent way to communicate. From about 2005 to 2015, podcasting was a ground-leveling way for normal people to reach lots of people with all kinds of fascinating topics, but now the podcasting world is flooded and saturated with celebrities. That's fine, I suppose, but I hope there's still a place for indie shows and little podcasts like this one, and when you tell people about it, you help little efforts like this carve a niche. Thank you! On our last episode, we introduced you to the real Wonder Twins - The scientists, aeronauts and deep sea exploring Piccard Twins, likely the inspiration behind Starfleet Captain Jean Luc Picard. Before the Piccard twins inspired the creation of Captain Picard, however, they inspired another luminary, this one much more like Dr. Zefram Cochrane than Picard. A high-strung - in more ways than one - truck driver and aeronaut named Larry Walters. He dreamed of becoming an ace pilot in the USAF, but poor eyesight and maybe other factors grounded him. At least, it grounded him temporarily, but not permanently! I'm Chase, and today we're telling the story of Lawnchair Larry—the man who lashed helium-filled weather balloons to a lawn chair, rose to an altitude that Isaiah might call "mounting up with wings like eagles," and drifted his way into American folklore, aviation case studies, and even a blackout in Long Beach. This is a story about ingenuity and longing, the thin line between gumption and folly, bravery and recklessness, and some of the depressing factors of life after kissing the sky. It's July 2, 1982, and Los Angeles is doing what Los Angeles does best, sunshine, smog, and improbable dreams. The front page of the LA Times for that day discussed the benefits and dangers of radio therapists - around 11 years before Frasier appeared on the airwaves. Israel and the Palestine Liberation Organization were, unsurprisingly, going at it, and Ronald Reagan weighed in on the insanity plea of his would-be assassin John Hinkley. The weather that day called for a high of 78 and a low of 59, a bit cold for LA at that time of year. In the backyard of a San Pedro home, a Sears aluminum lawn chair is tethered to dozens of weather balloons like a suburban version of Jules Verne. A rope slips loose earlier than planned, and our hero, Larry Walters, truck driver and thwarted Air Force hopeful, shoots into the relatively cool Southern California sky. Not metaphorically. Literally. Up, up, and away…straight toward controlled airspace. A Delta pilot gawks. A TWA pilot confirms. And somewhere on a CB radio, Larry calmly informs the REACT volunteers: "Ah, the difficulty is, ah, this was an unauthorized balloon launch." You don't say, Larry. Long before he tangled with those power lines, Larry tangled with a different kind of line: the Air Force's vision requirements. He wanted to fly, but his eyesight grounded the dream. Like many of us who don't get Plan A, he did what you do, he settled. Truck driver by trade; dreamer by nature. And that dream, according to Larry, started early. At 13, he walked into a military surplus store, looks up at a ceiling of weather balloons, and thinks: there's a way to get airborne without a fighter jet. The seed is planted. Fast forward to 1982. Ronald Reagan's in the White House, E.T. is in theaters, and Larry, now in his early thirties, decides to cash in the dream. The plan is simple in a Rube Goldberg kind of way: attach roughly 42 (sometimes Larry said 43) eight-foot weather balloons to a lawn chair, fill them with helium, lift off gently, drift over the Mojave, and, this is the key, shoot a few balloons with a pellet gun when it's time to descend. What could go wrong besides literally everything? Oh yeah, about that lawn chair. It was reportedly a Sears special, about $109 at the time… Pause - $109 for a lawnchair in the early 1980s?? That's like 350 today. On the one hand, if you are going to take your lawnchair up to the edge of space, then I get wanting to have the absolute best lawnchair possible. On the other hand, that's a LOT of money for a lawnchair! This is the American tinker spirit with a dash of…creative paperwork, because Larry and his longtime girlfriend, Carol Van Deusen, bought 45 balloons and helium, using some ...
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    46 Min.
  • The Space Race Begins: The Real Wonder Twins, First Female in Space, First Female Astronaut, and other Flight Adventures.
    Aug 23 2025
    Interesting Pod #4 - The Space Race Begins: The Real Wonder Twins, First Female in Space, First Female Astronaut, and other Flight Adventures. Last week we put on our wingsuit, or aired up our balloon, which is probably safer, and took a look at the history of humans engaging in flight, and a few early aeronautical pioneers like the Montgolfier Brothers and Franz Reichelt, and also a few early aviation disasters like the Hindenburg explosion. Flying is risky, and today's episode chronicles some of the riskiest - and bravest - attempts by amateur flyers to ascend to the Heavens. Some, like Icarus, had a bad ending to their airspirations, but others accomplished some really impressive feats of flying with readily available technology. And some, just plane pulled our leg with tales of children flying off into the ether. Welcome to the Interesting Pod. Our goal on this show is to tell stories that have two characteristics. One is in the name - Interesting. We want to be INTERESTING. But not only that - I'm a historian, working on finishing up a Ph.D in history, and not only do we want to be interesting, but we also want to have accuracy based on historical rigor - good research - without being tedious or dry, pedantic, or condescending. Interesting means that we will seek to tell stories that are fascinating and moving. Some episodes might be inspiring, some wacky, some unnerving, some downright scary, but all should be - hopefully - interesting. But we want to be ACCURATE too. Practically, what that looks like is that this week, we had a seemingly good source that said that Tacitus, the first-century Roman historian, had accused Livia, the first-century wife of Caesar Augustus, of using aphrodisiacs to help control the Roman court and have her way. This was reported by a fairly reputable book, but it didn't have a direct source or quotation from Tacitus, so I spent some extra time combing through Tacitus' Annals to try and find that story, and failed. It might be there, but this podcast isn't a dissertation, and it was a minutely important facet of the story, so I didn't want to spend all day on it. So when we talk about it, you'll know that the story is possibly apocryphal. Thus, we aim for interesting, and we do our due diligence. That doesn't mean the show will be infallible, but we'll try! Today we're going to look at the wild balloon rides of the Catholic priest Adelir de Carli, who attached 1,000 helium-filled party balloons to a chair, rose to over 20,000 feet, and got caught in a terrible storm over the Atlantic Ocean. We will also find out about Jonathan Trappe, who crossed the English Channel over the White Cliffs of Dover, the Piccard twins, who pioneered balloon flights to the edge of space AND the bottom of the ocean, and the magician David Blaine, who may have outflown them all, reaching nearly 25,000 feet via hand-held balloons. So this episode is fun for anybody who is interested in the history of flight, OR those who dream of insane adventures that launch from your own backyard. You are NOT alone. And you may not survive. Our ultimate focus today is on Lawnchair Larry, the backyard pilot who strapped balloons to his - lawnchair - and flew over three miles high - but before we get to our guy Larry, we're going to go back in time a little bit. All the way to Jean Piccard. No, actually, not that Jean Piccard, but possibly the guy he's named after. Actually, not just Jean Piccard, but also his brother Auguste Piccard, and not just them, but also Jean's wife Jeanette, who may have been the best balloon pilot of them all. So let's talk about the amazing Piccard family. Jules Piccard, born in 1840, was a Swiss chemist and the father of the Piccard twins Jean and Auguste. His mentor at the University of Heidelberg was Robert Bunsen, and yes! That's the same guy who invented the Bunsen burner that you used in high school chemistry class. Jules studied a bunch of weird chemicals, including Dinitro-ortho-cresol, which is a poison that kills people and bugs, and also cantharidan, which is interesting enough to talk about for 60 seconds or so. Cantharidan is odorless and colorless, but extremely dangerous. Some people know it as Spanish Fly, and it is said that the first-century Roman historian Tacitus discusses cantharidan as an aphrodisiac, and notes that Livia, the wife of Augustus Caesar, supposedly used it as part of her nefarious scheming, but I couldn't find that in any primary sources. Regardless, does it work? Maybe…but more importantly than that - it kills. Cantharidan is an extreme poison, and as little as 10 milligrams - which is about the weight of a large grain of sand or salt - can kill a person. So, no thank you! The archives of Mcgill University also tell me that Jules Piccard did research into the chemical weight of Rubidium, which I've nver heard of, but melts at 102.7 degrees and looks a lot like Mercury. So yeah - rabbit trails - Jules was the father of ...
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    46 Min.
  • Oh, the Humanity! - Lawnchair Larry, The French Superman, The Magnificent Montgolfiers, and the Pursuit of Human Flight!
    Aug 14 2025
    Who doesn't want to fly?? From ancient times, humans have looked to the Heavens and imagined what it might be like to glide among the clouds. 1000 years before the birth of Christ, the Psalmist looked in wonder to the skies and imagined flying through them, writing, "If I go up to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there. 9 If I fly on the wings of the dawn and settle down on the western horizon, 10 even there your hand will lead me; your right hand will hold on to me." But flight wouldn't be possible for humans for another 2800 years after he pinned those words, and even then, in the early and pioneering days of human flight, it was a dodgy and dangerous business. Today we are going to trace the history of human flight in a very non-traditional way. From wingsuits to straw-powered balloons, to flying bombs and levitating lawn chairs flying as high as jet planes. This episode's song, which you can hear in full at the end of the podcast is all about the first human-powered flight, a failed jump off of the Eiffel Tower, the Hindenburg Disaster and Lawnchair Larry's amazing trip across the West coast floating at 16,000 feet in his lawnchair. Here's a little preview, put together just for the InterestingPod by our friends in Dayton, Ohio, the band Four for Flying out of the Kayfabe Municipal Airport. Franz Reichelt was an amazing guy, and a wannabee aeronaut who should serve as a cautionary tale for those who want to fly. Reichelt was born in Austria-Hungary, and immigrated to France in 1898, where he opened a successful dressmaking business. As you might guess, Franz was unmarried, because any married man who tried to jump off of a tall tower in a homemade wingsuit would be beaten mercilessly by his sensible wife until he gave up on the idea before it happened. At least, that's what my wife would do. In love. Somewhere around the summer of 1910, Reichelt began to develop what he called a "parachute-suit" which was just a little more bulky than one normally worn by an aviator, but also contained some rods, a silk canopy and a small amount of rubber that should have allowed it to fold out to become what Reichelt hoped would be a practical and efficient parachute/wingsuit outfit. The February 5, 1912 edition of the Paris Le Petit Journal suggested that Reichelt had made a couple of experimental test jumps with dummies wearing his wingsuit from the first deck of the Eiffel Tower at some point in 1911. L'Ouest-Éclair similarly noted that in 1911, Reichelt had personally jumped from a height of around 30 feet at Joinville; a failed attempt that didn't lead to serious injury because of a pile of straw that he landed on. The Le Matin newspaper reported an attempt at Nogent from a height of 8 metres (26 ft) that ended with a broken leg. Pretty much all of Reichelt's later tests failed, including the Eiffel tower ones, but Reichelt insanely convinced himself that the reason for their failure was not a design problem, but because the tests took place TOO CLOSE TO THE GROUND. So logically, he decided that his suit would perform better when used on a much HIGHER jump. Yeah, that's the ticket. The Tailor Who Tried to Fly: Franz Reichelt's Leap into History (and the Ground) On February 4, 1912, Paris awoke to an icy winter morning, a biting wind off the Seine, and the curious sight of a small Austrian-born tailor preparing to defy both gravity and common sense. Franz Reichelt, a 33-year-old single man whose moustache was as impressive and ambitious as his dreams - think Hercule Poirot here - stood at the base of the Eiffel Tower wearing his own invention: a hybrid contraption somewhere between a parachute, a wingsuit, and a very heavy set of curtains with a metal exoskeleton. I'm no engineer, but taking a look at his design, I imagine that if I wore it to jump off of my dresser onto my bed, it would hurt me worse to have it on when I landed, than not. Would Reichelt be correct, however, that his suit was made to thrive at high altitude jumps, rather than low altitude? You be the judge. Reichelt had a goal as noble as it was dangerous, which was to save the lives of aviators by giving them a wearable parachute they could deploy in midair. In an age when flying machines were fragile and safety regulations were more of a suggestion, this was no small contribution. Unfortunately, Reichelt also possessed a confidence so unshakable that it refused to be weighed down by things like wind resistance, aerodynamics, or prior testing from a safe height. There is a reason that most Darwin award winners are male. To be fair to Reichelt, he had previously tested versions of his wingsuit with some slight success. He dropped dummies from his fifth floor apartment building window, and his wingsuit had successfully protected them from harm. I doubt those dummies were made of ballistic gel, or were roughly as dense as humans, but we'll never know. Unfortunately, later tests of his wingsuit ...
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    54 Min.
  • Myth Smashing: Is the Bolton Strid 100% Fatal? What is the MOST Dangerous Water Body in the World?
    Jul 25 2025
    On the last episode, we told you all about the Bolton Strid, which is a fairly short section of the River Wharfe in Northern England near Yorkshire that is legendary as a drowning machine. The Strid has had a reputation for literally CENTURIES as being a place where there is a 100% fatality rate - CERTAIN DEATH - for those who fall in. The reasons for that, as we discussed last time, have to do with the geomorphology of the river. In the Strid portion, it's as if the River Wharfe turns on its sides and becomes very narrow but also very deep and rushing. Kind of like a river flowing rapidly through a canyon. And often, when people fall in, they are either immediately pulled under water or pulled underwater and under the rock shelves on the sides of the Strid, where rescue is impossible, and it is impossible to surface. It's like you are all of the sudden cave diving without any sort of scuba gear. All around the river are signs warning of danger, as well as something I've never seen around rivers before - boxes where you dial a code, and out comes a rescue rig and to throw into the water for people who are drowning. But is the river that dangerous? Is the Strid really 100 percent lethal? Or, as a travel writer Daniel Piggott wrote, is the Strid simply a legend, a myth that hasn't actually verifiably claimed ANY lives?? Time to go to the archives and do some grunt work research. I'll add a few dilithium crystals to our time machine, and we will keep going back, back back. Here's where we put on our historian's robe and cowl. The oldest newspaper record I can find that covers the Strid comes from Felix Farley's Bristol Journal, the February 20, 1819 edition. That article doesn't talk much about the Strid itself, but favorably reviews Samuel Rogers' epic poem, the Boy of Egremond, which is all about William De Romilly falling into the Strid. The next oldest easily accessible newspaper reference I can find to the Strid is from the Manchester Guardian, June 26, 1839, and it gives a colorfol description of the Strid: I found several non-detailed mentions of the Strid in books from the mid 1700s, but the earliest detailed record I can find of the Strid dates to 1780, with one likely exception from the 1500s…I'm sure there are older references out there, but alas, the brand new podcast budget doesn't allow me a visit to Yorkshire and a few weeks going through the Abbey and local library records. So, we will have to settle for 1780's Viator, a poem: or, a journey from London to Scarborough, by the way of York by Thomas Maude. Maude was a bit of a dabbler in everything - a doctor, poet, essayist, estate manager and author. Maude and his wife were married at St Mary Magdalen Old Fish Street church, and I only mention that because I'll bet some of you pastors listening might want to consider changing your church's name to Saint Mary Magdalen Old Fish Street too! In his Viator book, Maude writes, "The Strid or Stride, falls here likewise under the traveller's inspection. It is the cleft of a rock in the bed of the river through which chasm the Wharfe in Summer, entirely passes. In was in stepping this gulph that the last male hier of the family of Romelius lost is life." Maude goes on to mention that there was a 1670 painting of the boy and his dog, but I do believe that painting is lost to history. It's lost to me, at least. I couldn't find it. The next oldest comes from an 1805 book that I do actually have a copy of Dr. Thomas Whitaker's The History and Antiquities of the Deanery of Craven in the County of York. Which is a book written in 1805. If you don't know Whitaker, he's a pretty fascinating guy. He originally planned to be a lawyer, and got his doctoral degree in law even after getting called into ministry. He started out at a smaller chapel and paid for the restoration of that chapel out of his own pocket in 1788. He wasn't just a pastor/vicar/lawyer either - he was a peacemaker in the various villages of his parish and a scientist, studying and writing about topography and forestry. He wrote nine books, mostly on history, edited some others, and published multiple academic articles. He instituted a literary club, and had a vast library, and an impressive array of knowledge. He's a legit historian, and a highly educated one. True, his doctoral degree wasn't in history, but PhDs in history didn't come along until after Whitaker. So when this guy writes about history, we should take notice. He's not infallible, but he's solid, and in 1805, writing about the Strid, he mentions the legend - or true story - behind Wordsworth's poem. Whitaker writes, "In the deep solitude of the woods betwixt Bolton and Barden, the [River] Wharfe suddenly contracts itself to a rocky channel little more than four feet wide, and pours through the tremendous fissure with a rapidity proportioned to its confinement. This place was then, as it is yet, called the Strid, from a feat often ...
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    40 Min.