I am leaning against a barrier. The metal bar is solid and cold; I grip it like a lifeline. Without it, I would careen down a steep ramp and arc into oblivion.

Many people have stood where I am standing now, atop this 150-foot tower on an alpine hill overlooking Innsbruck. Only a few have crossed the line with the intention of launching themselves down the ramp and into thin air. I will never be one of them. I am not insane. Therefore, I am not a ski jumper.

From the safe side of the barrier I gaze into the jaws of madness. My heart thumps as I imagine clipping my boots into the requisite long, heavy skis and shuffling into position.

Ahead of me: the ominous sheen of the ramp, the brow of the hill and the bowl of the stadium at the bottom of the slope. Immediately beyond the bleachers: a sobering sight unique to Innsbruck’s ski jump — a church graveyard. The tombstones cast long shadows in the late afternoon light.

Death, thankfully, is rare in this sport, but serious injury is common. Every jump is a flirtation with disaster. Skill is not enough to avert it. Once the jumpers crouch into the inrun — the rapidly accelerating descent down the ramp — factors beyond their control hold sway.

Fate can be determined by the slightest imperfection in the skis. The jumpers must glide down the ramp straight as a die; any deviation can be catastrophic. Once launched into the inrun, there is no going back. When the ramp gives out, they are hurtling ahead at 70 mph.

In midair, they must deny their natural instinct to recoil from the sudden gulf beneath them and instead lean forward, almost horizontally, splaying the skis into a V-shape to provide some semblance of aerodynamic stability. The merest breath of wind can unbalance their flight and send them crashing to the ground with limbs akimbo.

The purpose of each jump is to fly as far as possible before touching down on the snowy slope of the outrun. But not too far. To out-jump the hill and land on the flat area at the bottom would be equivalent to falling from a 30-story building. Survival depends on landing safely on the slope and then remaining upright with only outstretched arms for balance.

As if the physical test were not enough, there are also judges to contend with. Each hill is marked with what is known as a K-point: the optimum length of a jump. Land short, and the judges deduct points. Land long, and points are added. Further points are awarded for the style of the jump.

So to reach the zenith of the sport, jumpers must overcome fear, the vagaries of equipment, meteorological conditions and the verdict of a stern-faced panel. And for all that, they must resign themselves to the fact that their achievements will be overshadowed by the most famous ski jumper of all time, who failed to win anything.

His name is Eddie “The Eagle” Edwards, and he rose (or rather plummeted) to international celebrity at the 1988 Winter Olympics in Calgary, where he finished last. But with his thick glasses (he is chronically short-sighted) and plucky spirit, he captured the world’s imagination.

I think of him now as I face down the ramp. This sport may be reckless, it may be insane, but it is also an example of the unbounded possibilities of being human. With guts and fortitude, in whatever realm of endeavor, we can launch ourselves into the unknown, and fly.