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January 15, 1992, Page 00001 The New York Times Archives

BOB OUELETTE was hoping to jump early. He wanted to get something on the books for the others to shoot for. He is a round-faced man of 23, studying to be a conductor. But now was not the time to ponder music. What mattered was how adroitly he could leap off a trampoline and stick to a Velcro wall.

"Ten feet or so ought to win it," he said. "Looks like it will take my best. I hope I stick."

It was one of those frosty Wednesdays, the evening lingering into the soft hours, and 50 or so energized people were hanging four and five deep around the stairwell at Perfect Tommy's, a rackety bar on Amsterdam Avenue and 85th Street, peering down on a diminutive trampoline and a mat draped over the wall. Beer was being guzzled. Debate was furious. How high would they jump?

Such behavior is not orthodox.

Yes, it was 11 o'clock, time for the weekly Velcro wall-jumping contest, the latest nocturnal diversion to forge its way into the New York bar scene. The activity is simple and strange. Contestants shrug into lightweight zippered jump suits covered in the back with Velcro strips. After dashing down a carpeted runway, they jump off a mini-trampoline, do half a forward somersault and, if they don't bounce off, land splayed upside down stuck to a padded Velcro mat hung on the wall. (Two spotters help prevent excruciating backaches.)

Jumps are then measured by how far the feet are off the ground, hence the need to land upside down. For a jump to count, contestants must stick to the wall for at least five seconds.

Like so many things, Velcro wall-jumping is deceptive and double-edged. It's easy enough to bounce your head or feet off the wall and not stick. The motto of Perfect Tommy's is "Stick or Die," a bit of black humor. Adam Powers, the bar's owner, said he hasn't needed to supplement his liability insurance because no one has been hurt by Velcro wall-jumping. One woman did allow that the pastime is murder on a manicure.

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There is no obvious explanation why people would want to do this. "It's just neat," Mr. Ouelette said. "It's sort of like parachuting in reverse."

Madison Gulley, a young stock trader said: "I guess it's another of those yuppie experiences. What else is there to do after a few cocktails but jump against a Velcro wall?"

Adam Powers has his thoughts. "It's the danger factor," he said. But didn't he just say it wasn't dangerous? "I know," he replied with a shrug. "But people think it is."

It is unclear precisely how Velcro wall-jumping started. What is known is that seven years ago, as a goof, David Letterman donned a suit with Velcro loops and flung himself against a Velcro wall on his late-night comedy show. That may have been the first Velcro wall jump in history.

What is also known is that Jeremy Bayliss, the manager, and Graeme Smith, the promotional director, of the Cri Bar and Grill in Napier, New Zealand, created Velcro wall-jumping equipment and began "human fly" contests in the bar last summer. They also sell equipment to others.

The inspiration, they have said, was American astronauts, who, during their weightlessness training, would sometimes wear Velcro coverings so they could stick in place rather than float around incessantly. One night last May, 20-year-old Paul Rose showed up at the Cri Bar and Grill, thumped his head on the ceiling on one jump and then came back to hit 12 feet 8 inches. That still stands as the wall-jumping world record.

Velcro wall-jumping now exists in dozens of New Zealand bars and is said to be one of the favorite bar activities there (outside of the steady consumption of alcohol).

Last summer, Sports Illustrated ran a brief story on Velcro wall-jumping in New Zealand. Stephen Wastell, a 27-year-old bartender at Perfect Tommy's, read the article with ever-widening eyes. He told Adam Powers that this was clearly something that Perfect Tommy's needed. Mr. Powers felt that his bartender was wise beyond his years.

Mr. Powers contacted the Cri Bar and arranged to become the United States distributor of Human Bar Fly equipment. He formed a company called Two Guys and a Chick with Mr. Wastell and Joslin Brown, who is Mr. Wastell's girlfriend.

Last September, he began staging Velcro wall-jumping contests every Wednesday night at Perfect Tommy's. What's more, Two Guys and a Chick has sold equipment at a price of $4,000 to six others -- three party promoters, the television game show "Ruckus" and a bar in Merrick, L.I., called Escapes.

Mr. Powers harbors visions of Velcro wall-jumping sweeping this country. There is hope among advocates -- thin hope, perhaps -- that it might merit Olympic consideration.

Gil Santaliz had not come to Perfect Tommy's to pound his body against a Velcro wall. He didn't know the concept existed. He came looking for a drink (all right, several drinks and maybe a really neat woman).

"Then these girls were telling me people were going to be flinging themselves and sticking against this wall," he said. "I said, 'No way.' They said, 'Yeah, look at the wall over there.' So I said that is a cool idea. Before I knew it, I had signed up to jump."

Now he was jumping in the third heat. The first 20 people to sign up get to compete (the contest is free). The best of two attempts counts, and heats and semifinals winnow down the field to the ultimate winner. The prize is modest but nice: a bottle of Moet.

Mr. Santaliz ran, jumped, flipped, crumpled into a ball. The crowd whistled and stomped. "Oooh, wicked, man," somebody said.

He ran again, jumped, flipped, crumpled into a ball.

He was out of it. So what. He had gleaned valuable knowledge.

"I put my shoulder into my flip too much," he said, consoling himself with a cool Rolling Rock. "My shoulder hit, then my back and I bounced off. You can't get too much shoulder in. Let me tell you this, I will be back and I will stick to that wall."

Wednesday Reaves, a good-natured clothing buyer from Houston in New York on business, happened to hear about the activity and dragged five colleagues to the bar. Two consented to jump, including Ms. Reaves.

"Life is a series of anecdotes," she explained. "It's stories to tell your children and grandchildren. I can't imagine telling my children about this place and not jumping. Tonight, this woman will become a fly."

Ms. Reaves lacked confidence in her flipping potential. She resolved to wear her Velcro suit backwards and simply jump face forward at the wall, as if she were trying to hug it. She realized that would severely limit her chances of winning.

"I'm here for the comedy, not the competition," she said.

Down the runway, off the trampoline -- splat! No stick. On the second jump, she stuck. Unfortunately, her feet were still touching the floor. The first successful jump to measure 0.

The United States record, fittingly enough, belongs to Steve Wastell. He achieved 11 feet 4 inches. Velcro, however, exacts its own revenge. The last time he jumped, Mr. Wastell fell on his head five straight times.

Jumpers hit 8 feet, 9 feet. One man landed sideways on the wall and still surpassed 8 feet. Stomachs reminded some jumpers of the four beers and 300 peanuts they had ingested. Dark, fuzzy spots danced in front of their eyes. After one gaunt man was peeled off the wall, all he could do was say, "Whoo, whoo, whoo."

There was something about those Houston people. Steven Burnette, a 29-year-old buyer shamed into jumping by Ms. Reaves, exceeded 10 feet and reached the finals. He was pitted against four others, including Mr. Ouelette and a sinewy man who made it despite inadvertently kicking one of the spotters in the face.

There was no stopping Mr. Burnette. Not tonight. He failed to stick on his first jump, but his second attempt was a beauty: 10 feet 5. The champagne was his.

As he was removed from the wall, there was hearty applause. "At least I'm good at something," he declared. He pulled on his jacket, fastened the Velcro snap at the top and dissolved into the night.

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