I confess I was momentarily struck by a sense of grim amusement when I read the latest press release from British Airways. They are, it seems, placing a substantial bet on the future of ultra-long-haul flights: twenty hours in a pressurised metal tube, thousands of feet above the Atlantic. The marketing copy is predictably breathless. 'A new era of connectivity,' they call it. 'Bringing the world closer together.' One almost expects them to drape the aircraft in bunting and declare a national holiday for the truly sedentary.
Let us, for a moment, consider the implications with the cold eye of a historian. The Romans built roads. The Victorians built railways. We... we build endurance tests. We have perfected the art of moving large numbers of human beings vast distances while simultaneously ensuring they have the legroom of a medieval stocks and the entertainment options of a penal colony. This is not progress. This is a pinnacle of a peculiar sort of decadence: the worship of efficiency divorced from human scale.
What does it say about a civilisation that its proudest achievement in travel is not the journey but the ability to withstand it? Twenty hours. That is longer than a working day. Longer than a night's sleep. Long enough to watch the entire extended edition of 'The Lord of the Rings' trilogy, with time left over to contemplate the existential horror of the in-flight menu. The human body is not designed for this. Our archaic biology, with its need for sunlight, movement, and the occasional bowel movement, rebels against the very concept. But we have decided, as a collective, that the convenience of non-stop connectivity outweighs the biological insults we must endure.
This is the same logic that gave us open-plan offices, the gig economy, and the expectation that we answer emails at 10 PM on a Sunday. It is the triumph of the spreadsheet over the soul. The airline's calculations are simple: a 20-hour flight eliminates the need for a layover, thus reducing total travel time for the precious 'business traveller' and opening up new routes for the leisure class. Never mind that the passenger arrives a shambling wreck, their circadian rhythms in tatters, their patience frayed, and their dignity a forgotten memory somewhere over Greenland. The numbers work. And so the numbers must be obeyed.
I am reminded of the late Roman Empire's obsession with ever more extravagant games. The Colosseum was a marvel of engineering, a testament to Roman ingenuity. But it was also a symptom of a society that had lost its moral compass, distracting the populace with blood and spectacle while the barbarians gathered at the gates. Our equivalent is the 20-hour flight: a spectacular feat of engineering that distracts us from the creeping decay of our intellectual and physical vitality. We sit, mesmerised by the promise of seamless global transit, while our cities become unaffordable, our politics a circus, and our culture a shallow puddle of recycled nostalgia.
Consider also the environmental cost. I am no tree-hugging alarmist, but even a casual observer must note the cognitive dissonance. We are supposed to be in the grip of a climate crisis, and yet the response is to burn more fuel for longer durations. The airlines, of course, will tout their 'efficient' engines and 'sustainable' fuels. This is the same piety we hear from oil companies funding climate research. It is a fig leaf, and a transparent one at that. The true cost will be borne by the planet, and by the poorer nations who will never set foot on these airborne palaces of endurance. Progress, it seems, is for the few who can afford to spend a day in a seat.
But perhaps I am being too harsh. Perhaps the human spirit craves these trials. After all, we climbed Everest, crossed oceans in leaky boats, and sent men to the Moon. A 20-hour flight is, in its way, a modern odyssey. But let us not confuse endurance with virtue. The challenge is entirely artificial, a problem we have created for ourselves because we cannot bear the inconvenience of a stopover. We have built a world where the direct route is always best, regardless of the human cost. It is a mindset that has given us fast food, instant gratification, and a gnawing sense that something essential has been lost.
I will not be booking a ticket. I will take my chances with a layover in Reykjavik, a walk through the terminal, a moment of human connection. But I suspect I am in the minority. The future is 20 hours, and we will endure it, because we have been trained to believe that endurance is its own reward. The Romans are gone. The Victorians are gone. But their folly remains, reborn in the sleek lines of a Boeing 787. We will fly, and we will suffer, and we will call it progress. And the barbarians, meanwhile, are already at the gates.
