Hurtling 140 miles per hour upside down above the Arizona desert, a cactus zipping past my head, I realize I should never have gotten on this airplane. The pilot, a 49-year-old Texan named Kirby Chambliss, handed me a parachute before we boarded: bad omen number one. He said with a laugh that I wouldn’t be needing it. But as he revved the engine of this cramped, 1,200-pound carbon-fiber plane at the top of his private runway, he clarified: The parachute wouldn’t do me any good because he liked to fly three feet off the ground. I’d never make it out alive if I jumped.

Chambliss is an elite competitive air race pilot, a pioneer in a sport for people with a death wish. Think The Fast and the Furious, except instead of burning rubber and peeling around streetlights, pilots rocket just above the ground at speeds of up to 230 mph and careen through 65-foot-high inflated nylon cones. Sound lethal? It is: At the 2007 Reno National Championship Air Races, an annual amateur event, three pilots died in crashes, and another died in a practice flight there this year. Statistically, air racing is likely one of the deadliest sports ever invented.

In the Red Bull Air Race World Series, pilots like Chambliss navigate the obstacle course one by one, racing against the clock. (At the Reno races, planes speed through the course in packs of eight or six, allowing them to easily collide—and dramatically increasing the risk of fatalities.) Course layouts vary by location, but they usually cover a three- to four-mile “track” marked by several pylon gates, which pilots must pass through at exact 90- or 180-degree angles, plus a slalom of additional cones. (Most pilots finish in little over a minute.) Made of a thin sail-like material, the pylons are designed to disintegrate on contact, but hitting one could be deadly, as it can still throw the plane dangerously off-balance. Even if a pilot survives, the collision will earn him a major time penalty: 10 seconds, a virtual disqualification.

The sport has existed in varying amateur forms since the early 1900s, with one-off races staged sporadically all over the world ever since. Back then pilots competed in boxy wooden biplanes, but competition fueled innovation. By 1933 biplanes had largely given way to the more aerodynamic monoplane and wood had changed to steel; today most racing planes, which can cost as much as $300,000, are made of superlightweight carbon fiber.

Despite air racing’s long history, it wasn’t until 2005 that Red Bull gave Chambliss and his kamikaze brethren the opportunity to become full-time professionals. In three years the company has created an inter­national circuit traditionally consisting of 10 closed-course races, each taking place in a different city over a period of eight months between April and November. The series champion is determined via performance-based point totals accumulated over the season (Chambliss is second in the overall standings heading into the final race in Perth, Australia on November 2).

Thanks to the skill and daring of the circuit’s 12 elite pilots, an international roster of mostly forty- and fiftysomething daredevils who’ve won numerous aerobatic competitions in their respective countries (meaning they’re masters of rolls, dives, and other stunts), the sport has taken off. Though initially more of a draw overseas, air racing has recently struck a chord with American fans: This year’s race in San Diego saw 120,000 spectators, while 750,000 people attended the June race in Detroit.

But those sunny stats belie air racing’s frightening reality. Over the Reno race’s 45-year history alone, 19 pilots have died. And while no one has been killed yet on Red Bull’s pro circuit, some pilots suggest it’s just a matter of time.