We're willing to fly because, in our minds, the element of risk isn't so high that we can't manage it. We can control the risk to the point that it's a valid trade-off for the myriad pleasures and utilities flying gives us. These same people, however, go to a job every day where they make decisions that affect thousands of people, involve millions of dollars, and generate so much stress their health is at risk. Or they get in their car every morning and dive into the stream with thousands of other bleary eyed commuters. It never occurs to them that every time a two-ton chunk of metal driven by a complete stranger of unknown competency passes them going the other direction, they are no more than five feet from instant death.
Risk is very much like insanity - it's a matter of degree and definition.
When they endanger others on the ground or in the air, we call them idiots. What we fail to call them is uncaring, inconsiderate, and so self-involved they have forgotten that all they are risking is their life. When it's gone, it's gone. What they are perfectly willing to ignore is that their life is not a free-standing existence. It doesn't hang out in space by itself, and then quietly disappear as darkness closes around it.