The thrill of the hill

This was originally published in The Alliance Review in 2006. A student's essay about rollercoasters reminded me of it, so I decided to dust it off and send it out into the world again.

It’s the same story every time.

I’m too old for amusement parks. I don’t find any thrill in being herded through long lines. The thought of flying is much less attractive than it was when I was a kid, watching George Reeves soar through clouds on a not-too-carefully-hidden ironing board.

I plan to hold bags, purses, and sandals while family and friends allow themselves to be strapped into uncomfortable plastic chairs and hurtle through the air at ridiculous speeds, flipping upside down and side to side while screaming uncontrollably.

Roller coasters are for the young, after all, for people whose bodies bounce back faster after defying the laws of gravity and the dictates of good sense.

In the weeks prior, I politely promise to ride, but intend to do nothing of the sort. To paraphrase Casey Kasem, I will keep my feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars.

So how do I find myself harnessed into a seat, flat on my back, blinking back tears as I stare into the sun, the car in which I’m riding click click clicking toward the apex of a metallic hill, with only the whimpering of fellow guests and the distant cawing of gulls to keep me company?

And why do I find myself doing it again and again and again, vowing every time that this is absolutely, positively the last time?

Call it stupidity. Or a loathing of Casey Kasem.

I’m trying to keep my mind off the fact I’m claustrophobic, and that right now I’m restrained by shoulder harnesses the size of semi-truck tires and a plastic pommel pressing against some very private parts.

Disjointed thoughts flip through my mind.

I think of the acne-pocked teenagers below, checking my safety harnesses while making doe-eyes at each another, worrying more about lunch and a rendezvous behind the Big Dipper than my safety and comfort.

I think of news reports of riders who have been stranded for hours while technicians contemplate how to get them down. Or people with undiagnosed heart conditions whose final view is all the tiny, colored rectangles in the parking lot below, and who will be cut dangling from harnesses, eyes transformed into x’s like erased cartoon characters.

I think how odd it is that if any employer subjected me to even half this much torture, I would contact state representatives, human rights groups, and every attorney who ever advertised on the back cover of a phone book. But on my free time, I pay for the privilege.

I think how businesslike I am about having fun at an amusement park, how once I’ve climbed aboard one monstrous coaster, I won’t be happy until I’ve ridden them all, big alloy and wooden behemoths with names like Steel Cobra and X-Flight, rides they have to close down when somebody’s lunch makes an encore appearance on his lap.

The click click clicking stops, and there is one blissful moment when I am poised on the precipice, a moment that can be as long or as brief as I choose to make it.

Eyes still closed, I retreat to my happy place. I’m stretched out on a beach towel, a paperback book tented over my face, the waves lapping the shore in the distance. At any time, I know I can sit up and walk into the ocean, splash water on my feet, and maybe watch the annoying kid beside me be eaten by a shark.

It is a comforting place, far away from any screeching guests and testosterone-fueled expressions of manliness.

Then I open my eyes.

And I’m screaming and screaming and screaming, even as my face starts to bend and twist like those melting Nazis in “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” and I don’t want to die and Jane stop this crazy thing and I’m speaking in tongues and I don’t want to die and my ears are bouncing off the shoulder harnesses and I wonder how I could have ever thought the straps were too tight they’re loose too freaking loose and nobody treats me like this nobody and I don’t want to die.

The cars screech to a halt, and I dismount, smiling and shaking and walking on Jell-o legs.

And already deciding which coaster is next, because I have paid for this torture, and by God, I’m going to get my money’s worth. Even if it kills me.