This is a narrative on a trip to Six Flags that my mom and I went on. Enjoy!
“Are you insane?” I asked my mom, watching across X-Force’s twisting track as a car of screaming people descended American Eagle.
Of course, this was the woman who had walked through the entire theme park oggling almost every ride that I shied away from, and had already ridden the worst of them on past ocassions. How she had gotten me to go to Six Flags again, I wasn’t quite sure – probably the Justice League ride, which I do enjoy – or worse, how she had gotten me to ride Viper. Granted, I had already ridden Viper once before, the last time we had come to the park, but I hadn’t liked it, and it was a severe lapse in judgement to ride it again. I suppose everything I read about “second chances” and the lot had gotten to my head, and it hadn’t occurred to me that those ideals were aimed at people, not at roller coasters. While I grasped the handles tightly, as though plummeting to my death (which it certainly felt like I was), she was whooping with the careless ease of an adrenaline junkie (which she most certainly is).
“Do you really have to ask?” She responded, staring at American Eagle with a hunger in her eyes characteristic to people who actually like roller coasters. “Come on, you said you’d ride it this time.”
That was true – I had said that I was going to finally ride American Eagle that visit, since I was tall enough and the line wasn’t all that long. But that had been back in the car, when we had first arrived, and there were other aspects of that conversation that she was neglecting to consider. For instance, the fact that I hadn’t had wind in my hair and recent plummeting experiences for my mind to call on at the time. Or the exchange prior to my making that stupidly bold statement.
“I’d like to ride American Eagle this time,” she had remarked as she pulled into the parking lot. I knew what she really meant was, “I’d like for you to ride American Eagle with me this time,” and I looked out the window to see it.
“It’s the wooden one, right?”
“Yup. It has some record for longest wooden roller coaster, I think.”
“It doesn’t look too bad,” I had reasoned.
“It isn’t.”
“Any drops?” Drops are my kryptonite. They say it’s not heights or falling that you’re afraid of, just the landing. I’ve found that isn’t true. I think that some people genuinely are afraid of the altitude and perspective of heights, I’m just not one of them. Then again, I’m not afraid of landing either. It’s unpleasant, to be sure, but thanks to martial arts training I have plenty of experience with poorly done landings. No, what bothers me is the falling bit, where there’s nothing, just the wind around you, the drop in your stomach as you fall, and the complete and total lack of control. That’s what frightens me.
“Nothing serious,” she had replied. She would know, I figured. She had ridden just about everything in this park, at some point or another.
We had very different definitions of serious, it would seem. I stood there, watching the car speed forwards and downwards, and even though I was far from it, I could imagine the plummeting feeling that I hated so much, and I knew that ride held far too much of it for my taste. It was ironic – I could ride swinging cars that sped in circles and tipped you sideways, until you were horizontal to the ground, and I didn’t mind at all, but I couldn’t take a steep descent.
“Yes, I said that I would, but you also said that there weren’t any big drops.”
“There aren’t.”
I stopped picking at my thumb to gesture wildly at the tracks in front of us. “What do you call that?”
She frowned. “That’s not a big drop.”
“Yes it is!”
“Not to me.”
“You’re insane.”
“I know.” She gestured towards it. “Please?”
“Absolutely not! Why don’t you see if there’s a single rider line?”
There wasn’t.
