This past week I did something that was vehemently uncharacteristic of me on two counts. I spent most of the day on Thursday at Six Flags Magic Mountain in sunny Valencia, California. First of all, I'm not the kind to miss work and leave town without an occasion. I've famously never taken a real vacation, and the only stated purpose of my jaunt to the thrill ride capital of the state was simply because. Second, I'm acrophobic (fear of heights... and acrobats), so I'm not the sort who usually volunteers to be dropped from high places simply for the "fun" of it. Which is not to say that I'm a wallflower of any sort, but it suffices to say that skydiving is not on my life's "to-do list." But among the many positive influences my girlfriend has had on me, she pushes me to do things that are good for me despite my reluctance, and just before noon we were pulling up to a sparsely full parking lot in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere, save for the towering metal edifices of fear that loomed just beyond the fences in front of us.
To put my trepidation regarding roller coasters in some perspective, I didn't ride my first one until I was 27 years old. And I remember it like it was yesterday. I was in the Navy, and accompanying some crew members from my submarine on a trip to Orlando, where we were planning to spend a couple of days at the Universal Studios theme parks, a couple of nights galavanting about town, and the remaining time eating and sleeping (ah, the days of wine and cheese). But, near the end of our first day, we met up with a couple of young ladies who agreed to meet us the following day at Islands of Adventure, the thrill-ride side of Universal. The day started off well and we were palling around the park like a group of old friends in no time. But at some point, the ladies indicated they wanted to ride The Incredible Hulk, a lime green mile of terror whose claim to fame was launching its riders at full speed from halfway up the first incline, and my friends (having no knowledge of my fear of such things) were happy to oblige. As we stood in line, the increasing helplessness of my situation combined with the sounds and screams of those ahead of us being launched into oblivion piqued my fear immeasurably. I was impossibly silent, and spent the whole of my effort on forcing a half-smile despite my impeding doom. Upon finally reaching my destined seat, I tightened my shoulder harness down to the point of painfully crushing me into the plastic "cushion" and any illusion of excitement vanished from my face, along with any color. But after 90 seconds of emasculating screams, I not only found myself alive, but actually exhilarated, and back in line three more times that day for the same trip.
If it hadn't been for a petite, pretty young girl in line with me whom I was desperate to not look foolish in front of, I probably wouldn't have ridden a roller coaster to this day. A similar circumstance got me to jump off of the 10-meter platform at the Naval Academy's diving well, where it was a prerequisite for graduation. Trust me, if you've never stared down 33 feet into space with nothing to stop you but water while wearing only a pair of ill-fitting swim trunks, rest assured that it's farther than you think. The mechanical drone of the swimming instructor and the resounding slap-thuds of my classmates striking the water at over 30 miles per hour had made the scene surreal, and my fear impractical. But just before my turn came up, and I began to turn around and head back down the tower stairs, I saw a female classmate of mine that I had long been desperate to impress. Before I knew it, and against my better judgment, I had turned back around and taken five large steps, the fifth into what I expected to be oblivion. A few moments later I was gathering myself at the side of the pool (having not quite gotten my legs together before impact, and paying the resultant price with my ability to breathe), but nonetheless blissful that I had survived. Although I'm certain she doesn't know it, I have that young, female midshipman to thank, as much as anyone, for my successful completion of my degree requirements in Annapolis. Though I never did get her attention.
On Thursday, I first rode Tatsu, Deja Vu, Batman, Ridder's Revenge, and Scream much to my delight. I was hoarse from screaming and just the slightest bit queasy from being turned upside down so many times that I had lost count. Deja Vu was truthfully mortifying, but at least the harnesses had been substantial enough to give me some measure of security. You see, ever since my first ride on the Hulk, I had only two rules for rides that I would not brave: one, it must have shoulder harnesses (no lap bars allowed) and two, no free falling. To that point, I just coudn't rationalize having half of my body unsecured when being hurtled through space, or evoking the terror that falling always gives me, simply for a five minute high. I'll just take a Vicodin and a Red Bull, thanks. But the tallest and most storied ride at Magic Mountain is Goliath, which also, of course, turned out to be my girlfriend's favorite. Goliath boasts a 26 story drop and an 85 mph plunge, and as luck would have it, with no shoulder harness in sight. With Deja Vu, I had already braved the only real free fall in the park, but it had only lasted for a moment, and Goliath meant a minute and a half without the roller coaster equivalent of my Wubby, the locking shoulder harness.
There was, however, and as before, a pretty girl whom I was desperate to not disappoint, close at hand. And in a moment there I was again, trudging up the line towards what felt like impending doom, uncharacteristically quiet, and gripping the hand holding mine as though it would be the last time. After sitting in my death chariot, I pushed my lap bar down as far as it would go, sucked in as hard as I could (which doesn't create nearly as much room as it used to), and pushed it down again. I was wedged into my seat like a rubber door stop, and spent the few moments before we began the long ascent to the tallest point in the park trying to find places to hold on. As we climbed, I settled on a death grip that included my right arm curled under the lap bar and my left arm pulling my chest down towards my right, and as we crested over the peak, I stopped breathing all together.
Fortunately, the folks that run Magic Mountain have mounted the automated photo system for Goliath at the base of that first terrible plummet, which was able to capture me at one of the least flattering moments of my adult life: my eyes half closed, my entire upper body taught in a death clutch and my face unflatteringly twisted by both fear and screaming.
But I survived Goliath, my first non-shoulder harness coaster (an introduction on par with having the Hulk be my first coaster of any sort) and the resulting bravado allowed me to close the day with a visit to the Viper and Superman, all told braving the fastest eight coasters in the park.
The rollercoaster is as American as apple pie, and has served as the metaphor for everything from ill-advised romantic relationships to the stock market, to the trials and tribulations of adolescence. But for me, they represent something much simpler, the unknown and the fear of its anticipation. Safety statistics regarding these rides have the same effect that bar exam passage rates for Stanford grads and skydiving fatality numbers did. In that, the fear of being the one person who beats the odds was much greater than falling into the overwhelming majority. But it turns out that hitting the wall with the dart is much easier than hitting the bullseye, and I've been fine every time.
Looking back on the day I realized my visit to the park was more than simple random leisure, and had actually taught me a few things:
1. No matter how old I get, there always be an enduring empowerment in having a pretty girl around, which will likely continue to catalyze my triumph over my greatest fears.
2. The same cannot be said for the viability of my joints, my cardio-vascular endurance or my tolerance for stupid people.
3. If you're about to do something that frightens you along with other people, look around. If you see anyone that's likely to have to been a Hannah Montana or Jonas Brothers concert in the past six months and doesn't appeared to be scared, tighten up - you're being a sissy.
4. Theme parks are much more tolerable during the weekdays and before school lets out for the summer, as is any event where there are minimal numbers of teenagers and mouth-breathing families of seven around.
5. Vacations are a pretty solid experience, even if they only last a day. I guess Ferris Bueller really had something there.
and 6. Terror, like Vegas, Vicodin and Vodka, in small doses, can be exceptionally refreshing.
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