Maybe it's the absence of ominous clacking. It could be that most humans can't suspend you upside down 200 feet above the ground. The fact that roller coasters are so undemanding is a plus, as well. See, they don't mind if you experiment with other rides, or even other coasters.
Whatever the reason, the steel and wooden giants captivate me. Even with my sieve-like memory that forgets people's names two seconds after I'm introduced, I remember my first roller coaster ride very, very vividly.
It scared the shit out of me.
As a kid, the size and power of the rides always impressed me. I grew up a short drive away from Six Flags Over Texas, the park that kick-started the coast to coast franchise. When I hit my tenth birthday, I started getting invites from friends to go.
I'd wait pathetically for them to wind through the queue lines of the scary looking coasters and join me again at the end, so that we could go on something more tame, like the spinning hat ride. I'm sure "I'll never go on THAT ride" escaped my lips on more than one occasion.
So I really don't know what made me do it. I was at the park with my mom and a friend of mine, a friend who looked into the eyes of a glaring scream machine and laughed. The day played out like any other, when out of nowhere, I declared that I would ride the Texas Giant with my friend. The announcement thrilled her, and completely shocked my mom, a woman familiar with my coaster phobia.
The Texas Giant, boasted at the time as the #1 wooden roller coaster in America, loomed over Six Flags with its ominous 143 foot drop, and seemingly endless twists and turns. Why I thought this rickety terror was a good idea for my first coaster, I still don't know.
I don't remember how much time passed between my decision and me actually standing in line for the ride. I'm sure my friend teetered on the brink of killing me by the time we actually got loaded into the trains. During the agonizing wait, I'd asked her all the questions I now recognize as futile attempts to quell the unrelenting fear often experienced by new riders. I recognize them because I've answered them myself by now: "Is it scary?" "Do you feel like you're going to fall out?" "How safe is it?"
And of course, "Am I going to die?" This, I asked the ride operator who did nothing to calm my nerves by giving my lap bar (which seemed completely inadequate to guard me against this potential death) a quick tap and yelling, "Check!" My innocent curiosity about the impending doom was greeted with a withering look from my checker, and a shriek of embarrassment from my friend. "I can't believe you just asked that!"
But it seemed a valid question to me. As the ride pulled out of the station, my brain entered panic mode. Clinging to the lap bar, my mind raced with terror: "What was I thinking? This is stupid. I want to get off. Oh my god, how do I get off this thing?" And suddenly we were climbing the lift hill, clackity clack, clackity clack: "This is RIDICULOUS. This bar does not feel secure at all. Are those people holding their arms up? What is WRONG with them?" I clung to the minuscule orange bar, wrapping my arms around it as firmly as I could manage. And then, there it was. The top of the hill, marked by a sign depicting Wile E. Coyote clutching at it (much like the way I clutched my lap bar), and the words "WAIT! LET'S DISCUSS THIS!"
It was like the sign was there just for me, mocking me, throwing all of my fear and terror onto its wooden face and saying, "Yeah, but I don't have to go down."
I yelled over the clacking, "Yes, let's discuss this!" But it was too late. The train plummeted down the hill, and the next thing I knew, my arm was up in the air.
My back-stabbing friend had somehow broken through my vice-grip and yanked my hand up with hers. I managed to get it back, and spent the rest of the ride cowering from her, praying she wouldn't try it again. There may have been tears. There were definitely screams.
But I'll tell you one thing for sure: I didn't die.
