It's The Drops That Get Me

Something I've always enjoyed are roller coasters. I can take or leave rides that flip you upside down or force you into free fall drops. I prefer the swooping, breathtaking drops and quick whip arounds that one experiences in a roller coaster. There is a clear start, an end and an objective so you know what to expect. To me, the barometer of the success of said ride means you arrive back at the starting point breathless and laughing your ass off. Exhilaration is key.

I prefer the older coasters, those rickety contraptions of wood and metal that squeak and groan with each turn. That may harken back to my days in Santa Cruz, California where I spent two years of college. My weekends were often passed on the fabled boardwalk, listening to the summer concerts, winning free glassware with the dime toss and riding roller coasters. I confess there was nothing better than the sensation of a marijuana buzz with endless rides on the Cyclone of the West, The Giant Dipper. This beautiful aged coaster groaned with each twist on every corner turn. The wood planks squeaked and heaved. You'd be whipped into an exhausted frenzy as the car dropped down each level as the ride progressed. You'd be bruised. You'd be shaken. I never got over the thrill of the experience.

I've ridden countless other coasters since and some are exuberant and some are far too convoluted. The simple experience of the wooden early 20th century roller coaster is the right mix for me. I've hankered to ride the Cyclone on Coney Island. Tomorrow Hollaback Girl and I are making a pilgrimage to Coney Island on the outer reaches of Brooklyn. We'll see the Freak Show. We'll go to Nathans for a dog or a scallop sandwich. We'll stroll the boardwalk. And we'll ride the Cyclone.

Hollaback Girl is not a big fan of roller coasters. When I showed her the picture above, she grimaced. I understand her concern so I won't make her sit in the front car with her hands up. We'll sit right behind.