Living in south Florida like I do, I get to Orlando every Labor Day weekend for a family visit revolving around my niece’s birthday. When you live by the coast, any coast, in Florida, going inland is not desirable. Yet millions of Floridians like me routinely make the Orlando pilgrimage at least once a year simply because we can. It’s a two- or three-hour drive from just about anywhere in the state and with Disney at your disposal, it’s hard to resist a weekend trip here and there. The vacation other families plan and save months or years for we take on a long weekend, usually for granted.
So I spent last Sunday riding roller coasters with my eleven-year-old daughter at not Disney nor Sea World this time, but Universal’s Islands of Adventure. Despite losing count of how many trips we’ve made to Orlando over the years, this was our first time at a Universal park. And despite her tender age, my precious child has somehow managed to cultivate—in her mother’s footsteps—a love of roller coasters. Though she’s barely (and I do mean by a hair) tall enough to ride most of them, she’s been on the floorless Kraken at Sea World Orlando, Superman and Batman at Six Flags in a foreign country no less (Mexico), and now a few more.
When you walk into Islands of Adventure, it’s impossible to ignore the screams and sound effects emanating from the Incrediable Hulk. The term “roller coaster” doesn’t do justice to this massive green beast. My little thrill seeker was drawn like a magnet. I noticed the line indicated less than thirty minutes wait time, so knowing the waits for these rides can be far more monstrous than the rides themselves we stepped in.
I marveled at the beverage stand inside the ride terminal, selling water, soft drinks, and beer. Yes, beer. That’s all I need, I thought, is a beer before getting on this thing. I don’t know about you, but my body goes into adrenaline overload in these situations, one result of which is the need to eliminate absolutely anything that might be in my digestive and excretory tracts before the ride begins (too much information perhaps, but the truth). Unless there was a bathroom waiting before the ride boarded … my thoughts ricocheted from pondering drinking to pondering other people drinking. Not entirely convinced that I would not pee or puke on anyone, I wondered who might pee or puke on us? Just what, this time, were we in for here? I didn’t need a beer. I needed a shot of tequila. Make that two shots.
The line moved faster than I expected. At last we were harnessed, bolted down and clicking up the hill through a dark tunnel. (Caution: ride spoiler ahead). The last words before things took a turn for the worse were “Everything looks good. I think – I think this time it’s going to work!” That was followed by a computerized, nuclear-reactor-about-to-blow voice announcing “WARNING” and then in the same character as the first voice (presumably, the Hulk before his monstrous transition) “No, No, NO!” At that moment we were rocketed the rest of the way uphill—yes I said uphill—from zero to forty miles an hour in two seconds. “Holy crap” came to mind, but I can’t remember (or at least it’s not fit for public consumption) what came out of my mouth before my hysterical screaming drowned out everything but the roar of the metal lion itself.
It dove, it twisted, and it looped. “I can do this,” I told myself, “I’ve been on worse.” Wrong! It looped again (this I had seen ahead of time), slowed, then accelerated and twisted wretchedly. “Oh lord, when will it end?” I wondered at least twice before the car braked and stopped for good. “That was Awesome!” the courageous voice to my left piped up (her standard post-ride response) while I swiped a tear of relief swiftly off my cheek. Parched from screaming, my mouth and throat could not form words. I was shaken to the point of emotional release that this juggernaut was over. We hurriedly glimpsed the requisite pictures taken during the ride and it was then, as I saw the look of sheer terror on my face the likes of which I’ve never witnessed in my life, that I was shaken by a far more frightening thought. Had I officially become too old for roller coasters at the tender age of forty-two?
This I could not accept.
Once I downed a bottled water my brave protégé made a beeline for the next set of coasters—racing, dueling serpentine metal inverted (that means the car hangs from the track) behemoths named Dueling Dragons. We rode them both—Ice, then Fire—back to back. After that, I had a beer.
Ah, but the day was young, so we explored other rides of the non roller-coaster type until time crept up on us and we found ourselves with an hour left before closing. We had come full circle and were back toward the park entrance. “Let’s go on Hulk again,” she said. “Can you handle it, mommy?” You know the answer. What choice did I have but an enthusiastic, “You bet!”
The line was considerably shorter. The beer lady was gone. And this time I vowed I would notice the water spray after the second hill, smile for the blasted camera, and yep, I might even buy the picture. Night was falling on a mostly overcast day. Maybe darkness would help, I considered. Four to a row, we strapped in next to two teenage boys. “This is the first roller coaster I ever rode,” one told me. “My father forced me to try it when I was twelve, and now it’s my favorite!” the other bragged. God help me, I silently prayed, what am I doing on this again?
And off we went. Like all rides, knowing what’s coming takes the edge off the second time around. This time, instead of screaming, I breathed deep long exhales on the steep drops to prevent that horrible plunging feeling in the pit of my stomach. This time, I let myself be thrust and dropped and jolted without resistance. This time, I smiled just exactly as a *flash!* blinded me in the descending Orlando night. And as I’d hoped, the picture came out showing two happy redheads and two goofy adolescent boys (who, judging by their poses, knew exactly where the camera was) having the ride of their lives. I bought the biggest photo package they offered.
A day or two passed before I reflected on my roller coaster odyssey and could recognize it as the exquisite metaphor for life, which it obviously is. Like wild rides, we embrace life fearlessly in our youth, exhilarated by rather than fearful of the unknown. We prod and torment those older than us, keeping them young at heart. They, in turn, become our wise if sometimes reluctant guides. With time, we learn to react with fear when we can’t see what’s coming, and then further learn that treading the same path breeds comfort and familiarity. “I can do this, I’ve done it before,” we reassure ourselves, but only for so long before an unexpected twist impels us down an unforeseen path or derails us altogether. We bolster ourselves with inner encouragement, “I think—I think it’s going to work this time,” only to later scream “Oh no!” with regret and perhaps wish for the cocoon of soft darkness to ease the struggle.
With enough hindsight, we realize we’ve surmounted challenge upon challenge, no matter how steep, and that inevitably a new one begins the minute the last is over. Emboldened by our survival, we get back on for another ride and time and again the cycle repeats, perhaps not just within one lifetime but over several. Until that one ride on which we finally become aware that it’s just a ride. Even if it all goes horribly wrong we know it will end and that at that end, everything will be okay. We will be fine, and we will still be. It is then as we reach our limit, on the brink of overload, that we at long last lessen our grip, breathe deep, and amidst the chaotic race forward, sit back and smile.
Now I know I’ll never be too old for roller coasters. In fact, that’s impossible. I’m on one every minute of every day and so are you. The only question left to ask yourself is, “Are you having fun yet?”