Coney Island? It’s a real scream
Even though I rarely did anything at Coney Island except go to the beach, walk the boardwalk, and eat at Nathan’s, it enthralled me. Looking at the rides I’d never go on, listening to the people screaming like Godzilla was about to eat them, the bizarre people I’d see who had nothing to do with the rides or the park made the place a visual exercise.
First of course was the Cyclone. One could hear the clattering and chattering of the metal wheels reverberating through the wooden frame from blocks away. And of course, the screams. The closer I got to it, the higher my blood pressure went, at least that’s what it felt like. I was so afraid of it that I was perfectly content to wait the few minutes at its exit for my friends. After all, it was terrifying. Over 2,640 feet of track during which the monster did 12 drops, the grandest of which was 85 feet at a 60-degree angle. Nor did it ever give you time to get your tongue out of the back of your mouth because the bugger ran off 27 elevation change in roughly two minutes time. My friends? Their appearance and pallor confirmed my fears. Then one night after graduation they jumped me, dragged me to a cyclone car, and held me down until the bar locked. I was screaming before it started; I uttered not a sound during the ride. If my fright was being measured by one of those fund-raising thermometers, the red stuff inside would have blown the top clear off. My fears became reality, and you can’t scream when every muscle in your jaw is locked down solid from fear.
I never rode the Cyclone again. About that time a “mini-roller coaster” named maybe Mighty Mouse was installed. I rode it and survived. I never rode it again. Why? What’s the sense when you knew it was a very poor substitute for the real thing. Roller coaster was gone forever from my activity posting. I began to think about knitting.