Coney Island’s irreplaceable Cyclone
The Cyclone has some years on me. After my first ride on it, not by choice, mind you, I felt lucky to be able to continue on with my life.
I wouldn’t say I was a fearful boy, but I was no adventurer either. A thrill ran through me generated by the unique sound the Cyclone made. You could hear the clattering (and screaming) before you could see it. Next to it, from the looks on the faces of those getting off, there was no way I was going to be one of them—pale, green, trying to get their legs under them. I had seen that enough times to know this was an experience I did not need to lead a full, productive life. If fact, I was sure a ride on it might produce just the opposite. The friends (or so I thought) who were with me that post-high school graduation celebration night had other thoughts.
If one of my friends said that he or she was likely to drop dead from fright if they took a ride on the Cyclone, it never would have dawned on me not to honor that. Thus, it never dawned on me that my companions might think the reverse. As we approached the monster for some of those heartier than I to get on, they scooped me up off the street, wrestling me like a roped steer into the front car. They held me there until the bar snapped shut. The starter seemed to be having a wonderful time watching this rodeo.