I am not a thrill seeker. My idea of death-defying is waking up in the morning. When I moved to a third floor apartment, I wouldn't go out on the balcony for months owing to my dread fear of heights. I find nothing entertaining about seeing how many vector changes it takes to throw my gastrointestinal tract into reverse or how high/fast I have to go before my adrenal glands cry for mercy.
Which explains why I spent today at Cedar Point, a place that bills itself as "The Roller Coaster Capital [sic] of the World." I still can't explain how I ended up clamped into something called the Power Tower, an open-air ride that leaves one's feet dangling over the abyss while shooting one directly vertical for 240 feet, then reversing the G-forces to let one bounce back down like a paddle ball. Elie says I just squealed, but I'm pretty sure I shouted at least six things that would be bleeped on network television. I very nearly opened my eyes. I'm feeling a little queasy even now just thinking about it.
While I let Elie fly solo on the big coasters (the Gemini and the Magnum XL-200), I did go on the Cedar Creek Mine Ride, which at only 48 feet tall is pretty much the bunny hill of coasters. I'm pretty sure I was the only one in the car chanting the mantra, "Isaac Newton will not let me down." So I'm a geek. Most people ignore how physics keeps them in their seats on a roller coaster. Me, I count on it. If I was better at math, I'd really count it.
In the arcade, I managed to find both the broken Whack-A-Mole and the broken skee-ball machine. I got my quarter back on the Whack-A-Mole, but I figured the arcade manager, who looked to be about 15, wouldn't believe that I had the rotten luck to get my quarter eaten by the skee-ball not three minutes later.
Next time, I'm wearing a swimsuit. The flume leaves one's shorts uncomfortably soaked.
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