Wednesday, 24 August 2005 | $5 Beating

On Saturday, at my request, we went to Coney Island specifically to ride the Cyclone, an antique wooden roller coaster that has been looming at the southern tip of Brooklyn since the beginning of time. It was constructed long before loops or over-the-shoulder harnesses were invented, and is really nothing more than a series of hills and turns, and hill-turn combos. Its wooden body is painted white, red, and rotten, and its undercarriage looks like the underside of high school bleachers, when they're all pushed together against the wall. Lots of criss-crossing slats at sharp angles that poke holes in my trust.

I've always liked roller coasters, but I admit that the only thing that makes me okay with them is the rationalization that roller coaster deaths are rare, and the probability of my car being the one to fly from the tracks has got to be reassuringly low. (All of the ride-deaths happen at the state fair, don't you know.) In any case, any misgivings I have about roller coasters undergo a transformation somewhere between my brain and my mouth, because if you ask me what I think of them, I'll tell you I think they're awesome.

I don't really know why I haven't ridden the Cyclone before now. Part of it, I guess, is that I'm partial to the loop (though I hate its headache-inducing cousin, the corkscrew), and I'm not as fond of hills. It also probably has a lot to do with the line of people that's permanently attached to the ride, curling around the elderly beast like a long tail.

This past weekend the line was comparatively short, which was nice, because I was determined to ride the Cyclone regardless. While we inched forward, we could hear the combined sounds of screaming and the loud rush of the car sailing down a steep hill. To my right, I noticed a light bulb that was fused to a beam of the roller coaster, hanging on desperately, completely hollowed by years of decay. No one had bothered to replace it in, I don't know, 50 years. Reassuring! To my left, I saw a 400-pound carnie who looked like he hadn't stood up in, I don't know, the same amount of time. His weight was distributed as if it had, over the years, formed itself around the chair he'd been sitting on since he last got up to change the light bulb. He sat on the other side of the tracks, taunting the Cyclone riders with insults, before pushing a simple lever forward and sending them on their way.

After I climbed into the car (bruising myself on the way in), I shoved my bags at my feet, thinking that since we weren't going upside down, there was no need to fully secure them. However, as soon as we eclipsed the first hill, I realized that the Cyclone wasn't kidding, and that it was going to jerk us around the way you shake a can of spray paint. As a result, I was forced to slide down in my seat and create a "ceiling" with my legs in an effort to combat both gravity and inertia. By the time the ride was over, my leg muscles were cramp-ridden, and I'd gained a limp. My head was damaged, too, from the violent shaking it had endured.

The whole experience was not unlike what it would feel like to get beaten up, I think, except that you pay $5 for the opportunity. (I'm glad I did it, anyway.) Todd suggested that it was probably like what it would feel like to BE Coney Island, which, if you don't know, is a pretty abused and forsaken place. (Albeit one that's totally endearing.)