Roller coasters are a love 'em or hate 'em things. At least for me.
When I was little I took a ride on a Wild Mouse contraption, by myself. I'd rather poke my eye out with a stick than ever go on one again. Each time the little cart looked like it was racing to the abyss, it jerked to the left, only to keep whiplashing me again and again.
My grandmother waited for me on the ground, her kind face looking upward. I'm sure she only had goodness in her heart but at the time I only wanted her to stop the damn ride!
It was decades later before I could muster the courage to ride a roller coaster. A Wild Mouse? Never ever again.
The odd twist of fate was a ride on the historic wooden roller coaster at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk; the Giant Dipper.
I lived in Santa Cruz for a while with my daughter and husband No. 3. During that time, or that marriage, I was plagued with anxiety attacks. The only stop-gap measure was a quick trip to the Boardwalk for three rides on the Giant Dipper. Seriously. (A longer measure would have been a divorce, but I wasn't ready for that at the time.)
When my grandson was 16, I took him for a grand three-day tour of Disneyland. He was into videography at the time, because I let him use my crappy old video camera any time he wanted. (I was convinced he was going to be the next Steven Spielberg.) He especially loved videoing cars that we passed on Highway 5 from San Francisco to Los Angeles. One particular roadster was a Hell's Angel burly looking guy on a big, bad hog (motorcycle). My grandson wouldn't give up on the guy until he waved to the camera, which thankfully he did.
Disneyland was a blast for the first two days. I needed a hip replacement and two new knees by the third day and unfortunately there were no magic carts for me to ride around one magic land to another. I just had to hobble.
Done with Disney, we headed toward Magic Mountain. Hallelujah! The Promise Land - all the roller coasters we could handle! The only problem was - they all were on hills. Lots of walking uphill and downhill and between the rides. But never fear, this Grammie wasn't going to cave!
My grandson and I rode the coasters like pros. Until we found our favorite one (the name escapes me). We stuck to riding that one, walking down to stand in line again and again, until I couldn't walk another step. But would I quit? No! I asked the ride attendant if we could pleeeeze wait at the top, at the station where the cars were loaded. "Of course," he said. (Bless him!) Ride after ride my grandson and I got the front car, over and over. Thrill after thrill! It was marvelous!
What's a girl to do? Now that my grandson calls me Gram instead of Grammie, I'll let him take my three great grandsons (his nephews) to their turns on the wild rides!
Lucy Llewellyn Byard is currently a columnist for the Record-Bee. To contact her, email lucywgtd@gmail.com
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