Mortality Check
Last night, I re-discovered the reason why I gave up riding amusement park rides.
Oh, I had a few thrilling moments as a child. After all, I grew up in the home of the Canadian National Exhibition and one of the best midways around. But, as soon as I had one of those moments where I thought I was going to die, that was it. I was done.
Last night, probably forty years after I made that life-altering decision, I thought it might be worth it to try and bury the fear and try again. The young ‘un wanted to go on one of the more daring rides at the local town fair, and no one volunteered to accompany her. Scoping out “The Hurricane”, I thought it looked harmless at first glance. You sit in a car with a safety bar locking you in, you go up in the air and take a few up and down dives as you go around. No biggie, right?
Wrong.
All it took was half a revolution before I closed my eyes, hung on for dear life and re-discovered prayer (if invoking the Lord’s name over and over again constitutes prayer, that is). It was horrid. It was dizzying. With every revolution and every dive, I felt as though one wrong move would send me hurtling headfirst into the crowd. This is what they call a thrill? Not for me, thank you very much.
I walked, wobbly-kneed, off the ride towards the stairway. The ride operator, complete with missing teeth, called me “sweetie” and had a laugh at my expense. And I resumed my lifelong call to be a “non-ride person”.
Terra Firma, I love you so.
