I rode the Cyclone, Coney Island's infamous coaster to hell, for the last time in August. I don't plan to ride it again in this lifetime.
On Easter weekend, it opened for another season. Its 83rd.
(That's an interesting NYT article, check it out.)
That the Cyclone has stood the test of time, barely, and some think it has improved with age, and some think it's timeless, is why I'm so fascinated with the ride and with Coney Island. It's an "island" of misfit toys.
A building in ruin that was turned into a cheeky Roller Rink on the board walk. Proudly showcasing freak shows, instead of marginalizing the freaks.
A shitty aquarium that inner city kids don't find so shitty. Every race, creed, nationality walking the boards.
Signs in Spanish and Russian. An inkling of history. People fighting about historic preservation and economic development. Nathan's hot dogs. Music by the surf. Images of people frolicking on the beach in their giant swimsuits 70 years ago.
Riding the Cyclone is a feat of strength. I had never felt so jostled and rattled in my life. It felt like being in a 10-car accident but coming out unscathed.
You can take the ride yourself, courtesy of Miss Cyclone Angie Pontani. Hear her comforting her ride companion who appears to be whimpering toward the end...
At the top of the first hill, you see the exhilarating view of the gritty city and the ocean. Then you plunge into pain canyon.
Despite its compact appearance, there are lots of hills and twists. Last summer, halfway through the ride, screaming the whole time, I thought it was over. When I realized there was more brain-busting and neck-cracking to come, I yelled, "It's not over yet!? Are you kidding me! Oh my GOD help me!" While Salty D. laughed maniacally. This was self-inflicted pain, after all. I was shaking for almost an hour following the ride. I required a very large beer at the nearby Freak Bar.
But I kept thinking about everyone else who rode the coaster. The couples who rode it on a date in 1930, or the crazy roller coaster junkies who rode it twenty times in a row in 1980, or the girls from the neighborhood who rode it just to flirt with the operators in 1950, or Woody Guthrie, or the girl who begged her boyfriend to take her to Coney Island in 1990. In 1990, the ride felt really different than in 2009. People say it got better with age but judging from the shock my body went through, and the story in the NYT article, I'd have to question that. And Angie saying on the video, "Don't worry. It's safe." As you fly out of your seat.
Mostly I think I like the Cyclone because it's like life. A rough scary ride, an exhilarating promise, or however you want to interpret it. Except you survive the Cyclone.
Thud. How's that for an ending?
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