A friend once remarked, “You’re not from Brooklyn until you’ve ridden the Cyclone,” and opening day of the world-famous roller coaster with its own address — 834 Surf Ave. — always makes me think of my maiden voyage on the wavy snake, rumored to have inspired a mute rider to speak his first words: “I’m gonna be sick.”
Most summers I was content to watch — with more chills than thrills — squealing air-saluters dip-n-drop, surge-n-soar, twist-n-turn, jolt-n-jerk while I sat on a bench and funneled funnel cake into my north and south (Cockney for mouth). But every dog has his day, and one year I impulsively bought a ticket and trekked through a tunnel to a Norman Rockwell-esque platform kitsched with two carnival-style carriages crammed with tittering thrill seekers.
Before I could say “blimey!” a jolly worker huddled and barricaded me into the second car of the first freighter. Pleased as punch, I announced my maiden voyage to the two young lads bobbing in front of me like corks.
“You’ll have a heart attack!” kvelled one, as the carriage began to trundle — past an ominous sign reading, “Last warning. Remain seated and hold bars at all times.”
We shrieked like banshees all the way to the top, where the gangly giant lumbered steadily for the next several yards and lulled me into a false sense of security — before going ape.
It zoomed headlong into an abyss at 60 mph, and just at brink of no return took mercy and recovered me from a free fall, only to thrash me about again like a wheat stalk in a haboob. On, and on, and on — for a minute and 50 seconds of agony and ecstasy — the mighty Cyclone wrapped my guts around hairpin turns, punishing plunges, a half-dozen 180-degree spins, 16 direction changes, 18 track cross-overs, and 27 elevation changes, before running amok like a runaway horse and bringing me with clotted brain and jellied limbs to a clean finish at home plate.
That summer, besotted me rode the Cyclone multiple times in a row, several times a week, and I felt like magic — not to mention a bonafide Brooklynite — when its operator posted my column about that first ride outside my beautiful behemoth.
Follow me on Twitter @BritShavana
