Year of the Cyclone

This year is like the first wooden roller coaster I ever rode at Six Flags in Atlanta, GA on a hot summer afternoon around the year 2003.

The old wooden beast's white paint had long since chipped and it was rumored for being especially creaky and rickety, as thought it would break at any moment. Perhaps it's named the "Georgia Cyclone", I seem to remember that.

The coaster was the first one inside the gates to the right after ticketing. We were brazen, a group of young teenagers daring each other to jump on it first thing, although for many of us it was our first experience. I joined the group exhilerated, scared. And we rode.

I felt the usual emotions one might expect: fear, awe, and aderenaline. The Cyclone was true to its name; full of spins and divets and drops. Of course every motion also had a low, wooden rumble beneath it that kept me wondering if the entire coaster was liable to just fall apart on us. Specifically, I was terrified of the eery "click, click, click" at the ride's onslaught as we climbed high for the first big drop.

After the ride we giggled at one another wide-eyed and gulping in the air around us, thankful to be on solid ground again. We went on our way, weaving deeper into the park and leaving the Cyclone behind. For the rest of the day I was queasy. It was the first time I discovered I'm prone to motion sickness but it did not stop the pursuit of more rides.

We probably ate turkey on sticks and drank sugary soda. We probably stood in line as many hours as we spent actually riding the rides. And we likely did a lot of joking around. But I don't remember the rest of the day as vividly.