Saratoga News

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Great America may have opened, but without me

By Dick Sparrer

I'm never going to Great America again.

I don't care if they do smother their funnel cakes in strawberries; I don't care if they do pour hot fudge all over the ice cream in their waffle cones; and I especially don't care if they have added Survivor The Ride to their already large selection of roller coasters.

In fact, it's actually because of Survivor The Ride and other coasters like it. You see, they just have too darn many thrill rides!

I haven't been there for quite a few years now, and believe me I wasn't in line when they opened the doors this season.

The last time I was there they had just added the Xtreme Skyflyer. And you know what I liked about it? Nothing!

Elevate 153 feet above the ground ... pull your rip cord ... free-fall 17 stories at speeds reaching 60 to 70 miles per hour before yanking to a stop 6 feet above the ground.

Uh, no thanks. I'm already 6 feet above the ground (give or take an inch two ... OK, maybe three), and I'm fine right where I am, thank you very much.

So it's my plan just to stay away from Great America, given my history of being talked into such crazy adventures as riding roller coasters and other stupid thrill rides.

It all started when I was just a child (and, no, it has nothing to do with Freud!). A carnival came to town and my dad convinced me to ride this shaky little roller coaster with him.

"Come on, it'll be fun," he said.

"Uh, I don't think so, Dad. Can't we ride this instead?" I asked, pointing out the merry-go-round.

"Sure," he said, "after we ride the roller coaster. You're not chicken, are you?"

Well, I certainly was no chicken. And, after all, he was my dad, so I trusted him, right? And with that, I climbed aboard the roller coaster.

I don't know if the ride operator could see that all the blood had drained from my face, or if he could just hear my screams of terror ... but thankfully, he stopped the ride after only three trips around the rickety little track.

My dad never again asked me to ride a roller coaster with him. Of course, he also never let me forget the one time I did, laughing harder every time he told the story ... especially when he told it to a room full of friends and family at my 40th birthday party. Thanks, Dad.

Then there was that trip to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk when I was a teen-ager. Now, unlike most teens, I wasn't the fearless, throw-caution-to-the-wind, roller-coaster-riding type. I was a little more ... well, more cautious.

So when my date suggested that we ride the Wild Mouse, I was in a real fix. On the one hand, I wanted to be brave and I wanted to let this girl know that I really liked her ... on the other hand, I didn't want to wet my pants.

"Oh, I don't know," I said. "It's getting late. We better think about getting home."

"It's 7 o'clock ... we just got here," she said.

"But the line is so long," I tried once more. "It will take us forever to get on."

"There are five people," she said, somewhat disgustedly this time. "Come on ... don't be chicken."

So I rode the darn thing. But it didn't do me any good. I squeezed her arm so hard she probably still has my fingerprints indented in her forearm, and I screamed so loud that even the 9-year-olds were pointing at me and laughing.

We never dated again ... her choice.

From that point on, I vowed to never again ride a coaster.

And then a few summers ago I took the youngest and his friend to Great America--home of the Tidal Wave, the Demon, Top Gun ... you know, all of the roller coasters.

"Hey, Dad," Kevin said, "let's ride the Demon!"

"Uh, how about taking the train around the park?" I asked.

"That's boring," he said. "Let's ride the Drop Zone."

"Wait a minute, guys," I said. "Let's try this scary one over here ... the one that not only spins around, but also has those giant horses that go up and down, too!"

"The merry-go-round? You've got to be kidding!" moaned Kevin. "Are you sure it's not just that you're a chicken?"

Oh, right. Like any adult is going to fall victim to such a kid's ploy. I was way too secure, way too mature, way too ...

"Cluck, cluck, cluck ... "

"Ok, that's it! I'll show you! Where is that Drop Zone anyway!?"

It's a story they'll be telling at my 60th birthday party.