Laura
TS Member
- Favourite Ride
- blue fire Megacoaster
I wasn't sure where to put this, but a friend reminded me of something I posted a good few years ago on Facebook. I thought it was interesting so dug it out and wanted to share it.
I have to say I think I have changed quite a bit since I wrote this! Unfortunately for the worse (that is, jaded and cynical), but it does recapture some of the excitement I felt when I was younger. I originally wrote this when Colossus opened at Thorpe (didn't post it til YEARS later), so I would've been 16.
-
I want to celebrate that just-woken-up-and-about-to-get-wrecked-with-g-forces feeling when you stagger through the gates of a theme park at the crack of dawn, usually earlier than you'd even be thinking about getting out of bed. Not to mention the fact that you've just driven for three hours after only four hours of restless sleep, worrying about traffic and queues and whether that new ride will be running today.
I want to celebrate that stale bacon butty and chalky cup of coffee from the cafe in the entrance plaza, the ringing in your ears from the ill-advised mock Pop Idol auditions the park is holding, the plink of rigged coin machines and the jingle of prize grabbers. It will celebrate it again later, if your stomach is weak and your head is shaken.
I want to celebrate the way you walk, quickly, anxiously, towards the queue, keeping an eye out for chavs and other delinquents, making the split second decision to cut in front of the group of undesirables with music blaring from their phones. The way you look at the height restriction sign even though it is years past applying to you, the way you catch the eye of the queue attendant and force your mouth into a neutral line, hiding your excitement. But you can hear it now, the click of the lift hill, and the shiny test-seat lingers in the corner of your eye. She knows.
I want to celebrate the letter you compose in your head to the park, complaining of gum and litter and smoking in queue-lines. It celebrates how this is all forgotten when the attendant asks ‘how many?’ and you momentarily forget how to count. When you edge into the loading bay, pushing yourself against the automated barriers should anyone even dare to try to take your place, when they finally open and you fall into your seat, taking hold of the shiny bars and reading the safety signs you've seen a hundred times before. You’ll be careful and you won’t let go. But you will. You're a pro. You're not scared. You've done this more times than you can remember.
I want to celebrate the ride-op who clicks in the buckle you forgot to lock.
I want to celebrate the click, the pull, the drag on your back as you strain your neck forward, taking in the world around you. The pink nose and white knuckles that are all you can see of the guest beside you. It celebrates the pause, the breathlessness, the thrill that you will never tire of. The final click. The drop. It begins.
I love the sound of a lift-hill in the morning.
I have to say I think I have changed quite a bit since I wrote this! Unfortunately for the worse (that is, jaded and cynical), but it does recapture some of the excitement I felt when I was younger. I originally wrote this when Colossus opened at Thorpe (didn't post it til YEARS later), so I would've been 16.
-
I want to celebrate that just-woken-up-and-about-to-get-wrecked-with-g-forces feeling when you stagger through the gates of a theme park at the crack of dawn, usually earlier than you'd even be thinking about getting out of bed. Not to mention the fact that you've just driven for three hours after only four hours of restless sleep, worrying about traffic and queues and whether that new ride will be running today.
I want to celebrate that stale bacon butty and chalky cup of coffee from the cafe in the entrance plaza, the ringing in your ears from the ill-advised mock Pop Idol auditions the park is holding, the plink of rigged coin machines and the jingle of prize grabbers. It will celebrate it again later, if your stomach is weak and your head is shaken.
I want to celebrate the way you walk, quickly, anxiously, towards the queue, keeping an eye out for chavs and other delinquents, making the split second decision to cut in front of the group of undesirables with music blaring from their phones. The way you look at the height restriction sign even though it is years past applying to you, the way you catch the eye of the queue attendant and force your mouth into a neutral line, hiding your excitement. But you can hear it now, the click of the lift hill, and the shiny test-seat lingers in the corner of your eye. She knows.
I want to celebrate the letter you compose in your head to the park, complaining of gum and litter and smoking in queue-lines. It celebrates how this is all forgotten when the attendant asks ‘how many?’ and you momentarily forget how to count. When you edge into the loading bay, pushing yourself against the automated barriers should anyone even dare to try to take your place, when they finally open and you fall into your seat, taking hold of the shiny bars and reading the safety signs you've seen a hundred times before. You’ll be careful and you won’t let go. But you will. You're a pro. You're not scared. You've done this more times than you can remember.
I want to celebrate the ride-op who clicks in the buckle you forgot to lock.
I want to celebrate the click, the pull, the drag on your back as you strain your neck forward, taking in the world around you. The pink nose and white knuckles that are all you can see of the guest beside you. It celebrates the pause, the breathlessness, the thrill that you will never tire of. The final click. The drop. It begins.
I love the sound of a lift-hill in the morning.
