Roller Terror

Tonight I'm in a part of Texas that really is interesting. It's a restaurant called Mortini's, down inside a building that sits on the corner of Elm and Houston in downtown Dallas. That's the same Elm and Houston that frames the northern half of Dealy Plaza, the site of the Kennedy assassination.

My voice is a little hoarse, and my throat is a bit tender. I've been screaming today, not in anger, but in fright. I went to Six Flags and rode almost all of the roller coasters. It was fun, but I haven't been subjected to this in a long time. In fact, these are the fastest rides I've been on. I decided to start out with the simple ones and work my way up to the big dog in order to subject myself to increasing levels of terror. I rode Shock Wave first.

Built in 1978 it's the first ride to feature two loops, and it goes up to 60 mph. Next was the Texas Giant, a very large and twisty wooden roller coaster. I forgot how these things will beat the unholy hell out of you. Imagine being fired through a loopy gun barrel while two heavyweight prize fighters beat on your ribs and lower back. I only rode that one once. Finally I wandered over to the big one. An orange monster called The Titan. This thing drops you from it's 255 foot peak at 85 mph through the ground into a 120 foot long tunnel. They warn you, and it's no joke, that you must not have any hats, glasses, cell phones, or other carry-ons on the ride; at peak velocity they will leave your possession. At one point I saw a very nice set of sun glasses flying away.

The ascent is long enough for me to reconsider the choice I made to get on this thing. I could see so much of Texas from up there, and realized my sense of security, attachment to the earth, and sense of calm, was no longer under my control, but in the possession of this iron dragon. I swear that descending from this height, you cannot see the rails at all. You cannot feel a connection to them. There is only the sense of falling, very very fast to the ground. This is as close as one can get to experiencing suicide by jumping off a tall building without actually doing it. When my senses and all of the serenity they maintain are stripped away in that compressing, wringing, torrid ride, there is but one thing to do. Scream. Scream to God and all of his creation. No plea. No request. Just the voice of primal terror, launched from deep in the lungs with whatever air is still left. I got my wits about me and rode The Titan once more.

The day ended with a far more sedate ride on an old steam train, then I went home to shower and drove to Dallas, where I'm enjoying a very good meal in a building down below Dealy Plaza. A place forever in the shadow of true horror, while off to the west lies a fine counterfeit, and I intend to return to ride The Titan again and again.