King’s Dominion Karma
I pack the infamous Trader Joe’s Spanish meats — salami, chorizo, spicy pepperoni — as thick as I can in between hearty sesame seeded Ezekiel bread. I added provolone, mayonnaise, and tomato too. I am proud of this sandwich. Somehow along the way of wondering my path of feminism, I still like to please my man by giving him the best sandwich I can offer. It was also proven through a case study of some sort that sandwiches did taste better when made by someone we love.
He drives us south on I-95 towards our destination. I sit prominently in the passenger seat still thinking about the sandwiches we will eat later. We approach the big familiar sign I had seen throughout the stages of my life, “KING’S DOMINION.”
A plethora of memories fill my head. The time I rode my first coaster the Grizzly next to my dad. I remember him forcing me to get on the ride. As we went down the clunky wooden tracks, I felt my stomach drop and I bumped my jaw on the metal, rusty bar that kept us from falling out. “At least we didn’t fall out.” I thought. There were other memories that came up too. They mostly involved my dad. “Oh no, the screws are loose!” He yelled as we winded our way on the Rebel Yell. Or the time we were about to shoot out of the Volcano and the ride suddenly stopped and started going backward. We stayed on that coaster with our feet dangling in the air for at least an hour before we could get off.
As soon as we grab a park map, Rahul takes the lead, “We will walk to the back of the park, then we will ride the Intimidator. Nobody has made their way back there. It’s too early. People aren’t smart. We are.” I guess we don’t have a choice. I am starting to feel like that sandwich-making housewife again.
We walk as fast as our short legs can take us to the Intimidator, supposedly the fastest roller coaster there. This will be the first rollercoaster I had ridden in at least 8 years. I watch the futuristic white coaster take-off faster than my brain can process.
“Well at least the name of the ride is fitting,” I think.
I know we were about to enter this man-made machine for the adrenaline rush. My adult instincts kick in and I began to observe the nature of what this means. The operator looks to be between 12 and 18 years old. His face is covered in red splotches of acne — a pure indicator of his lack of life experience. “Our life is in his hands? What am I doing here? What are WE ALL doing here?” I think in panic.
I sit down and buckle into the ride. It takes off. We twist, turn, and go down steep hills, all at the speed of a flight of bumblebees. In fact, if this ride were a song, It would be that. When it is over, my heart feels different than it ever felt before post-roller coaster. I feel panic inside of me.
“I can’t do that again,” I tell Rahul as I try to catch my breath. “Life’s scary enough.” These are my go-to words these days. I am not a kid anymore. I no longer enjoy the thrusts of uncertainty that send jolts of adrenaline to my veins, convincing my brain that I will die soon if I am in survival mode.
“Come on. This will be our only chance. It’s going to be crowded soon.” He says forcefully.
“It’s too much. I will do the less strenuous coasters.”
“We need to do this one again!”
“Fine, but this is the last time for now. I can’t handle it anymore.”
The second time is equally dreadful. I trudge out of the line.
“Let’s go eat our food. I’m starved.”
“But it’s still ear — ,” before I can finish, he is walking towards the front of the park to the car. I follow practically into his shadow.
We sit in the vehicle. I nibble on my giant sandwich as he scarfs his down.
After we finish, we walk back into the park. I nonchalantly steer us as far away from the Intimidator as I can, until I see a small cluster of non-roller coaster rides.
“How about this one?” I ask as I stare at what appears to be the hammer of Thor. It spins upside down. Then back and forth. At least it is slow. I think I can handle this one. “This feels like a compromise,” I ponder.
We get on Thor’s hammer, and I laugh uncontrollably. I look to the left of me, and Rahul is holding on quietly as we spin like cotton candy. We come to a stop. Rahul unbuckles and walks as fast as he can to the bathroom. I sit on a bench and wait.
Less than ten minutes later he finally comes out. His tan skin looks a shade lighter.
“I vomited,” he concludes. “I guess the ride got to me.”
“Oh yeah? Let’s do it again.”
