At this very moment, two forces are locked in a dead heat: a growing need for sleep, coupled with the stupefying effects of Red Bull. Vodka is also at play here, so I’ll be completely honest with you: it sure ain’t WordPress powering this post. Instead, this is a chemically induced web journal entry–a departure from our usual harvest of hand-picked, shade-grown adverbs–and by God, if I can make it to the third paragraph tonight, I will consider it a success.
I’ve been giving this 5K some serious consideration in the past few days. Now, just to give you some additional context, the very notion of paying money to run is offensive to me. Why divest capital to suffer, after all? Indeed, why not cut out the middle man and just write a check to the charity in question?
For one thing, the idea of training is appealing. I average 0 miles per year currently, which would make this an infinity-percent improvement. This would be my first 5K ever, too, and there’s this desire to avoid half measures. Why not fuck up my clothes in the process, in other words? Why not respond favorably to a saccharine-sweet promo video that made me throw up in my mouth a lot? It’s akin to stepping through the threshold at Taco Bell. You don’t walk onto the premises to procure, like, a small bean burrito with three packets of mild. No! You maximize your tonnage of meat “product” and discolored vegetable matter. You go the whole cow–figuratively speaking, in this extended metaphor.
Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, June 26.
Right around the second bank on the Hurler, during a stark and painful reminder of why I dislike wooden roller coasters, it occurred to me I didn’t know what exactly was keeping the train on the track. It certainly wasn’t gravity, nor was it a sterling safety record, judging by the abundance of protruding nails. No, it was sound rollercoasterology, or Jesus, which kept us on the straight and narrow. Probably Jesus.
My equilibrium is still intact. Class-5 rides were the mainstay, in fact, and I found a pleasant symmetry when I discovered the Intimidator–my hands-down favorite coaster there–was designed by Bolliger & Mabillard, makers of the Raging Bull. I savored the tension of that lift hill three times, courtesy of the Fast Lane pass. This $40 upcharge was a necessity on Saturday, with 30,000 attendees racking up wait times of one, two, three hours.
The pass was douchey, in a sense, because it enabled you to cut hundreds of people repeatedly, but hey–first-world problems, right? There were glares and mutters, to be sure, and we concluded that Fast Lane etiquette topped out at back-to-back turns on a given ride. It simply wasn’t advisable to try a third consecutive go, lest you incite mob lynchings. That’s not the name of a ride, either.
It also occurred to me that the mark of a good amusement park attraction is the death-to-thrill ratio, a concept I shared to the approbation of my peers. When these contraptions creak and groan, you can’t but help be reminded of your mortality. On a lame ride like the WindSeeker, for instance, you might say to yourself, “Man, if my seat detached, my last thought would be about how boring this thing is.” But if the same thing were to happen on NightHawk or Afterburn? Fuck yes.