I’m not good at finding the courage to face my fears. I’m a coward. If there’s an activity that could embarrass me, I’ll avoid it. If the threat of sudden death is involved, let me run and hide. When pain lurks on any side of the equation, count me out. If I can’t control the situation to my satisfaction, why go there?
The Challenge
My husband and I recently took a trip to Tennessee, our first adult only getaway in many years. We passed up all the thrill rides, splash parks, and two-hour wait lines. We enjoyed nature, walking a little, visiting historical sites, and eating food.
But my husband wanted to ride the Alpine Coaster. Finding the courage to ride a roller coaster is easy for Rich. He was a former Army paratrooper who jumped out of high-moving aircraft for fun. He loves to face his fears, tempt death, and get the pain over with as fast as possible. I prefer to walk around fear, death, and pain in an attempt to escape them altogether.
Rich called it a little ride, but it looked like a roller coaster to me. My last roller coaster ride made me realize that age matters.
Here We Go Again!
Several years ago, we vacationed at the mouse place. Since one roller coaster played oldies music, and we were oldies, Rich and I thought it would be a great beginning to our summer adventure. I failed to read the information about the coaster. Little did I know that the ride blaring Aerosmith songs boasted the highest-level thrill ride coaster in the park at that time.
I lost my breath from the starting gate and couldn’t find air for the entire ride. The jerking motion was so intense I had visible bruises in places I didn’t even know I could move. I was done with roller coasters. I would not be finding the courage for another mouse place roller coaster in this lifetime.
Excuses
Rich assured me the Alpine Coaster moved at a comfortably slow pace, only 27 miles per hour. And the rider could control the speed. Of course, the riders behind the slow-moving little car were not likely to appreciate the horse and buggy at the front of the line. I would be driving that pokey little car.
I came up with lots of excuses. We could both ride in one car, and he could control the speed. Our combined weight was just under the pound limit. I could stand at the gate and take photos of Rich coming down the side of the mountain in a tiny, barely attached car. Was this a headache coming on? Or at least a twisty stomach problem? Shouldn’t we start back toward Pennsylvania before traffic gets back?
In her book Challenged: From Here to Eternity, my friend Sheri Walker calls this feeling “the dreaded awful.” By the time I needed to slide onto that wide open seat and start moving up the hill, I had analyzed every possible way I could die on that coaster.
When I’d paid for two tickets, I stood at the gate intently studying that little sled. What exactly held the wheels to the track? Could a fast-moving vehicle bump me off track? What if I annoyed the life out of the people in line behind me? What if I couldn’t figure out how to slow it down or speed it up? I’ve never been very mechanically inclined.
Downhill
Rich got in line behind me to ensure no one rammed into the back of my car. I suspect he moved at a snail’s pace so that I could have a long headstart.
When I reached the top of the mountain (and it was a little mountain), I heard the girls in front of me scream as their sled cut loose from the system that pulled it up the hill. Surely, I figured, workers waited at the top to rescue the terrified and help them find a way to walk back down before plunging over the edge. But the top of the mountain was only…mountain.
I thought of the previous day’s conversation with my sister. While I explored Gatlinburg, my nephew Aaron toured ancient Mayan ruins in Mexico, Belize, and Guatemala.
His grand adventure forced him to face his greatest fears, including a fear of heights, close spaces, and crawling through mirky cave water. Finding the courage must be easier when you’re young, I reasoned.
When I told her about my lack of courage for the Alpine Coaster, she texted, “You can do it!”
I have no idea what those girls ahead of me were screaming about. I’ve ridden downhill bike runs with more speed. Now and then, I did pull back the brake bar, but not for long. The scenery was beautiful. The air blew across my face, and I felt like an eagle soaring over the mountainside! I couldn’t see Rich behind me anywhere. After the ride, Rich said I was so far ahead that he never saw me on the downhill side.
One More Time
When I reached the bottom and crawled out of the car, I asked the worker, “Can I go again on the same ticket?” He said, “No. Once per ticket.”
That’s too bad. If I ever ride this coaster again, I won’t touch the brakes.
Finding the courage to ride a little, slow-moving coaster made me wish I had tried some of the other Smoky Mountain adventures—zip lining, black bear sightings, driving the winding backwoods roads at the suggested 70 mph speeds. Maybe next time.
I felt rather proud of myself until a friend told me about her relative, an 84-year-old man who recently conquered his first tandem skydiving event.
I’m going to have to work my way up to that one!