The heartbreaking news of a man who died after falling from a roller coaster at Six Flags Over Georgia has helped to reinforce my own resolve never again to go on one. And with that, I’ve come full circle.
Images from the souvenir-photo camera showed the man, who may have been on the heavier side, appearing to fall head-first into fellow riders.
Unconfirmed early reports indicated that the victim, Hassan Jihad Ibn Kariem, had been riding with his son as his wife and daughter looked on below, watching in horror as he hit the ride’s structures several times during his roughly 200-foot plunge.
There are few things I can think of that would be worse than going to a theme park for a day of fun and family bonding, only to come home one member short. Indemnification forms aside, I hope the park is at least able to do right by the family by refunding their ticket costs.
My heartfelt sympathies go out to them, and all who have lost loved ones in similar fashion.
As a child growing up in Marjorie Taylor Greene country, I spent many a summer visiting that very same theme park. I recall the terrifying sight of rides like the Freefall, which played the eponymous Tom Petty song in a never-ending loop as I watched safely from the ground below.
Once or twice, I went on the rickety old rides when I was barely big enough to clear the lap-bar restraint, my chin banging on it all the way.
Eventually, I outgrew my coaster phobia and came to love them, relishing the manufactured feeling of nostalgia from parks that surreptitiously pumped it into the air via phenols and pheromones.
Those same wooden coasters that I had once dreaded — the ones where you can feel every bump, hear the creak of the chain and smell the tar — became my favorites, enhanced by the recognition that I had overcome my childish aversion.
Early in my career, I even attended two media days at parks I had enjoyed going to as a kid. I recall feeling like I’d somehow made it, to be one of the first to experience a newly unveiled ride while drinking free beer from state-of-the-art aluminum bottles.
Over time, however, roller coasters again lost their appeal — in part because I grew just girthy enough that, while still able to fit in the restraints, the rides once more became very uncomfortable. I did not remember, as a kid, ever noticing just how small the seats were.
Then came the awkward moment when I reached the front of the line, my young riding partner in tow, only to be told I was too fat to fit and being forced to do the walk of shame over to an extra-large seat. At least it was more comfortable.
Still, I found myself questioning just how confident I was that the teenage kids running the rides had my best interests top of mind, and whether there was any limit to how much weight, amplified by Newtonian forces, those tiny restraints could hold back.
My most recent park visit, which I am almost certain will be my last one, further reinforced that deep sense of skepticism.
It was my only time attending an amusement park since the COVID pandemic, and I realized that something had shifted in me permanently. That blind trust I once had in institutions and so-called authorities was gone. Nobody was looking out for my own safety but me.
The visit also came at the peak of Bidenflation. Even as we hoped to replicate those nostalgic feelings with a young relative, I couldn’t unsee the reality that we were paying premium dollar for admission, only to gorge on bland, unhealthy food while spending most of the time standing in long lines and negotiating big crowds of people who were not exactly society’s finest specimens, all in return for a few minutes of elevated adrenaline while simulating the experience of plunging off a cliff strapped into a child’s car seat.
Not only was it difficult to enjoy, but it was also the very antithesis of what I considered to be “fun.”
To top it off, the date in question was Oct. 7, 2023. The odd irony of being there on one of the darkest days ever witnessed in my lifetime and hearing, in real time, the increasingly grim accounts of the Hamas terror attack on Israel — also in a setting where people had felt a false sense of security, either at a music concert or safe at home with their families — only underscored the notion that I was wasting my life away standing in lines for some overpriced, artificial thrill.
I would have given anything on that Saturday to be at my desk in my office, covering the one thing that really mattered.
By all means, I wouldn’t trade the feelings of joy I had as a child, of being in a place designed to cater to my every whim. Nor would I begrudge that sensation to anyone who still loves theme parks as I once did. They are an important part of our collective identity and shared sense of humanity.
Yet, they also embody the very worst elements of our consumerist culture. It is a carefully curated cattle call, in which the only thing one is really paying for is the sense of trust that nothing bad will happen, the opportunity to escape briefly into an illusion.
Looking back, it was the people I was there with who made those moments special. Yet, in retrospect, with some of them now gone, I can think of much better ways to pass the time and expense.
If I am going to wait in a long line to get strapped into an uncomfortable seat on a contraption in which my prospect of perishing is greater than zero, I would prefer it be on a plane, where at least I know something enduring and authentic awaits at the other end to justify the troubles.
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