I have always been a Ride Warrior, even before I knew what it was.  There were no roller coasters in my childhood.  In fact, we only heard of “American Mountains”, which is really bizarre when Wikipedia tells me that they originated in St. Petersburg as “Russian Mountains”.  Well, there were no Russian mountains, literal or figurative, in my childhood either.  There was the Motorbuilders’ Park https://oldladywriting.com/2020/08/18/valor-and-glory-of-the-motorbuilders/, where the biggest excitement on the children’s side was to ride the “boats”.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C6HrjMDwrOU Actual footage of the park in 1974, previously shared by me, but bears reposting.  Look for the “boats” at 3:39, and then some “adult” rides, such as the “Devil’s (Ferris)” wheel (4:52).

I was always willing to wait in line for a “boat”, hoping to be paired up with a bigger, stronger kid to rock it, and someone’s dad to give us the initial push, just like the man does in the video.  But because I was a preteen when I left the exotic utopia that is Yaroslavl, I never got to go on the adult rides.  I must have been on the Devil’s wheel with my mother at some point, because I have a memory of looking at the city from above, but I would not bet on whether it is not a product of my imagination. There was one abortive attempt to get on a version of it during one summer in Pärnu, Estonia.  My grandmother and I were promenading at a local amusement park with my friend Nika and her mother Marina, us girls a bit in front of the adults.  I was 11, Nika was 13; to ride the wheel unaccompanied one had to be 12 years old, so we logically assumed that she would accompany me.  We also assumed that our accompanying adults would not allow us to ride it.  And so, we conferred among ourselves, sprinted toward the ticket booth, bought two tickets without any questions, and ran to the wheel.  My grandmother and Marina clued in to what was happening and ran, shrieking, in mad pursuit.  At 11, I did not have the nerve I subsequently developed; it took a few more years of resistance.  We hesitated and all was lost.  My grandmother was predictably furious; Marina claimed that she had an immediate hypertensive crisis and a near heart attack.  This illustrates that (1) my grandmother was not unique in her attitude of pervasive fear, and (2) my Ride Warrior persona was actively suppressed.

Grandmother sort of redeemed herself when she took me to Disneyworld when I was 16.  It was a guided bus tour from New York, one of three she and I have taken during my teenage years.  The others were a day trip to Washington, DC with a Russian guide almost comically ignorant of American history, informing a bunch of rapt elderly Russians about a great Civil War general Lee Grant and other similar “facts”.  The other one was a dull yet chaotic visit to Montreal, which the guide did his best to show off as resembling NYC as much as possible and dutifully avoiding any tourist attractions, and Quebec City, my only memory of which is ordering frites in my self-conscious three years of high school French.  Montreal redeemed itself when I visited it with a gal pal a few years ago, though I still think of it as a Canadian New York.  But I digress…

During one of the bus stops en route to Florida, I encountered a friend with whom I went to day camp in Brooklyn a few years prior, and the trip really took off.  My grandmother did her best to thwart us, but we still managed to sneak out of our respective motel rooms after my grandmother and my friend’s parents were asleep and bond over teenage secrets and music in the parking lot.  Like years before, my friend and I attempted to ride something forbidden by my grandmother as extremely dangerous—Space Mountain.  I do not recall how I managed to get away from her, but freedom was short lived.  Scouring the line, she spotted me and pulled me out of line with a lot of hysteria and reminders that as she paid for the trip, I must spend all my time with her.  My friend stayed; her parents were unbothered.  I went to ride the teacups, which grandma declared the best ride at Magic Kingdom, and did not get to Space Mountain until I returned with another friend my senior year of college.  I screamed the entire time, and it was worth the wait.

My mother, who is most assuredly NOT a Ride Warrior, was, and remains to this day, an enthusiastic person who is open to new experiences and adventures.  It must have been that same summer when I was 11 that the two of us happened to be in Moscow’s famous Gorky Park. To us, it was famous strictly for its amazing “American style” amusement rides, and it was before the novel anyway.  We waited in line for what seemed, and might have been, an entire day to ride what is basically the Matterhorn.  I did not see any roller coasters, either because the crowds were overwhelming, or because I was in a state of shock from all the excitement.  My grandfather later confessed that one time when he was in Moscow he also went on this ride, and my grandmother was predictably furious to learn this, because (1) he had a bad heart, (2) he had a bad leg, and (3) he, the main provider for our family, risked his life in this manner.  It will surprise no one that in all the summers I spent in Brooklyn with my grandparents, we never once went to Coney Island.

In July of 1982, my mother, stepfather and I went to Cedar Point in Sandusky, Ohio.  It was a couple of decades before it became known as America’s Roller Coast, but it was already an incredibly exciting place, especially to us.  It was a great day!  My stepfather, who was also NOT a Ride Warrior, declined to board the Blue Streak.  This old wooden ride still stands, for over 60 years now, and I rode it a couple of months ago.  It is probably the least impressive and least comfortable that Cedar Point has to offer today, but the pull of nostalgia is strong.  We convinced my stepfather to ride the Gemini, a racing coaster, and he arrived at the finish line nearly catatonic with his eyes firmly shut.  These two, plus the Corkscrew, which all of us refused to ride that day because it flips you upside down and we were certain we will fall out, are still in the park today.

Much calmer was the Wave Swinger, a swing ride that in the Old Country was known as “hanging carousel”, to distinguish from a merry-go-round.  There was one at the Motorbuilders Park’ as well, so partially for sentimental reasons this gentle, scenic flight is something I never miss at any amusement park.  The sensation of flying through the air, looking at everything around and below, having that time to really watch and enjoy is not to be missed.  Most recently, I was on a version of it called Wellenflug, in Phantasialand, a theme park near Köln (Cologne), Germany.  To be continued…