Rollercoasters!

At Six Flags Magic Mountain I discovered that contrary to my own previous doubts, I am a bona-fide rollercoaster junkie – nothing was too much. Throughout the day I was hurtled around absurdly tight corners, twisted 360 degrees at astronomical speeds, thrown through staggering big loops, dangled like a hand-glider above Los Angeles by a disturbingly small harness, had jets of fire shot at me... and I loved it. (Of course all that excitement was a tiny fragment of the time we spent there, the other vast majority spent waiting in endless lines. This is why theme parks are so tiring: you go from 0 to 10 in seconds and back to 0 again.)

Best part occurred at 6:45pm, 15 minutes before the park closes: We’re stumbling our way to the exit, giddy, exhausted, when we pass something called Log Jammer, one of those water rides where you sit in the plastic log and get propelled through ‘rapids’ and down a couple of drops. Veronica’s face lights up. I’m shaking my head, giving reasons why we should just head back to the car: the park’s closing, it’s already dark, we’re going to be soaked and cold. As usual she ignores my good sense and bounds up the steps. We all squeeze ourselves into a log and are shot off into the darkness of the forest - the ride winds up and around the side of a woody hill – and I mean, darkness: a pitch black hole fringed by shadowy branches of wintery trees, and no sound but the rushing water lapping against us. The thin night air, the smell of chlorine – I’m loathe to admit it now (in my head I’m still going A water ride at night! Of all the madness!) but the unexpected spookiness of this whole business is right up my alley. Onwards we flow, singing “Build me up, Buttercup” at the top of our lungs to fill the space of the surrounding emptiness. As we approach a steep drop the guy manning that portion pops out of the dark and splashes water in our faces. “I need you!” Veronica shouts at him. “More than anyone, darling –" then we tip over the edge. We hit the bottom and are absolutely drenched. As everyone flicks water out of their hair, I look up from my seat in the back and notice that beyond the ghostly, barren gray branches that rise up around us, the sky is beautiful, a deep midnight blue-black and so clear – a real wilderness night, not the fluorescent pollution we know in the cities – that you can see all the stars. For a fleeting handful of seconds we drift below them, heads tilted, wide-eyed, before the forest swallows us up again. One of those moments. I don't have a picture, obviously, but it was something like this: