This is fun this is fun this is supposed to be fun. The words churn in my head over and over, fighting with each other as fear grips my stomach. The small space between my body and the plastic guard that is supposed to keep me alive makes my dangling feet shake. I cross my ankles, grip the handlebars until my knuckles turn white, and close my eyes, even though I know that makes the whole ordeal half as fun and twice as awful. Why did I ever agree to this? Who sits in line for three and a half hours just to flirt with death? This is supposed to be cool, this is supposed to be exhilarating. But the drop of my stomach and the scream that exits my mouth involuntarily tell me otherwise. I want to reach out, grab the scream, and shove it back into my mouth, but my hands are frozen to the handlebars. The muscles in my fingers will not release their clutch, no matter what my brain tells them to do. I ask myself why I can’t just enjoy this like everybody else, just as the metal beast reaches the climax and plunges down, carried by the insane force of gravity, creating a supposed “thrill of a lifetime.”