Back in April, I went to Busch Gardens with my school’s 8th grade class.  As is always the case, the pressure to prove you are still young and have gravitas lies in one thing—will you ride a roller coaster?  And if so, how many, and how many times in a row?

 This pressure had been put upon me back in my days as an 8th grade teacher at North Buncombe Middle.  The Saturday at Busch Gardens in Williamsburg was always the culmination of a half-week spent in Washington, DC doing all things historical and cultural.  The amusement park was the reward to 100+ 8th graders for not just enduring said important civic-minded tourism, but for embracing it and having a good time with it.  You would think a Wednesday through Saturday night trip from Asheville to DC with all those kids would be exhausting, and it was.  But I absolutely loved those trips with my Weaver-Vegas/Barnardsville youngins.

But make no mistake—Busch Gardens was also a big reward for the teachers.  Did I mention it is Busch Gardens?   Once the teachers were free of said 8th graders, we would hop on over to the brewery, where kids were not allowed without an adult, and since we were all there, we had no worries of discovery. (Ah the early 90’s!  No teacher would dream of doing that now.  Okay, they’d dream of it!).

After spending so much time with kids, even great ones, it was time for the adults to have the two free clear plastic cups of beer afforded by the fine folks from Busch.   I was 24 at the time and not a drinker, so I could be counted upon to supply two extra drinks for the teachers, which made me a popular person among them.  I also think that was the last time I got carded, God bless them.

But before that foray to the distillery, these teachers who had come  on this trip many times before me had a particular riding-system down pat, a way to hit every roller coaster in the park, which I believe was 4 at the time.  Since we got there before the park opened, we stood with our kids at the opening of the park, right in front of the “Loch Ness Monster” coaster.  When the gate opened, the strategy began.   Run first for the Loch Ness coaster—get in line; ride it.  Then run to the next coaster—some blue new coaster that encouraged you to take off post earrings because they might dig into your neck flesh due to the G force.   Really?

From there it was onto the next two coasters, because as fellow language arts teacher Ms. P told me, the coasters were all that mattered, and if you couldn’t hang with them while they did all four in a row, you were a wienie.  I don’t know if she used that word, but I understood the gauntlet had been thrown down.   She particularly mentioned at 24, I was the youngest of them, so surely I could hang with them, “the big dogs.”

I did not mention that I had a history, young or not, of pretty severe motion sickness.   You know those “octopus” rides that have a cart going in circles on a tabletop surface that is also going around in circles connected to an arm, one of eight, that is flying high in the air and doing circles as well?  I had a full-blown panic attack on one at age 8-10 in Myrtle Beach.  My poor father, realizing my extreme motion sickness, was helpless for the majority of the ride as I freaked out by turning white and placing a death-grip on the bar.   When the ride was over, they had literally to pry my hands off the bar and steady me to my waiting mother on a park bench.  A cup of that veritable medicine Coca-Cola got me back to normal, but I never forgot what going in circles did to me.  I would learn about 10 years later that swinging ships also put me about six feet under.

But coasters?  They went forward, so while I would get off them a big shakily, I would hide it, get a Coke, and be okay for a while.  At most amusement parks back in the day, there weren’t multiple coasters.  Once you got the big one out of the way, it was on to the log flume rides.  I had no ideas that multiple coasters would do to me.

Until I was 24 and at Busch Gardens with the peer-pressure teachers.  So dammit, I went for it.  After the Loch Ness, I was pretty much okay.  It was a good 5 minute walk and a short wait for the blue “earring presser,” so I was mostly okay after it.  I should absolutely not have ridden the third one, but I did because, again, I was the young one who had to prove her mettle.  It did not go well.

I got off that third one reeling, dizzy, sick, and about to pass out or have a full-blown panic/motion sickness attack.   I think this was pretty apparent to everyone as we headed to the fourth coaster.  All I remember is the vast majority of the teachers headed like soldiers to the fourth coaster and two teachers hanging back with me who really realized I could not go on, like even a step further.   Or perhaps I was a good excuse to stay back; I’m not sure.  Either way, I was grateful for their attending to me and getting me that cure-all Coke.

After that day, I had a new plan for me and coasters and trips with kids.  Ride one, endure it, get off, get a Coke, and be okay with not riding anymore.  I could not be pressured into more.   It served me well as I became a youth minister after teaching and would find myself at amusements parks in Missouri and Kansas and Pennsylvania on the way to Colorado and New York camps.

Fast-forward to 2012.  I’m back in the middle school but as principal.  Guess where the 8th grades were headed?  Busch Gardens, of course.  Not for a whole half week of DC and Williamsburg fun, but just one day at the park.  An 8th grade teacher asked me to go with them on the trip, and I thought it would be a great ending with the 8th graders that spring.   When the 8th graders learned I was going, the same question from 20+ years before reared its ugly head; “Are you going to ride the roller coasters?  You have to!”

In the same way that I felt that real and implied pressure at age 24, I was now experiencing again at 45.    I was the principal.  There were certain expectations and face to save as the leader.

“What is wrong with me?” I  wondered.  “I thought I had grown out of this! Why do I feel pressure to show I am strong enough for coasters?”

The 8 and 24-year-old queasy girl spoke up; “Don’t be stupid.  You know how this ends.”

Fortunately, 8th graders definitely do not want to ride the rides with their principal.  And it was okay with me when the teachers, mostly in their 20’s and 30’s, took off without me.  It was not a slight, I don’t think.  They just ran toward those coasters like I had 20 something years before.

One younger teacher, Nikki, did stay behind with me and my husband, Terry (my spouse, unlike his other half, loves an amusement park).  I laid it out right there with both of them; I would ride one coaster, that’s it.  Do not pressure me to ride more.  I am approaching 50 now and surely am past doing stupid things to prove myself (mostly).  They of course were fine with it, and had each other to ride those circle-y rides together.

We rode the Apollo’s Chariot coaster, which a few students will tell me afterwards was really the scariest one.  With a drop of 210 feet and 4.6 G’s, I believe them, though the one where folks were hanging from their arms and doing ridiculous upside-down flips and flops seemed the worst to me–from a distance, of course.

May be it was the worst coaster because of that spectacular first drop—the kind that comes after the incessant “creak, creak, creak” on the way up and then keeps going down, down, down  for 200 feet when you are sure your stomach and throat must be just positioned to go flying out the top of your head.

Something happened to me on that drop.   I did something I had never done before.  Perhaps it was because I knew I wouldn’t be riding another coaster.  But I also know it was because in these 20 years I had slowly, so slowly been learning something:  relax.  Stop tensing up every inch of your body as if by doing so, you can control the ride.   Because you now know you are actually making it worse.  Let go.

 And I did.  I released my taut, pointed-tow feet and legs, unclenched my jaw, un-squinted my whole face and just gave way to momentum.  My body flung around with the motion, which made the sharp curves not so sharp and the drops exhilarating. I was letting the coaster take me where it wanted and not resisting it.  It was freeing; I laughed with joy at the realization on the ride.   I still was glad when it was over as the dizziness was settling in.  But there had been a bit of grace that I had not expected not asked for.  A moment of release, of giving in, of letting go.

Most of the time, I am in a continual state of tense-ness and focus.   Legs always taut, forehead burrowed, steps set and specific.   Several faculty members over the years have asked me, “Are you mad?”  as I walk down the halls deep in thought.  As I ways smile and laugh and say, “No, just deep in thought, “ because that is the truth.  I get things done.  I work hard.  I push myself.  It’s what I do.

But since April and my coaster experience, I now am doing something different.  When I am tense beyond ridiculousness and feeling like I can’t control things like I need to, I almost involuntarily picture myself in between Nikki and Terry on that coaster, and I let go.  It’s still a rush.  And a relief.