It was at Coney Island’s Freak Bar, in the summer of 2010, where I last thought that riding a roller coaster was a good idea.
What followed would forever be known as “the Cyclone incident,” at least to my loved ones and me, including the friend who, after we shared a steady stream of sangria, convinced me that Coney Island’s creaky landmark was the perfect “beginner’s coaster.” It wasn’t.
At Nathan’s Famous, after the most terrifying one minute and 50 seconds of my life, nauseated and strangely sore, I conceded: Roller coasters were not for me.