| Across the Fence: Just For the Thrill of It |
 June 14, 2012 By M. Timothy Nolting |
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 It was a Monday, June 16, 1884 and the early summer crowds were flocking to Coney Island in Brooklyn, New York. For months, preparations had been underway and the excitement level had peaked in anticipation of the grand opening of the newest attraction. LaMarcus Adna Thompson had finally completed the construction of his switchback railway and folks were already lining up for a thrilling ride on what has been commonly referred to as the first roller coaster in America. Thompson drew his inspiration from the Mauch Chunk and Summit Hill switchback railway. The second railroad built in the United States in 1827, the Mauch Chunk, was a coal road in Pennsylvania. A nine-mile stretch of rail where coal cars were hauled up and through the hills by teams of mules and then, loaded with coal, were released to the forces of gravity and coasted down. It took four hours for the mules to haul the cars up and only 30 minutes for them to go back. The downhill return trip was, for all intents and purposes, nothing more than a ‘run-away’ train. Soon after completion of the Mauch Chunk line, thrill seekers began to hire ‘rides’ on the return trip. The scenic and thrilling excursion quickly became a favorite of tourists to the Pennsylvania coal-mining district and these paying customers joined the mule teams as they rode the breathtaking downhill coaster. Thompson’s scaled-down version of the Mauch Chunk switchback railway was a gravity powered ride that traveled 600 feet at six miles-per-hour with a 43-foot maximum drop at a 30-degree angle. This early amusement park ride took one minute to complete and cost each rider one whole nickel. This might seem like an unimpressive beginning for the roller coaster that today can be nearly one mile in length, does loops and inverted spins, reaches heights in excess of 450 feet and bullets down nearly vertical inclines at speeds reaching more than 120 miles-per-hour. I love roller coaster rides! And I especially fond of the old wooden structures like the historic coaster at Lakeside in Denver, Colorado. My first roller coaster ride was at the Kansas State Fair in Topeka. I can clearly remember the excitement of the fair, the bright, flashing neon lights of the fairway, the hustle and jostle of masses of people, the shouts of slick talking barkers and the pure wonderment at sights I had never seen before. I remember the breath-catching height of the Ferris wheel as I gingerly leaned forward in the free-swinging bench to watch the ant-sized people below. But the roller coaster, ahhh yes! The roller coaster was my ride. As we stood in line with Mom to wait our turn, my sister Carol and I stretched our necks to see the top of the tracks that disappeared into the night sky and where the coaster cars also disappeared after the clack and clatter of chains hoisted them to the distant peak. I didn’t know what was on the other side of that wood and iron mountain but from the shrieks and screams, I knew it had to be both thrilling and terrifying and I was anxious to find out first hand. I remember the thick, black coating of grease covering the chain that dragged us ever upward in fits and jerks. Diesel fumes swirled around us as the power plant lugged down in a deep-throated cadence with pistons pounding like terrified heartbeats. It seemed we would never reach the top as I leaned back and watched the stars come close enough to touch. Then, for an instant, we stopped, balanced on the edge of the night sky and whatever lay ahead or below. And suddenly I was falling, face first, down and down as the wind whipped past my ears with the roar of summer storm. I gripped the silver bar in front of me tight against my chest and felt weightless as I was lifted from my seat to the point where I thought I would tumble over into the car ahead of me. Then, just as I was certain I would be thrown overboard I was slammed back into the thinly padded seat and whipped to the corner as we careened around a curve that laid us on our side. Up and down, left then right, sudden ink-black darkness as we roared through a tunnel that amplified the clatter of wheels and rails and the piercing screams of Mom and Carol and me. I was disappointed when our string of cars slowed on the platform and was already asking Mom to let me go again when for some unknown reason, the Carney operator pushed the shining iron lever forward and we jerked back in our seats. The diesel engine thrummed as it powered us, once more, toward the top. My sister Carol was traumatized and has never again ridden a roller coaster. I became an instant addict and still seek out the thrill of a roller coaster ride whenever I get the chance. But, during my childhood, state fairs and roller coaster rides were far between and so the rush of adrenaline at that moment of teetering on the edge, then suddenly falling, had to be satisfied in other ways. Climbing the windmill and catching a ride on the spinning blades, while a trusted friend operated the brake below, became a bit risky. And even though it was a heart pounder, it lacked the thrill of free fall. Of course, free fall from a spinning windmill is to be avoided at all costs, therefore requiring that trusted friend on the brake. But, jumping out of the loft into a pile of loose hay, though all too brief, does capture that feeling of flight. The loft, above the cattle’s feed bunks, was close to twenty feet above the dirt floor on the other half of the barn. A running start across the loft floor and out into the space above a strategically placed pile of loose hay provided that rush of wind across my face, the flutter of butterflies in my stomach and the sensation of weightless flight. Over and over again I would climb the ladder to the loft then hurl myself outward to the semi-soft landing below. The higher I jumped from the edge of the loft the longer the free fall lasted and so the need for additional height became an obsession. The tops of the walls in the barn were at nearly 30 feet. At that point, a beam ran parallel to the ground from one sidewall to the other. These beams held the sidewalls upright and were placed about twenty feet apart so there were four of them within the 100 foot length of the barn. So, by climbing above the loft, to one of those beams, I was able to gain another 10 feet and slightly extend my flight time. But after a while, even a 30-foot fall was not enough. From the tops of the sidewalls, the rafters began and angled upward to the peak of the roof. Near the peak, a two-by-four brace was nailed to each rafter. This brace allowed about two feet of space where I could crouch beneath the peak and peer downward across the perilous distance of over 40 feet to the landing pad below. The climb up the ladder to the loft, scrambling up a stack of bales to the cross beams above, then hand over hand, up an old hay rope, to the cross brace at the peak, was akin to the slow and steady chug to the summit of a roller coaster. Perched on the cross brace, like a featherless bird, I prepared for my short but thrilling flight. I had to push off far enough to avoid hitting the crossbeam below and yet not so far as to miss the pile of loose hay on the ground. Though only mere seconds in duration, I could fly! Time and time again, I climbed to the peak of the barn and soared through space to a tuck and roll landing below. Each time was a heart pounding, foolish, self dare but each time was also a thrilling but brief moment of unbound freedom. Later in life, when I had gained a little more common sense, I learned to fly. My flight instructor commented once that I must have flown before, “You’re a natural,” he said. He seemed quite puzzled, but didn’t press me any further when I answered, “Yes, I have flown, but not in a plane.” Years later, my wife Deb and I visited the place where I grew up. The old barn is still there and we ventured inside and looked around. As we stood on the ground I gazed upward to the tiny space below the peak of the roof where I had perched before taking off. My eyes followed the distance from peak to ground and I thought to myself, ‘Boy, that was sure stupid!’ In 1927 the Cyclone replaced the Thompson switchback railway. This coaster reaches speeds in excess of 60 miles-per-hour and drops from a height of nearly 90 feet. It is currently being restored and will be one of the oldest, wooden structure, roller coasters in the world. Maybe someday I’ll ‘fly’ at Coney Island. M. Timothy Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist, freelance writer, cowboy poet and entertainer. To contact Tim, email; mtimn@aol.com |
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