The Cyclone

“Only six people have ever died on this thing,” the words were spoken in earnest. I turned to look at the source, a man in his mid-thirties who most likely enjoyed his Coors Light. He stood behind us in the line and must have taken the look on my face for concern.
He was wrong. It was terror.

“I’m serious,” he said when I raised my eyebrows in question. “In all the years it’s been open only six!”

I wanted to ask him why he thought this would reassure me, instead I turned back around and closed my eyes.

“Less scary than giving a speech,” I muttered to myself. “Way way way less scary than driving a car. I can do this.”

Beside me my PH shook his head, looking amused. He wasn’t frightened at all, of course. Born in a small mountain town, he was used to death-defying feats. Teenage boys without much to do have a lot of experience getting into trouble in one way or another. This was tame in comparison.

I opened my eyes and realized my turn was next.

Three… two… one…