The Ride of Our Lives
- Paul Baumeister
- Mar 6
- 4 min read
“Make sure you get that door looked at,” our mom said as we pulled out of the Grayslake church parking lot one steamy summer morning circa 1985 in her sporty Celica coupe. “I wouldn’t want the car catching on fire and you not being able to get out.” We were on our way to visit our grandmother in Asheville and had gotten up early to make good time. The temps soared by noon, and John and I tried valiantly to stay cool with the car’s failing air-conditioning system.
Somewhere between Cincinnati and Lexington, the engine temperature warning light popped on. The next exit was essentially a local farm off-ramp and, after much hand-wringing, we pressed on. A few minutes later, John excitedly said, “I think something’s wrong—look at the hood!” Indeed, the car’s beautiful royal blue paint was quickly turning black. We pulled over in the middle of the I-75 countryside and rolled to a stop. Flames began to pour out from under the hood, and the pungent smell of burning rubber and metal permeated the car’s interior.
At the time, I was riding shotgun and reached for the latch to open the door. Of course, it was broken. Mom’s premonition had come to pass – the car was on fire and I wasn’t able to get out. In a Blues Brothers moment, I managed to wriggle out of the passenger window, and we hastily grabbed our belongings from the burning car, hoping it didn’t blow up. We stood in the blazing sun as Mom’s pride and joy melted in front of us. Eventually, a volunteer fire truck pulled up with a couple Kentucky state troopers and extinguished the blaze.
The next few hours were surreal. The troopers took us back to their station a few miles down the road, which was something out of an episode of The Andy Griffith Show. The Celica was obviously totaled – an immediate decision needed to be made. Do we head south and continue our journey to visit Grandma? Or north back home? We chose option three… hop on a bus back to Cincinnati, rent a car, and drive directly to King’s Island to ride roller coasters and catch Pee-wee’s Big Adventure.
Don’t judge us. This was the logical choice – the Baumeisters are amusement park aficionados. Our father Roger was a card-carrying member of ACE, the American Coaster Enthusiasts, and we traveled the country in the late ’70s and ’80s riding roller coasters. While standing in many a queue line, he recounted the time when our grandfather dragged him on Riverview’s Bobs kicking and screaming. After the ride, he realized that he loved the speed and weightlessness. When John and I were tall enough to get on the big-boy coasters, he wasted no time bringing us along.
During one family trip to North Carolina in the late ’70s, my dad took me to Carowinds, where we gravitated to White Lightning, a first-of-its-kind ride that provided riders with a 180-foot straightaway launch, a vertical loop, and a 130-foot vertical incline. My father was enamored with the patter that the ride operator announced before pushing the start button: “Put your head on the headrest. Hands on the bars in front of you. White Lightning... Strikes… Now!” He loved that.
One of my favorite photos of my mom and dad was taken at King’s Island after a long day at the park, which I’m sure included riding the biggest rides like the Beast – still the longest coaster in the country. At that time, my father used to meticulously style his hair. In this photo, with his arm around my mom, he exuberantly smiles like he’s having the time of his life, sporting the wind-blown look. John recently to me that they were younger than us when the photo was taken.
Years later, after riding the Beast, my father said, “You boys go on again, I’ll wait… just feeling a little jostled.” I realized that although roller coasters can be a lifelong passion, they aren’t physically sustainable as the decades pile up. Last October, my wife Shazi and I pulled the trigger on Six Flags season passes. Toward the end of the evening at Great America last fall, I told Shazi I was feeling jostled and would skip the next ride.
As she waited in line for Wrath of Rakshasa, I meandered over to Hometown Square to watch the Fright Fest zombies begin their prowl. I thought of the decades my brother’s family and my family have enjoyed waiting in line with our kids, slightly scared, just to get strapped into a seat and thrown into a wooden or metal superstructure – white-knuckled, eyes wide, laughing and screaming in the moment. The experience is a lot like life. There are ups, downs, twists, and turns, but eventually you make it home, only to race onto the next adventure.
Today’s coasters are bigger, faster, and provide G-forces once found only on jet planes. But this May, we’ll experience the 50th anniversary of what was then Marriott’s Great America in Gurnee, Illinois. Hard to believe it’s been half a century.
On that blistering August day in 1985, I’m grateful John and I decided to head to a place where we felt most comfortable… speeding through the woods together on a roller coaster track, happy to be alive.
About Greenland Sharks
Greenland Sharks is a Chicago men's group who value friendship, experiences, and the long swim. Just a crew that shows up. No speeches. No name tags. No nonsense.
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