Great America: Epilogue

A few final views around the park. Rest assured that I'll take more pictures next time. A shot of me (and a fearsome friend) taken by Will. A shot of me AND Will taken by a very nice Great America employee.

Great America: The Viper

As much as I love the American Eagle--and believe me, I do--I have to say my favorite ride at Great America was the park's other large wooden roller coaster, the Viper. Their website describes it as "a classic cyclone-style wooden roller coaster," and I couldn't agree more. I've never been to Coney Island, but I imagine that this what it much be like to ride the Cyclone there--a bumpy, lift-your-ass-out-of-your-seat ride that throws you around and makes you scream either with pleasure or terror--or, perhaps, both. The line was reasonable, and we probably could have gone again, but it was late in the day and Will and I were both tired, so we left not long after. I have a Viper t-shirt now, and I'll wear it proudly when I go back to Great America (in the next couple of months, I hope).

Great America: The American Eagle

The American Eagle was long my favorite coaster not only at Great America, but in the whole wide world. (Not that I've been on any coasters anywhere else in the world...my world is smaller than most.) It's an old-fashioned dual-track wooden coaster, and it's enormous--the first drop is over 90 feet, and there's a long spiral in the middle of the ride that seems to go on forever. The wait for the Eagle can be extreme-sometimes a couple of hours, or more--but Will and I lucked out and hit the ride right after it opened for the day. We never got back around to it for a second go, but as long as we'd got one ride in, I was content.

Great America: The Whizzer

Great America's website lists the Whizzer as "the world’s only spiral lift coaster," which I guess means that it's the only coaster that twirls slowly into the air before dropping you off a cliff (albeit a relatively gentle one in this case).

Whatever. It's one of the relatively few rides left from when the park first opened in 1976, and even though rumors circulate nearly every year that "this season may be the last for the Whizzer," the ride just keeps on going. No wonder--it's a lot of fun, the line is reasonably short (Will and I waited about 20 minutes), and the cars are heavily padded like little mobile lounge chairs.

Long may you run, Whizzer.

Great America: Ragin' Cajun

One ride I didn't at Great America that I didn't particularly enjoy was the Ragin' Cajun. It's a small metal coaster with abrupt twists, turns and drops. That's all fine. Bruises heal. What wasn't fine, though, was that the cars, cute and colorful as they are, spin around for a good portion of the ride. That left me mildly disoriented and in need of a moment or three before I could move on to the next ride.

That's not really a knock on the Cajun, though. If you and spinny rides get along, go for it. Spinny rides and I clearly don't get along very well anymore.

Great America: Little Dipper

As regular readers of this bloggity might remember, my favorite ride at the late, much-lamented Kiddieland was the Little Dipper, the cutest little wooden roller coaster you ever did see. It was also the ride I was most worried about--as a 60-year-old wodden coaster, it wouldn't be the easiest thing to take apart and move.

Enter Great America.

When they announced that they'd bought the Little Dipper and that it would be up and running this season, I was shocked, but in the best possible way--they'd saved the one ride I feared would be destined for demolition.

How much they saved, though, is unclear. The sign certainly looks like the original, as do the cars and even some of the hardware, like the chains that convey the cars along the tracks. The ginormous levers that operated the ride are gone, however, and the wooden structure itself looks brand new. That makes sense--you really can't expect to pull apart a 60-year-old wooden roller coaster and slap it back together with all the original parts.

The ride itself feels exactly the same as before, though--short and sweet and oh so fun.

Great America: Raging Bull

By far, the longest wait of the day was for Raging Bull, the tall, fast, twisting metal coaster. Even that wait wasn't horrible--about 45 minutes, plus another 15 minutes due to waiting in the line to get into the first car of the train.

The line for that car is always longer no matter what coaster you're trying to ride, but it was slowed down considerably in this case by riders who used special passes to stay on the ride two times in a row. Several sets of riders did this; at one point, one of the ride supervisors looked over at those of us who didn't have special passes and threw up her hands in frustration.

Finally, the front car opened up, and Will and I climbed aboard. It was worth the wait--the first drop is over 200 feet at a steep 65-degree angle, after which we were traveling over 70 mph. The ride is smooth and relatively gentle, with a lap harness that kept me from sliding around and adding to the bruises already dotting my thighs.

Great America: The Condor

The Condor lifts riders 112 feet in the air and spins them around. A bit of fun with a great view of the park, and a good deal more safe and secure than the size of the car might indicate.

Great America: Around the Park

Scattered around Great America are large fiberglass figures, mostly of Warner Bros.-owned characters. Some are charming; others, imposing. Foghorn Leghorn looks like he's ready to crush Tokyo.

Great America: The Carousel

Even though the Great America Carousel is pretty much the first thing you see when you enter the gates, it was one of the few rides Will and I didn't get to in our visit. Did that stop me from taking pictures of it? What do you think?

Great America: Prologue

Despite the title and the photo at the right, this is not an entry about patriotism. Not that there would be anything particularly wrong with that. But that's not what this is about.

It is, in fact, the first in a series of entries about my trip two weeks ago to Six Flags Great America (hence, the photo of flags to the right), the last remaining amusement park within reasonably short driving distance of Chicago. (The former closest amusement park, Kiddieland, closed in 2009 after a 90-year run. Demolition of the old park began a few weeks ago. A Costco will be built in its place. Thanks, Melrose Park. Thanks, Costco.)

I hadn't been to Great America in about 20 years. On that occasion, I was on a date with my then-best friend's older sister. As it was a date, I naturally wanted to impress the woman as much as possible. And what better way to impress your date at an amusement park than by winning her a prize at one of the games? Logical, no?

As you likely already know, most amusement park games are rigged, to one degree or another, to prevent customers from winning prizes. Parks always claim they don't, of course, and even with the rigging, some customers still manage to win prizes through determination or, more likely, dumb luck. Again, applying logic, I reasoned that the basketball shoot was my best chance to win my date a prize. After all, even if the rim and backboard were "adjusted" to cut down on easy baskets, it was still possible to score, was it not? Seemed reasonable.

I got three shots for one dollar. I put my first shot up too hard; it banked off the backboard, bounced off the rim and never came close to the net. Once more employing logic, I reasoned that a jump shot might work better for my second attempt, so I sprang in the air and let fly my second shot. It was actually worse than the first, drifting to the right of the basket and slamming firmly into the backboard.

The shot itself was embarrassing. What happened next was even more so.

As I came down, my right ankle, long the least reliable of my body parts (having been sprained many times over the years), gave on my landing, causing my right foot to roll and smash into the asphalt at a roughly 90-degree angle with the full weight of my body behind it; I actually saw the sole of my sneaker look back up at me.

I knew straight away that I'd done a number on it. I didn't fall down, but staggered a few steps before righting myself and growling with pain and self-directed anger. My date and our companions all expressed concern and asked if I needed to sit down for a minute. I said I did not. I still had one more shot to take, and, ankle be damned, I was going to take it.

I took that final shot flatfooted (no more jump shots for me). It arched through the summer air and sailed through the net without so much as kissing the rim. Nothing but net. I won my prize--a small plush basketball, as I recall--and gave it to my date.

I did sit down for a minute or two, but then got up and hobbled around Great America for the remainder of the day. Sure, it hurt, but after having sprained it so many times before (and so many times since), I knew how to walk with a sprained ankle, so I still got around with a fair amount of ease. We stayed until dusk, when the park thinned out and we could take multiple rides on the mighty Great American Eagle, the park's showpiece dual-train wooden roller coaster; as soon as we got off, we'd scramble (or, in my case, limp) back in line for more.

After we left Great America, we hung out at my friend's apartment for a bit, then I headed for home. I don't recall whether I got a lift from my friend or my date or whether I just submitted to the not-so-tender mercies of CTA, but I do recall getting a kiss from my date. If my evening (now morning) had ended there, all would have been right with the world.

Unfortunately, in order to go to bed, I had to take off my shoes. It was at this point that I got my first look at my right foot. The swelling had molded to the shape of my sneaker, and the colors...oh dear, the colors. Red. Yellow. Purple. Green. (Green?) It was obvious that I'd done a lot more than just sprain my ankle--I'd broken it.

The next morning, I went to the emergency room and, sure enough, the ankle was broken. In fact, I'd managed that most rare of breaks, the fracturing of the ankle bone itself. (Most "ankle breaks" are actually fractures of the tibia.) Oddly, this was, pardon the pun, a good break--it meant that I could go straight into a walking cast and would only need to keep it casted for three weeks (as opposed to the customary six to eight weeks).

The ankle has never been quite right since then--but since it hadn't been right before that incident anyway, it has been entirely manageable--and, as noted above, I went 20 years without going back to the site of said incident. Not that I was afraid of breaking something else--freak accidents can, do and will happen--but because I lacked a car and a friend willing to drive me up to the far north suburb of Gurnee.

Two weeks ago, though, a friend who loves roller coasters in general (and Great America in particular) and I made the trek north from the city to Six Flags Great America, where Will and I traipsed back and froth for several hours. Among the rides, I made some new friends, got reacquainted with some old ones, and overall had a damn good time. And, of course, I took many pictures, which you will see over the next few days.

I did not, however, shoot any basketballs--nor break any bones.