The Day I Broke My Roller Coaster Rule

For most of my life, I had one simple roller coaster rule: if it went upside down, I wasn't getting on.

It was a rule that had served me remarkably well.

Then my thirteen-year-old son began negotiating.

Willem has always been a master negotiator. Years ago, one of my cousins watched him patiently make his case for something and predicted that he'd someday become a hostage negotiator. She was only half joking. Once Willem decides something is a good idea, he has an uncanny ability to convince everyone else.

By the end of our vacation in Branson, Missouri, he had set his sights on his most unlikely challenge yet: convincing his roller-coaster-phobic mother to ride Time Traveler.

Every year, thanks to a timeshare week generously given to us by Tim's parents, our family chooses a different home base to explore. Rather than packing and unpacking every night, we've discovered that we much prefer settling into one place for the week and treating it as our base camp for adventure.

One August, that home base was Branson, Missouri.

During our week there, we spent one day at Silver Dollar City. Although the park is best known for its spectacular roller coasters, I quickly discovered it was much more than that. Designed as an 1880s Ozark village, it's filled with traditional crafts, artisan demonstrations, live entertainment, old-fashioned shops, and some surprisingly good food.

I was relieved to discover it wasn't simply a collection of thrill rides.

Give me live performances, interesting shops, or a ride that tells a story over a white-knuckle roller coaster any day. Disney’s Magic Kingdom with its mostly tame rides based on favourite stories has always been much more my speed than anything involving inversions.

As it turned out, Silver Dollar City suited all three of us perfectly.

Tim and Willem made a beeline for the roller coasters while I happily wandered the shaded streets and browsed the artisan shops. The Southern Gospel Picnic happened to be taking place that week, and although Southern gospel isn't music I'd normally seek out, it added a joyful atmosphere to the park.

Visiting during the last week of August turned out to be ideal. Local children were already back in school—a reminder that Ontario's post-Labour Day school calendar isn't the norm—and most of the Southern Gospel Picnic attendees had come for the concerts rather than the roller coasters. The ride lines were wonderfully short.

Unfortunately, the night before we went to the park, I had developed a miserable summer cold. I briefly considered staying behind at our resort, but I hated the thought of missing a day with Tim and Willem. Instead, I took some cold medicine—something I almost never do—which left me feeling just loopy enough to make decisions that, in retrospect, weren't entirely consistent with my usual survival instincts.

Meanwhile, Tim and Willem were taking full advantage of those wonderfully short ride lines.

Eventually they disappeared to ride Time Traveler.

A few minutes later they came bounding off the ride, grinning from ear to ear.

Right behind them, an older rider slowly made his way to a nearby bench, looking several shades paler than when he'd boarded. He lowered himself carefully onto the seat, caught his breath, and announced that he was fairly certain the ride had just shortened his life by several years.

Any sensible person would have taken that as a warning.

Instead...

I listened to my son.

Now, it's worth mentioning that I had successfully gone through my entire life without ever riding a roller coaster that went upside down. This wasn't an accident. It was a carefully maintained life choice, and one I fully intended to keep.

Ironically, Willem hadn't always been the fearless thrill seeker standing in front of me.

As a little boy, he had such a vivid imagination that even The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh at Magic Kingdom genuinely frightened him. Convincing him to try Disney's indoor dark rides often required patient persuasion.

And yet, on that very same trip, he decided entirely on his own that he wanted to ride Splash Mountain.

This wasn't a spur-of-the-moment decision.

The previous day at the park he'd already spent several minutes watching boat after boat plunge down the final five-story drop while riders screamed at the top of their lungs.

Tim and I asked him over and over if he was absolutely sure.

He was.

At age three, he had just barely reached the 40-inch height requirement, and Disney cast members measured him repeatedly as we wound through the queue. By the time we reached the loading platform, we had somehow been assigned the front row–-the row with the best view of the giant drop and the one where riders got the wettest.

Faced with a choice between sitting beside my adventurous daughter or my nervous little boy, I chose the front seat with Tessa, figuring Willem would feel more secure sitting beside Tim.

Tessa loved every second.

I was terrified.

We were soaked.

And Willem?

He spent most of the ride with his face buried in his dad's lap.

As the ride began, Willem looked like he was having second thoughts.

A grainy image of the ride photo shows Tessa and me holding on for dear life in the front row while Tim throws one arm in the air. Willem, meanwhile, is nowhere to be seen—his head spent most of the ride buried in Tim’s lap.

Somewhere between that day and our week in Branson, something changed.

I never quite figured out when it happened.

The cautious little boy quietly disappeared, replaced by a teenager who actively sought out the biggest roller coaster in every amusement park—and who genuinely believed his mother would enjoy riding one too.

"It's so smooth, Mom."

"You won't think it's scary."

"It's nothing like a regular roller coaster."

Looking back, I have to admit Willem wasn't lying; however, my teenage negotiator had understated things.

Before I had enough time to reconsider, Willem and I were strapped next to each other in one of the coaster's four-seat cars while Tim climbed into another. That turned out to matter less than I expected. Each car rotates independently throughout the ride, so you never quite know whether you'll be facing forward, backward, sideways...or staring straight at the ground.

I don’t have a photo of myself on Time Traveler, but here are Tim and Willem on their first ride.

At first, the gentle spinning almost reassured me.

Maybe this really won't be so bad.

Then we plunged down a nearly vertical drop.

While spinning.

Whatever confidence I had lasted only a few seconds.

At one unforgettable moment, we seemed to pause while staring directly at the ground. I became absolutely convinced that I was about to slide beneath the safety bar and plunge to my death somewhere in the Ozarks.

Later, Willem told me he'd looked over at me during that moment.

My eyes were tightly shut.

I wasn't screaming.

I wasn't laughing.

I was simply...

...silent.

So silent, in fact, that he briefly wondered whether he'd actually frightened his mother to death.

Somehow, I survived.

Later that afternoon we wandered through Grandfather's Mansion, a wonderfully disorienting attraction filled with crooked floors, optical illusions, and visual trickery. Roller coasters have never bothered Tim in the slightest, but attractions that confuse his sense of balance leave him feeling distinctly unwell.

Ironically, I'm exactly the opposite. Motion simulators and virtual reality rides are some of my favourite attractions. I love the storytelling and the sensation of movement, comforted by the knowledge that my rational brain knows I'm never actually very far off the ground.

Apparently my courage has very specific limits.

Would I ride Time Traveler again?

Not a chance.

But every family has stories that become part of its folklore.

For us, Silver Dollar City will always be remembered as the place where my once-cautious little boy convinced his mother to break one of her longest-held rules.

I'm still not convinced that every comfort zone needs to be challenged.

But every now and then, saying yes to someone you love—even when every sensible instinct is screaming "no"—creates the stories your family laughs about for years afterward.

And that, perhaps, was the best souvenir I brought home from Silver Dollar City.