Front Row on the Last Ride

Dear diary. Tonight I rode the old wooden coaster for the last time this season. Well. The last time several times.

There is a small amusement park on the edge of the city that I visit every summer. It is not one of the big shiny ones with towers that scrape the sky. It is old and slightly creaky, with a carousel that plays the same tune it has played for decades, a Ferris wheel that turns so slowly you can count the stars between rotations, and a wooden roller coaster painted cream and coral, with a sign at the entrance that someone has hand-lettered with the words ONE MORE RIDE.

I have always believed that sign was meant for me personally.

The evening light

I arrived late in the afternoon, when the sun was still warm and families were sharing candyfloss on the benches. I did what I always do: a slow lap of the whole park first. The coconut stall. The mirror maze, where I look tall and thin in one mirror and very round in the next. The little pond with the paddle boats shaped like swans.

Then I sat on the grass by the carousel and waited for the evening.

The best time at an amusement park, in my opinion, is the hour between sunset and closing. The heat of the day melts away. The queues get shorter. And then, all at once, somebody flips a switch and thousands of fairy lights blink on, strung along the paths and wrapped around every pole and railing, until the whole park glows like the inside of a music box.

Nah… just one more. The lights are still on, the sky is still pink, and the front seat is still empty. That is three good reasons and I only needed one.

The front car

The coaster operator is a young woman with a coral uniform and a calm voice. She recognised me. Apparently not many puffins ride the old coaster, and I suppose the beanie makes me easy to spot.

“Front row again?” she asked.

“If it’s free.”

It was. It usually is at that time of the evening. Most people want the back, where the drop feels stronger. But I like the front. In the front you see everything coming. You see the track curve away into the dark. You see the sky.

I climbed in. The safety restraint came down with a satisfying clunk. The car smelled of old wood, warm metal and the faint sweetness of somebody’s ice cream from earlier in the day.

The lift hill

If you have never ridden a wooden coaster, let me tell you about the lift hill, because it is my favourite part and it is not even the exciting part.

The car leaves the station and turns a gentle corner, and then you feel the chain catch beneath you. Clack. Clack. Clack. You begin to climb. Slowly. So slowly. The park drops away beneath you, the fairy lights shrinking into little golden dots, the carousel music fading.

And in front of you, nothing but sky.

Tonight the sky was doing something special. The sun had already gone, but the clouds above the horizon were still holding onto the light: pink on top, peach underneath, with a long ribbon of lilac stretching across the whole west. As the car climbed, it really felt like I was being carried straight up into them.

I thought: if the lift hill went on forever, I wouldn’t mind.

Then we reached the top. A tiny pause. A breath. And down we went.

One more, and one more

I won’t pretend I am brave. I squeaked on the first drop. I always do. But by the second hill I was laughing, and by the final curve, where the track swings out over the pond and you can see the swan boats bobbing below, I had my wings up in the air.

When we pulled back into the station, the operator looked at me. I looked at her.

“Nobody’s waiting,” she said.

So I stayed in my seat.

We did it again. And again. On the fourth ride, something happened that I think may be my favourite thing that has ever happened to me at an amusement park: I fell asleep on the lift hill. Just for a few seconds. The slow clack of the chain, the cool air, the pink clouds. My eyes closed, my head tipped back against the seat, and I woke up at the top just in time for the drop. I am told I was smiling the whole way down.

Closing time

Eventually, an announcement crackled across the park. Ten minutes to closing. The fairy lights began switching off in sections, starting from the far end near the car park. The carousel slowed and stopped. The Ferris wheel finished its last rotation.

The operator let me have one final ride, the very last of the evening, and while I climbed the lift hill for the last time, I watched the park go dark beneath me, one row of lights at a time, until only the coaster’s own bulbs were still glowing around me. It felt like riding through the end of summer itself.

At the exit I thanked her. She said the park would close for the season in a few weeks and that the coaster would be checked and repaired over winter, the way old wooden coasters need to be.

“See you in spring?” she asked.

“Front row,” I said.

A few notes for your own last ride

• Go in the evening. Shorter queues, cooler air, and the lights are half the magic.
• Try the front seat. The view on the lift hill is worth more than the extra drama at the back.
• Do a slow lap first. The small things, the mirrors and the swan boats, make the big rides feel better.
• Check before you go. Many smaller parks are seasonal and opening hours change, so look at the park’s official website first.

If you want to find an old coaster of your own, I gathered some favourites in One More Ride: Europe’s Most Charming Amusement Parks. And for skies like tonight’s without the drop, there is always the sunset viewpoints guide.

Stay a little longer. Ride a little more. — P.