Since she was ten, Rosie has been itching to ride The Manhattan Express, the roller coaster at the New York, New York Hotel and Casino.
Year after year, we’ve solemnly marched up to the wall and marked her progress to the magical 54 inches that’s the minimum height requirement to be able to ride. The marks seem to crawl up at a glacial pace. Today the wait was over. Rosie was actually over the minimum about a year ago, but she’s been stalling. “The ride might kill you Dad”. That’s awfully thoughtful of you Rosie.
The kicker came a couple of weeks ago when she scored a couple of free rides at school.
As we walked through the casino I reviewed CPR procedures with her. Just kidding (kinda). I am sure that my Ticker can take the ride but whether or not my fat ass could fit into the coaster was a completely separate issue.
While waiting for the ride to open up at 10:30 I regaled Rosie with stories about Coney Island and the Coney Island Coaster. Back in the 40’s her Grand Uncle Vinnie rode the coaster at Coney Island. Just before it “went over the top” Vinnie stood up. The car fell away from him and he was flying. He landed two cars back. I’m not sure if he married the girl he fell on.
At this point disaster befalls this Daddy/Daughter coaster team. I am too fat to fit in the coaster. I thought I had it locked down, but no. We try another seat. We get the second one to lock down but we don’t have the green light from the operator. I get aborted by the ground crew. I give Rosie a kiss for good luck and wish her a fun ride.
AND SHE’S OFF!