At the dinner table of the wooden coaster Gods a seat is reserved for the Crystal Beach Cyclone, Jackrabbit and Hercules. Alas, these coasters will never join again – a mere place setting is in their honor. The kiddie table is bussling with excitement and glee as all children’s tables seem to do, with El Toro and Voyage playing leap frog, Kentucky Rumbler and Thunderbird are tossing around the powdered sugar from their funnel cakes, and Renegade is drilling holes in the floor. A group of refurbished coasters, most notably Wild One and the Riverside Cyclone, tell tales of the good ol’ days and yester year. Others are engaged in games and waiting for the arrival of the head of the table. Each year is full of mystery. Will he or won’t he show? Then, silence. The wait is over. The Coney Island Cyclone has arrived. With the flair and shear oddity of Coney Island, the Cyclone enters, with nonextravigent, but emphatic fanfare indeed. The Cyclone is the wise grandfather at the head of the table Those of high ranking such as Phoenix, Boulder Dash, Balder and Thunderhead sit near. The Cyclone has made it.
The Cyclone is open. The season can officially begin.
Every year it is a wonder as to what is going to happen with the Cyclone and Coney Island as a whole. There has never been a set answer. Now we know.
It was truly an honor to ride THE Cylone. You could say Coney Island Cyclone, but it is THE Cyclone. When the name Cyclone is used, it is THE on that people think of.
Upon exiting my train, I was greeted by the countdown to the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest. My head then turned left… I stood in line for 45 minutes. I rounded a corner, and then made a ride turn and there it stood – David. The only thing that has come close to the feeling that I had inside of me at that moment was when I first laid eyes on the Cyclone. I actually felt my heart skip.
The sign said NO SMOKING. Two ride ops were smoking. I had a feeling that I wasn’t at Dorney anymore. There was roughly 8 or 9 ride ops making things move very quickly. They were an interesting group. One was named Tyrus. Another at a slice of pizza while securing the lap bars. Another was one of the palest men I have ever seen, with silver plated grillz and two strands of dreads falling down to the middle part of his back. These were clearly not the kind of people I am used to being around. I’m not saying that is a bad thing, and I am not saying that I’m used to hanging with preppy Andy Roddick’s, but the ride ops and station aura are something that I had never seen or felt before. And don’t forget to fasten you wigs and hair pieces and that re-rides are just 4 “dollas”.
The climb up the lift is seriel. There is a great view of the calm waters ahead. It kind of makes one forget about what is going on below and it is certainly the complete opposite of what is to come.
They were able to build drops like this 80 years ago? Maybe I am just a product of this new technologically enhanced era, but I am impressed that this thing has not fallen over. The drop is better than El Toro’s, but just slightly off of J2’s for me. It is wild.
The entire ride is wild. Hell, it is a religious experience with Hulk Hogan as the pastor. The first drop is the lock up. The turn around is the calm before the match heats up. Then, prepare to get thrown around the ring, and tossed up and down and side to side. The first hill is a clothesline and the second is a piledriver. The second turn around is the set up for the final moves: a big boot and the leg drop.
The leg drop is that second hill. May I say now, and quote me on this – the back seat is not for everyone. It is for me, but not all. The entire ride is crazy in the back, but most of all at this point. During one ride it felt like my left testicle was mashed into the consistency of the strained peas being served at tomorrow’s dinner at the senior cente