Dudes' Ride

I was the one who called for the “Dudes' Ride.”

You see, when you take a group of theater students on a competition trip that includes a visit to Disneyland, you have to carve out time for the guys to ride at least one time together.  Youth Theatre Company’s Teen Theatre has only three boys this year, surrounded by sixteen girls.  There are four boys if you include me, their musical director, but then you would have to also include Rachel and Chelsea who make up the rest of the staff, so adding me to the count only deepens the boy deficit.  Also, I am rapidly approaching fifty years old, so it must be pointed out that I am, technically, not a boy. 

Andy started it.  Just days before our trip, our lanky, blonde-haired crooner (who has been occasionally compared to a young Frank Sinatra) posted on the YTC Facebook page the following poignant (and somewhat flirtatious) request:  “Andy has never been on California Screaming (roller coaster).  Andy would like to go on California Screaming.  Andy needs someone to go on it with him.  If you think you are a worthy competitor, please sign your name below.  Thank you.”  

This of course set off a torrent of replies from the girls.  As the tsunami of messages and comments inundated my Facebook feed, I felt overwhelmed, like a driver of a VW bug unwittingly trapped in a flash flood.  I rolled down the window of opportunity, desperately typed “I call a Dude’s Ride” and leaped for higher ground.

And yet, during the waning hours of the second (and last) day in the park, the Dude’s Ride had not yet materialized.   This is to be expected, due to the low supply of guys coupled with high demand that was only exacerbated by our smoldering good looks and Clooney-esque wittiness.  I think with all the Disneyland excitement, the idea had  slipped my mind, and since we were all scattered around the park, it looked like it just might not happen.  

I say it slipped my mind, but that’s not exactly accurate.  I hadn’t forgotten it, but because I am (technically) not a boy, this means that I carry certain responsibilities.  My thoughts kept darting back to the Bay Area; to my family at home, and to chores that needed to be done, and to work from my small business that remained unfinished.  Even though most of these were almost four-hundred miles away, they were real, just as real as the backpack slung over my right shoulder.  They still had the power to crowd out things like Dudes’ Rides and make them seem less important than they really are.

But then, by some miracle, every one of the students and staff were together, wending our way through the maze that is the line to the Indiana Jones Adventure ride.  Tate, a freshman (who has been occasionally compared to a young Rob Lowe) turned to me, with a look of dawning realization on his face.  “We still have to do the Dudes’ Ride!” he exclaimed.

“Yeah!  When should we do it?” I asked.

“Let’s do it now!” he answered.  He turned to Andy and Soly.  “Hey guys, let’s make this the Dudes’ Ride!”

“DUDES’ RIDE!” bellowed Soly (who has been occasionally compared to a real-life version of “Aladdin” from the Disney animated film).  “DUDES’ RIDE!” Andy and Tate and I echoed, our fists in the air.  We exchanged high fives and wiped off the testosterone that had beaded up on our brows.

For the benefit of those of you who have never ridden it, the Indiana Jones Adventure ride is basically a full-sized version of the slot cars kids used to race back in the 70's.  People board what the designers of the ride have dubbed an “Enhanced Motion Vehicle,” a twelve-passenger cart that looks like a convertible Humvee troop-carrier with the top down, pulled along a slotted track.  Motion simulation technology gives the rider a jerky journey through a cavernous room designed to resemble a primitive subterranean temple as the "car" lurches past projected and animatronic perils.  

I (who have been occasionally compared to a middle-aged Abraham Lincoln) folded myself into one of the middle seats of the back row, stuffed my backpack beneath it, and buckled myself in between Soly and Tate.  Eight girls from our group occupied the remaining two rows, but our focus was not on them.  This was the Dudes' Ride.

We were only fifteen seconds into our journey when all hell broke loose.  Despite repeated warnings all along the ride’s queue, somebody looked into the eyes of the huge idol guarding the temple gates, if you can imagine someone doing such a thing.  I have no idea who did it.  I don’t want to know.  I can assure you that it wasn’t one of the Dudes.

“Foolish mortals,” a recorded voice scolded, “you looked into my eyes!  Your path now leads to the Gates of Doom!”  Lights inside the idol’s eyes flickered.

“Why?!  Why did you look?!” we shouted to the girls, but they just ignored us.  Obviously, they felt guilty.

The cart veered suddenly through a set-piece designed to resemble a crumbling corridor.  We paused beside an Indiana Jones mannequin, propped up to look like he was trying to hold the “Gates of Doom” closed while some great “evil” pressed from the other side.  A recording of Harrison Ford barked some orders at us and the mannequin waved its plastic hand toward a staircase.  

The vehicle rumbled forward, hydraulics in its suspension making it feel like we were bouncing up the stairs.  We then barreled through a corridor lined with impaled fake skeletons.  A projection gave the illusion that our headlights shined on walls that were writhing with thousands of beetles.  The car lingered for a moment.  Obviously the ride’s creators wanted to give us time to take in the grossness of it before we sped forward.

Then we found ourselves on a rickety bridge spanning a huge lava-filled chasm.  To one side, the idol’s face loomed, green light shooting from its eyes toward the span.  The cart’s hydraulic system rocked us back and forth.

“Hit the gas!” shouted the Dudes.  “HIT THE GAS!”

And suddenly, I am no longer a forty-eight year old musical director with a small business and a mortgage and a family.  No longer a father or husband; no longer the son of an ailing mother; no longer sharing the responsibility of taking care of group of high school theatre students.  

I’m seven years old.  

I’m the same boy who would crouch behind a neighbor’s low fence with my friends as we fought off hordes of robbers or Nazis or pirates or (God forgive us) Apache warriors.  The same boy who would swing at a tennis ball with a beat-up wooden bat and imagine hitting the home run that sends the Oakland A’s to the World Series; the same boy who could be Speed Racer even if his Mach Five was a just beat up yellow bike with a banana seat; the same boy who would make a map that lead to buried treasure in the backyard, even if the treasure was just a dime in a cardboard box.

And I am no longer on a ride at Disneyland, and this is no “Enhanced Motion Vehicle.”  I am careering through the Temple of the Forbidden Eye in an all-terrain troop transport.

The car lurches forward over the bridge, just in time.  But we aren’t safe.  My skin crawls at the sight before us.  A giant cobra, at least a hundred feet long and wider than a car tire, looms up to our right, threatening to devour Tate and me in one gulp.  We scream and duck down as the car speeds forward, just as the snake strikes.

Suddenly the car stalls at the end of a dark corridor lined by stone warriors.  “Oh no,” murmurs Soly.  Then he shouts “Get down!  GET DOWN!”  The snake is somewhere behind us, so the car sputters forward, its tires tripping stone triggers on the floor.  I press my forehead against my knees and cover my head with my arms.  Poison darts ruffle my hair as they whiz past.  I can hear other darts smack against the side of our transport.  We arrive at the other side.

“Is everyone all right?” I ask.  Nobody answers, but they are all moving.  I take that as a good sign.

Then we see him.  Indiana Jones.  THE Indiana Jones!  He clings to a vine, dangling directly over our truck.  “Indy!” we shout to him.  Of course, out there, in the real world topside of the Temple, we would call him “Dr. Jones,” but the immediate danger has brought us closer, and he feels like a friend.

“Let go!” we shout, “We’ll catch you!”  We reach to him.  He will drop down amongst us and we will all speed to safety.

But it’s not to be.  Behind him, the dim light reveals a massive boulder, carved perfectly round, rolling towards us.  We’ve all been the victim of a trap.  There’s no hope.  All of us…Indiana Jones, the car, the girls, the Dudes…are about to be flattened like a ladybug beneath a bowling ball.

But then the floor beneath the wheels of our transport shudders, then gives way.  We scream as we drop to our fate…only to find ourselves in a deeper level of the cave system.  We can only assume that the boulder has harmlessly and miraculously rolled over the channel that we just fell through. 

But Indy?  Where’s Indy?

We careen around a corner as the tunnel winds around itself in a tight coil and there he is, standing beside the giant boulder, his whip coiled in his hand.  He’s bathed in tree-diffused sunlight pouring through a massive whole in the cavern’s roof.  “Next time,” he moans, “you’re on your own.”

And then it’s over.  The famous “Indy’s March” from the movies blares triumphantly as the vehicle rolls to a stop.

Seven-year-old Kevin exchanges high-fives with the Dudes.  Andy takes a quick selfie of all of us.  We are warriors, survivors, comrades-at-arms.

Somewhere in the exit tunnel, sauntering along with my backpack bouncing against my spine, I realized I was myself again.  At some point, I had shrugged the burdens of my forty-eight-year-old life back onto my shoulders…husband, father, son, brother, employee, business owner, and most immediately, chaperon to a gaggle of energetic theater students.  Burdens, yes, but they felt good and right.  I wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world. 

Yet I was tempted to look back, to see if the seven-year-old me was there, tagging behind.  I didn’t of course. 

But it’s good to know that he’s still around, just in case I need him.

The Dudes: Tate (top with blue shirt), Me, Soly (far right), and Andy (bottom).  (And that's Leah in the white shirt.  I didn't include her in the blog...yet.)

Matterhorn

They’ve changed the Matterhorn.

No, I’m not talking about the one in the Alps.  I’m speaking of the more famous one, the one in Disneyland.

There’s a good chance you might not notice, even if you are old enough to remember.  The mountain still dominates the skyline of the park.  Bobsleds still race through it, jostling and jarring passengers.  Riders are still startled by sudden appearances of the "Abdominal" Snowman, named for his envy-inducing six-pack. 

But the bobsleds themselves are not the same.  Each passenger gets his or her own seat.  It used to be, back in the olden days, you would straddle a bench.   The person in the rear of the sled had a backrest to lean on, but another rider sharing the cart had to nestle themselves between the rear passenger’s knees. There used to be signage that encouraged larger riders to sit in back, because the forces of acceleration and gravity would drive the forward rider snugly against the body of the rear rider.  This was a serious problem if, say, you were placed on the ride with a stranger who prioritized getting into the park early over showering.

On the other hand, it was an excellent ride if you were sharing the Disney experience with someone you didn’t mind getting close to.  This was the situation I found myself in a little over twenty-five years ago.  She wore no make-up, but she was so beautiful, with her gorgeous green eyes shining and her brown hair falling in loose curls.  As we strolled from ride to ride, she would smile or laugh with her pretty little mouth, and my heart would skip a beat.  There were half-a-dozen reasons I could never pursue a relationship with her, not the least of which being that I didn’t know if she even liked me. 

But then we rode the Matterhorn.

I sat in the back, and she sat in front.  The bobsled clickety-clacked up the first incline and gravity pressed her against my chest.  Her hair smelled sweet.  We plunged downhill and then up again, laughing and whooping, the wind bringing tears to our eyes.  We screamed when the Abominable Snowman leapt out at us, and then we laughed again.  Suddenly, it was over.  The bobsled came back to where we’d begun and shuddered to a halt. 

It was then that she did it. 

She reached her right hand across her body, gently gripped my left forearm, and squeezed.

It was twenty-five years ago, but any time I want I can relive that moment as if it happened yesterday; my heart racing, the thrill crackling through my soul like a Midwestern electrical storm.  And I also remember the sudden feeling of dismay when the Half-a-Dozen Reasons reminded me of their presence, frowning down at me like angry giants.

But hope still flickered.  There weren’t a half-a-dozen reasons.  There now was one less.

I knew.