A woman is enthusiastically misting sunblock across a 10-foot area around her. It wafts into my mouth. I take two extra-strength Advil capsules – a pre-emptive strike against headaches to come. I suppose popping ibuprofen instead of LSD shows my age.
We have taken the GO bus from Yorkdale and are about to devour a slew of expensive (yet safe and wholesome) thrills at Canada’s Wonderland.
The last time I was here, it was Paramount Canada’s Wonderland. It has since been taken over by the Cedar Fair Entertainment Company. The current lack of corporate branding is refreshing. The ride names have been changed to innocuous concepts. ‘Top Gun’ has become the non-committal ‘Flight Deck.’ The ‘Tomb Raider’ ride, which mimics the experience of a fish being submerged in a deep fryer, has been re-dubbed ‘Time Warp.’
As we enter the park, I am assaulted with the earnest strains of Collective Soul and Boyz II Men. Gone are the sweeping movie soundtracks – one of few downsides to the new ownership. The place has a retro American feel.
We decide to confront our fears (like we did last week with my maiden voyage to the nude beach), so we head to the Leviathan. The Leviathan is the newest coaster, with a 306 ft. drop down an 80 degree descent.
Zosia is deeply concerned about the lack of shoulder straps. Our queue is a veritable Via Dolorosa for her. I assure her that I will hold her down with my beefy arms. Truthfully, I place my faith squarely in the Swiss Master Craftsmen that have constructed these monstrosities. After an hour of waiting, we mount train number 3. Zosia notes some brown stains on the chair but is so blinded by concern for the locking mechanism that she sits down. I sit in someone’s fresh swass and pull the the bar down as low as my thighs will permit.
The climb is ridiculously long, with no end in sight. Zosia goes eerily quiet. A safety ladder snakes up the ascent but abruptly ends at the summit. That is engineering speak for; “if it breaks here, you’re screwed.” It is over in three minutes and 28 seconds.
“I cannot believe this ride is run by teenagers,” I mouth inaudibly. I lurch off the ride, my mouth dried to a crusted hole.
“I have never heard such gutteral screams come out of your mouth before,” she says. Neither have I. Was I subconsciously trying conquer the ride by making myself sound deeply menacing?
The day is young so we set forth into the rest of the park. I fear that we may have spoiled ourselves by doing the Leviathan first. Are rides like pornography, where you just have to keep ratcheting up the ante? After experiencing the Max Hardcore of roller coasters, will we be able to get any thrills whatsoever from the other rides? The Dragon Fire is a paltry worm at the foot of this hellbeast.
The lineups aren’t as bad as I remember. The lineup for Subway is longer than the line for the Wild Beast, one of three rickety wooden coasters left here. Probably because we are here on a weekday. My brother and I once went to a Six Flags the day after some girl got her leg snapped off by an errant wire on the Drop Zone. The best time to go to a park is the day after some horrible accident. There are no lines and the rides are about as safety-certified as they’re going to get.
A class system has emerged here in Canada’s largest amusement park. You can buy a ‘Fast-Lane’ pass for a mere $60 plus tax. This Dickensian initiative was introduced this year. Affluent patrons, perhaps on break from summering in the Hamptons, can bypass every lineup by parading through the exits and getting first dibs on the coveted front of the train. Tanned bluebloods in crisp linens skip by the rest of us poor suckers and assume the prime seating. In case of some cataclysmic derailment, it is little solace to the rest of us that they’ll probably perish first.
We do the wooden coasters (the Wild Beast & the Mighty Canadian Minebuster) next. They seem the most dangerous. Haggard and shaky – nearly as old as I am – they seem to rattle apart by the bolts and screws. They seem the most likely to derail completely, which paradoxically makes them the most fun. The Thunder Run is uninspiring – a 36 km/hr ‘joyride’ through the mountain, complete with strobe lights and a shitty animatronic dragon.
Zosia drags me on ‘The Rage’ next, a swinging pirate ship. As we board, a tiny boy (aged three? Six? Who knows?) is seated next to me, wearing swim trunks. The attendant refuses to start the ride unless he puts on a shirt, explaining, “Look, guys, I don’t make the rules.” Finally his mother is summoned from the lineup to clothe him. The lap brace is a solid foot-long gap away from his body. He seems unnaturally calm while I screech away, consumed by fresh waves of nausea.
Post-“Rage” PukefestWe do some gentle rides (the Swing of the Century and the Sledge Hammer) to soothe our jangled nerves. Zosia refuses to go on the ‘Psyclone’ because it resembles “a human shrimp ring”.
Human Shrimp RingThe park is littered with tourists from outlying areas and and young families hauling around behemoth strollers covered in bags. As far as I can tell, the whole point of having kids is so you can come to Wonderland as an adult and it’s totally justified. My excuse is ‘writing an article’ (my notes are scrawled on Snoopy stationery, the only paper I can find in the gift shops).
Jailbait abounds in microshorts and lace tube tops. Basically, teenagers rule the world and are here to make everyone else look fat. It’s a sea of Abercrombie and Fitch and TOMS shoes and Forever 21. My mood lifts and self-esteem increases upon entering city limits, when surrounded by people my own age and weight.
Canada’s Wonderland is a staple of childhood AND adulthood. If you haven’t yet this summer, go. You owe it to your inner child. Bring Advil.
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Tiffy Thompson is a writer and illustrator for the Toronto Standard. Follow her on Twitter at @tiffyjthompson.
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