The Bobs, as anyone knows who has read my first novel TO LOVE MERCY, was a legendary roller-coaster at the old Riverview Amusement Park on Chicago’s Northwest Side. Riverview, once the “World’s Largest Amusement Park,” was torn down in 1967, leaving not a trace except in the memories of millions of people Of a Certain Age.

What we remember is a wooden roller-coaster of such fierce and fearsome twists, turns and plunges as to yank the guts of the hardiest park-goer. Funny story: My mom and dad always told me to put my glasses in my pocket when riding The Bobs and other rides of its ilk, so I did; but one time I was alone in the two-person car. After being thrown violently from side side, oh, about a dozen times, I got off and fished my shattered glasses out of my pocket.

Since those glorious days of yesteryear, I have ridden a roller-coaster or two. When my son Sam graduated from eighth grade, we took a congratulatory trip with two buddies to New York City and found ourselves at Coney Island on the famous Cyclone. I rode the Cyclone three times (Sam rode it five times) and it is great no doubt … but it ain’t The Bobs. No, The Bobs was and remained the gold standard of roller-coasters until I encountered …

… The Ghostrider.

We were at Knott’s Berry Farm in the Los Angeles area. I was with my grandson, my friend Davida and her two granddaughters. Saving the best for last, we boarded The Ghostrider at the end of a long day.

Folks, this was a roller-coaster to reckon with.

First off, it ascends higher than any park ride I’ve ever been on, then drops at a near-vertical in a screaming plunge toward death that, of course, ends not in death but a neck-snapping swing back toward the heavens.

We whipped, we snapped, we plummeted. Some of us may have puked. No would have blamed us.

I staggered off this hell-ride and plunked down next to Davida, moaning. Davida, who had chosen not to ride, laughed in what might have been the sound of kindly sympathy, or a snicker, or both. “Are you OK?” she asked.

I shook my head, then stopped because it ached. “That roller-coaster,” I said in a froggy whisper, “is better than The Bobs.”

Davida, who has logged her own time on The Bobs, was impressed. “Wow, no kidding,” she said. “Was it fun?”

I shook my head, carefully. “Not exactly,” I said.

“Are you going to ride again?”

“Once was enough.”

By this time we were both laughing and making jokes about getting old, and surely getting old has a lot to do with why one trip on The Ghostrider was plenty. As I wrote this, a day later, the headache still was with me.

But I find myself marveling that, in the era of upside-down twisty thrill rides, Knott’s Berry Farm has gone to the trouble and expense of designing and building a new roller-coaster made out of that beloved old material, wood; and that the damn thing is so demonstrably, objectively, dastardly and dangerously better than my old beloved Bobs.

We had a wonderful day at the park, my grandson and I, the culmination of a six-day adventure that included riding Amtrak’s Southwest Chief from Chicago to Los Angeles. I’m planning to collect my thoughts and write a follow-up blog about the experience. But the Ghostrider part leaves me a little sad. A treasured memory has been diminished. I feel like I’ve lost something. I guess I have.

Frank Joseph
www.tolovemercy.com

P.S. My novel-in-progress TO WALK HUMBLY, the first of two sequels to TO LOVE MERCY, is coming along. I’m in the home stretch.