Bryson and I just returned from the Bay Area where we visited his grandparents and ascended such theme-park landmarks as Top Gun, Vortex and Invertigo. They are three of the coasters with height requirements that last year exceeded Bryson's stature. But this time, thanks to recreational technology, the boy was able to hit any ride in the park. His official height, as measured in the kitchen and duly registered with a pencil mark on the wall, is 53 and 1/2 inches, a half-inch short of Great America's standards for riding the big-boy rides. However, the youngster happens to be in possession of shoes that resemble those worn by Boris Karloff in the Frankenstein movies. His "Heelys" are equipped with an extra-thick heel that houses a snap-on roller-skate wheel, enabling him to lean back and skate on his heel (thus the name "Heelys," which has become a verb as in "Look at that boy heely, he is going to hurt someone if he keeps heelying that fast, though he seems under control so no doubt he's heelyed a lot"). The footgear also includes the secondary benefit of making him an inch taller (wonder of Tom Cruise wears Heelys), boosting his height to 54 and 1/2 inches, exceeding national big-boy roller-coaster standards.
As we strode through the gates at Great America, it was with the confidence of a couple of guys determined to hit every soaring, gliding and twisting ride the theme park had to offer. No more Tilt-a-Whirl crap for us. Goodbye, putt-putt cars that run on a track. See ya, ride that spins and then tilts upward in such a way as to convince you the choice not to become an astronaut was the right one (OK, we ended up on that ride at the end of the day, but only because we wanted to, not because we had to).
Bryson's destination was The Demon, a looping coaster that was one of two he could ride last year. That would be a nice warm-up, he decided, preparing him for bigger and better (and scarier, though he would not admit this) rides later in the day.
Then we passed Vortex, a stand-up coaster that had about three people in line.
"Hey, since we're here, let's try this one," I said. "Look, we can walk right on."
The only words Bryson lloves to hear at a theme park besides "Here's 10 bucks" is "Look, no line." But he was a little hesitant.
"How high does it get?" he said.
I pointed to the yellow track that swooped toward the sky.
"That high," I said. "Not very high at all."
I was trying to balance the thrill and scary factors. Too scary and he wouldn't jump right on. But if it wasn't thrilling enough, he wasn't going to waste his time.
"But what does it do?" he said.
Well, it takes people up, down and around, pretty much like any coaster, why the hell do you think we're here? But I didn't say that.
"Well, it take people up, down and around," I said.
"Does it go upside down?"
"Looks like it."
"How many times?"
Dude, I didn't design the damn thing. It's a freakin' coaster, what else do you need to know? The miles per hour and gravity force?
"I don't know. Let's get on and see."
We got into line, which in this case meant waiting behind the gates for the next car to arrive.
"This is one that you sit down in, right? Because I want to sit down."
Hmm, parental quandary here. The Vortex does indeed have a "seat" in the way a 10-speed bike has a "seat," and if you've ever hurled down a steep incline before being sent into a loop, you know that this so-called "seat" would embed itself deep into your painful parts if you did not support yourself via your lower extremeties. So you would pretty much need to stand or spend the rest of the day hunched in agony.
"It has a seat, yeah, so no problem," I said.
Parental quandary solved with fib.
"OK, because I'm nervous. I'm not scared, but I guess nervous, like really nervous."
"Don't worry about it, bud. It would be weird if you weren't nervous since this is your first big coaster."
"But will be be OK?"
"You bet. They wouldn't let anyone ride if anyone was going to get hurt."
Right, so all those newspaper stories about amusement-park injuries were, what, akin to Bigfoot sightings? My mind flashes ahead to our return to Arizona and dropping off Bryson to his mom, and he is still hunched in agony -- "That's the way I picked him up, I swear!"
The car pulled into the station and the gate swung open. Now Bryson sees the support mechanisms I called "seats."
"They don't look really big, how am I supposed to sit on it?" he said.
Very gingerly, I thought.
"Oh, well it looks like you just sort of stand a little and put the seat between your legs so you are really safe."
"But you said you sit down!"
"You do in a standing kind of way."
I push down the "seat" so Bryson can straddle it. His feet are on the floor, barely, and I silently thank the Heelys.
I pulled down the padded metal harness that secured him to the coaster, then did the same for myself.
"OK, Daddy, now I'm scared. I'm not sure I want to do this, I don't think this is such a good ride."
Too late, pal.
"Bryson, it's OK, really. I promise you that when this is over, you are going to love it and going to want to do it again. You do this ride, you can do any coaster in the park. This is the biggie."
Of course I didn't know yet about Invertigo, which sends you backward and forward as your feet dangle, but this was about not having him start to freak out.
Two minutes later, after a loop and a couple of corkscrews, we ran down the exit ramp, followed the fence to the entrance and got right back in line.
Bryson had hit the bigtime for roller coasters.
We spent the rest of the day riding each coaster in the park two, three or (in the case of Top Gun, a speedy coaster with these cool barrel rolls) four times. In between Bryson blew about $50 on arcade and midway games, winning a couple of stuffed toys that he gave to other kids in the park (seeing as how I was not about to carry them around the park all day, especially since we weren't going to take them back on the plane).

Bryson came home the other day and handed me this poem, which took be just a bit to read because of his fairly bad penmanship (like father, like son). It went like this:
"It always
makes me think
I ought to bloom
myself.
And
that's when
I start to plan
my New Year
Celebration!
I finally choose
a day
that is
exactly
right.
Even the air
has to be
perfect,
and the dirt
has to feel
good and warm
on bare feet."
Me: "Bryson, did you write this?" Him: "Yeah." Me; "Really?" Him: "Yes, I wrote it." Me, thinking the boy is a prodigy, that this is a talent I must cultivate, thinking he might be to literary endeavors what Tiger Woods is to golf, "Wow, this is really really good." Him: "Thanks." Me, nagged by disbelief because it is way too good to be true: "So this is all yours, right? You wrote it." Him: "Yes, I wrote it. I copied it out of a book, but I wrote it."
Ah well, close but no cigar.