Cedar Point Amusement Park, 1979. Bliss. A pastel colored terrycloth tank top held up by spaghetti straps, thick reddish brown hair feathered and flowing like Farrah Fawcett in all of her glory, the intoxicating aroma of French fries drowning in vinegar and even more intoxicating-- the aroma of Randy. Ah, Randy, but we will come back to him.

Our goal was clear and upon reaching our desired destination we came face-to-face with a sign informing us that from this point there is a 2 hour and 30 minute wait. Methodically taking our place in line, we blended into a sea of faces and colors following one another like cattle through a maze of hot metal railings. It seemed to be a reasonable trade off two hours in the noon sun for the unparalleled thrill and three-minute adrenaline rush of the Gemini.

By today's standards this huge wooden beast was about as exciting as a bologna sandwich. But this was the summer of 1979 and as I clasped Randy's hand, climbed into the red car of the Gemini and pulled down on the safety bar, this was what it meant to be eighteen. Eighteen, where life happens at lightening speed. We are immature, uncontrolled and without direction yet we are wise enough to enjoy each hill for what it is. Luckily, we are also innocent enough not to give in to fear, if we fear at all.

At that moment it all came down to the click of the bar, the speed of the race, the feel of his hand and the smell of his shirt. Had I constantly worried about the hill ahead the angle and speed of its descent-- I would have missed the thrill of the ride up. The paralyzing click, click, click of the chains as we climbed the hill in slow motion. Eventually you reach the point where the front of the train has seen the other side and you know it is only a matter of time. I don't believe that it is a good idea to rush it, to see over the other side too soon. Had I known the intensity of the fall or looked into his eyes and seen that very soon they would be saying goodbye I might have skipped the ride altogether. How sad it would have been never to know the touch of his hand as he brushed the hair from my face and kissed me in front of the Gemini.

A roller-coaster will never be made that can surpass the tumultuous ride of loving someone for the first time. My ride with Randy was short but sweet. It ended with a period of mourning lasting twice as long as the relationship itself and included the mysterious loss of a "Bread" album at the hands of my father. How lucky I was to be the brown haired girl in the pastel tank top hopping into the Gemini and fearlessly experiencing what it meant to be eighteen. Ah, the aroma of Randy; so glad that I got in line. Life is all about the ride; so hop in, throw your head back, close your eyes and hold on.