I knew what was about to happen, and I laughed as we crested the hill and the car caught a little bit of air before bouncing onto the downslope. Everyone's guts flipped, and we sped down the incline toward the valley, the next summit looming ahead.
We were on our way to Carlisle on PA-94, a road that runs like a roller coaster track straight up and over South Mountain, a peak that ironically forms the northern end of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Heidi gave me a look and reminded me that our dog was not always the best car traveler, especially in hilly terrain, but the road was as it was, and short of slowing down well below the speed limit, we were in for a ride.
I was reminded of the roads in rural Maryland that we drove on as kids with my Aunt Harriett. Despite our cries for moderation, she embraced the ride, and our stomachs did somersaults as she barreled along in her white station wagon, five screaming kids bouncing in the back, long before the days of seatbelts.
Surely, it was the screams that saved us. I always hated roller coasters and rode them my body tense with dread trying not to scream. Years later, when Heidi told me that you have to scream to release your body's natural fear and thus enjoy the ride, I sort of got the point of those terrible contraptions.
I laughed again as we neared the top of the next hill. "Sorry, Lucy," I said over my shoulder, "but here we go!"
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