Nobody wants to go with me to the shitty behind-the-mall carnival, for some reason. It’s one of those ride-packed parking-lot joints, set up and pulled down stunningly fast with less than a week in between. You, too, went to one like it as a kid, didn’t you? Between rides you filled your belly with overpriced fried something and admired the high school kids smoking behind the Ferris wheel?
If one thinks about it too hard, one might wonder if getting on any of the higher-speed rides at one of these seasonal events is a tad risky. Visions of rusty bits and loose screws and sputtering engines and parts misaligned dance in your head as you make the questionable choice to hang, swing, spin, or zoom from a high place to a low one with a CVS and a check-cashing store in view. This equipment, after all, is stacked in storage for most of the year, then trucked from place to place, taken out and put back; you know from your own experience that taking things out and putting them back multiple times ensures pieces go missing. Plus, there are those disinterested, distracted sunburned folks sucking on vape pens running the rides because they couldn’t get a summer job inside the mall. The chances of a mishap seem uncomfortably high.
And yet, I’ll go, by myself, if necessary, because I still, at this late date in my existence, love to spin, swoop, and tumble down from the sky. I like the sounds and smells of amusement parks, the shrieks and squeals of happy fear, the hot plastic seats that have hosted a multitude of butts, the Coke-sticky ground near the ticket booth. Waiting in line, sweating, it’s just part of the carnival experience. Rushing forward to pick the best car or the prettiest-colored swing. Downcast smiling at those around you, because now we’re in for it. There’s a togetherness to it, a comfort in being around other thrill seekers as the motor whirrs to a start. You’re all about to have superpowers for about 90 seconds, and you’re happy to have them in tandem.
So, that’s what’s happening on the outside. Inside, a chemical soup sloshes about. As a speedy ride ca-chunks to life and gets up to speed it kicks off a brain rush starting in the amygdala, the pack of neurons at the base of the brain that asses the unknown. In noting risk (whether real or not), it fires off a combo of protective chemicals—the usual suspects: dopamine, adrenaline, and endorphins. At the peak of the thrill, your body, brain, and senses are hyper focused on the experience; nothing else really matters—nobody on a roller coaster thinks about their late mortgage bill or mean boss during an extreme pretzel loop, demonic knot, or Stengel dive. Even a small-town Tilt-a-Whirl clears the mind.
Whatever the thrill, the thrill-ee gets a testosterone boost, narrowed vision, a river of adrenaline through the body, and of course, heartbeats clamoring to leave their chest. We scream to set nervous energy free. With a rapidly pounding heart comes more oxygen to the brain (I guess we’re supposed to be thinking of a way out of this mess). Then, immediately afterwards comes a second flood of mood-boosting chemicals. No wonder some of us immediately get back in line for another go.
As with any “high” we can become tolerant; our brains and bodies realize we’re going to get off this thing in one piece, because we did before, and demand we take even bigger risks next time to achieve the same euphoric relief of having survived the scary thing. Scientists have noted connections between tolerance level and how much white and gray matter is in your brain, plus there might be some genetic mutations involved, and variations in dopamine receptors. We’re none of us the same.
I’ll leave you with these carnival-related facts: Thrill seeking has a biological basis and high heritability, suggesting it’s coded in our genes and nervous system. And thrill-seeking behavior appears to be unique to humans—other animals may play and enjoy themselves, but they don’t put themselves in seeming danger just for the dumb rush. So, I guess when I head over to the strip mall this weekend to climb aboard something twisty and fast, I’ll leave my smart dog at home.
Photos by the author, who went to the carnival, peered through the fence, saw the $35 entrance fee and got the full-on heart palpitations she was looking for without setting foot inside the gate.
