Thunderbolt
Far away from the crowded bustle of Astroland, the Cyclone, the Wonder Wheel, and tacky boardwalk shop after tacky boardwalk shop, sits an old, looming workhorse from a bygone era. It is strangely alone, standing on a large, empty patch of dirt, with the fierce energy of New York City blazing by behind it, and nary a tourist or citizen within 100 feet of it in either direction. I'd wager that most of the young onlookers and beachcombers don't even know what that dark, twisted tangle of track is called. But those who carry treasured memories of the glistening Coney Island from their long-passed youth, and those who care for the history of this particular art know the name. The Thunderbolt.
The Thunderbolt was designed and built in 1925 by a man named John Miller, to whom all coaster enthusiasts give thanks during each and every hop, hill, and drop. John Miller invented "upstop wheels", wheels which sit below the track, to keep the train from flying off the track during negative-G momentum. This effectively changed the roller coaster forever from being an enjoyable, exciting train ride, to offering the potential for hair-raising thrills and for striking terror into the quickening breaths of thousands of nervous patrons waiting in queue lines all over the world. And even more fortunately for us all, he knew how to design coasters.
John Miller worked with a man named Harry Baker for a few years in the early '20s. They split in 1923. Baker went on to build the Cyclone in 1927, but two years earlier John Miller had built the Thunderbolt, and seeing them side by side, one can't help but get the idea that the Cyclone could never have existed without Thunderbolt showing the way. Both are canonical, Platonic visions of the classic "twister" coaster. But only one is still in operation.
In 1983, the Thunderbolt ran for the last time. Coney Island, once the glimmering star of entertainment in the biggest city in the country, was well into its decline into becoming a seedy, ratty little hole along the Brooklyn coast. I never got to experience Coney during its heyday, and I regret not being able to feel the magic that so many others felt, before the loss of innocence, before the shine left. I think the closing of the Thunderbolt officially sealed the Island's fate.
For 17 years, the Thunderbolt has sat there, stolid and silent. As one's gaze lowers from the apex of the first hill, first scattered, then solid walls of vines and creeping weeds climb up and engulf the lower half of the structure. It is as if Mother Earth herself is reaching out to reclaim one of her own. The tracks lie in disarray, supports falling apart, wood worn and petrified. A perfect vision of entropy let loose to destroy a gift given to the world, a gift whose only purpose was to provide enjoyment to anyone brave enough to embrace it.
A single American flag flew from the only part of the platform structure left. Even it seemed worn, tired, and sad for its own ignoble, withering fate.
But still, the Thunderbolt stood. She stood, maintaining her fading dignity, and reminding everyone who saw her how beautiful she, and the domain over which she still stood tireless watch, used to be.
If you mention "Coney Island" to almost anyone who knows what a roller coaster is, they will respond "Cyclone" without a pause, as if they are finishing your sentence for you. But what most people don't realize is that there's not one classic golden-age wooden roller coaster at Coney Island. There are two.
On November 17, 2000, the Coney Island Thunderbolt was leveled to make room for a parking lot.
Photo by Justin Ashworth