The first time I zip-lined, I was peer-pressured by a 5th grader.
At the time, I was in my early thirties. I was a teacher in DC and chaperoning a trip to a sleep-away adventure camp in West Virginia. I was helping the students put on their gear—tightening helmet straps, positioning harnesses, and such—wondering how on earth any of this gear would actually protect these little people if that bungee hook thing went haywire; hoping the trained guides were unquestionably trained, were having a good day, and were 100% engaged in their work. A red-headed kid looked up at me and asked why I wasn’t suiting up. So I suited up.
Fast-forward to last week: my own 5th grader, my 7th grader, my husband and I, locked and loaded in helmets and harnesses, at the top of a 100-foot drop, ready to soar some 3,000 feet on the Fatbird SuperFlyer dueling zip line. I couldn’t NOT go, because I had to be there to protect my children (though I’m not sure how I would have done that), but I also had a vague recollection that the one other time I’d gone zip-lining, I’d had a blast.
We had a blast. Painstakingly long preliminary moments of sweaty palms and real concern, but then, a single step from wooden platform to air, and nothing to do but sit back in the harness and enjoy the 60-mph ride.
Happily back on solid ground,