I never wanted to be Superman…errr Superwoman. Truthfully, I’m much more of an Iron Man kinda girl, myself. Something about his witty humor and smart mouth just speaks to me. Not to mention his impeccable taste in redheads. So when the SlotZilla team at the Fremont Street Experience invited me down for a Superman experience, I may have scoffed a little, but I nervously agreed.
After I signed the totally non-intimidating waiver that says if I plummet 100 feet to my death, it’s my own fault, I headed upstairs to get strapped in. I recommend using the facilities at this point because seeing that 100 foot drop-off summoned a few serious urges. A steel cage-like elevator takes visitors up the 12-story slot machine to get outfitted with the right gear. I was helped into a harness and was hanging vanilla-bondage-style with more straps, clamps and buckles than I could count. I couldn’t have been more grateful for them.
The view is incredible, albeit terrifying. At this point, every part of my body was screaming that this seemed like a really bad idea. So naturally, I told that sissy to shut her mouth. For the zip line, I walked down a few steps toward the edge of the world and sat into the sling. It feels a little bit like dead man walking but I did what I was told.
“Are you excited?” asked the zip line operator. “Totally,” I lied.
After hearing the click, which is not completely unlike the dry-fire of a pistol, there were approximately .03 seconds before gravity took over and I was screaming “weeeeeeeee” louder than the Geico pig. It took a few seconds for my stomach to catch up with the rest of me. I glided 850 feet across Fremont Street and above drunken revelers who thought I was a complete badass (because I was), and cheered me on as I flew over them. I screamed, I giggled, I wondered if one of those tiny dots might be somebody’s great-aunt Edna trying to take my picture.
By the time I had earned my wings, the ride had come to a stop by hitting a few braking mechanisms that I didn’t particularly care about because I was still buzzing off adrenaline. It occurred to me that my mouth had been open this whole time so I said a silent prayer of thanks that Vegas doesn’t have more flying bugs.
But once was just not enough. It was over way too fast.
In my fuzzy delusional state, I ran back to the box office and slapped down two $20 bills for the taller, scarier Zoomline. Unfortunately, my adrenaline started to wear off just as I reached the top of the Fremont Street canopy, 114 feet above the ground.
The equipment was heavier, the zip line was higher, the view was awesome-r, but all of a sudden I didn’t feel quite as ballsy as I did 10 minutes ago. I started second-guessing that burrito I had for lunch. Especially after laying face-down on a make-shift mechanic’s lift as the staff walked around to each flyer with the courtesy barf can.
“Doing okay Miss?” The operator must have seen that my face was greener than his shirt. I silently nodded.
Lots of things went through my head while I was being strapped onto the wire: ‘If I chicken out, how badly will I get heckled on my walk of shame?’ ‘What if I violently upchuck on my way down?’ ‘What if I pee a little?’
The lift slowly dropped out from under me, leaving me vulnerable and suspended in the air as the reveal door opened. My life flashed before my eyes and I squelched the tears that may or may not have started to pool in my lower lids.
The operator told me I needed to push off, if I didn’t gain enough speed I may get stuck somewhere above the De Niro or Tupac impersonators. “Definitely cool if there’s a concert going on,” he said. But definitely not cool when they have to stop everyone’s fun to come out and rescue me. Reluctantly, I pushed as hard as I could, head-first into oblivion.
Like a butterfly that had broken out of its cocoon, I was soaring. I reached speeds of more than 40 mph, so naturally I put my hands out in front of me to get the full effect. Eat your heart out Superman. It kind of felt like crowd surfing, without the awkward crotch grab.
I was positive even more people were cheering for me this time around, but they were a little drowned out by the Viva Vision light show that was dazzling all my fans. I felt like a Rolling Stone in the ’70s, minus the controlled substances because let’s be honest, I didn’t need them with this kind of rush.
I sailed over four city blocks, the entire length of the Fremont Street Experience, before landing on the roof of a concert stage like the younger, saucier version of Evel Knievel. The concert below me was raging and I wondered why all daredevil rock stars didn’t make their entrance this way. The only thing that was missing was fireworks.
It was over way too fast but luckily, the SlotZilla staff had captured the good, the bad, and the supremely ugly. There were photos waiting downstairs, the one where I started to cry, the one where I laughed uncontrollably and of course the one where my left eye was crossed because I tried to take in all the sights that were blazing by.
This.Was.Awesome. And the next time I do this, I’ll insist on wearing a cape. Take it from me, the best way to see Fremont Street is from above.
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