Last weekend, my husband and I went on our annual venture to the state fair. Dan and I are not overly eager fair aficionados. One of our first dates took place at the Idaho State Fair. We listened to an a cappella boy band croon cover songs, shared our first Pronto Pup strawberry lemonade, and watched the amusing antics at the late night hypnotist show.
It was also on that outing that Dan introduced me to the heavenly gooeyness of the Ice Cream Potato – not a true potato in the root vegetable sense of the word, but ice cream shaped as a potato, doused in cocoa, whipped cream, and chocolate syrup. With the invention of the Ice Cream Potato, Idaho has truly lived up to its reputation as the cultivator of famous potatoes.
So it’s out of a sappy sentimentality rather than a love for genuine western tradition that Dan and I visit the fair every year.
This year, Dan persuaded me to watch the circus act that the fair advertises as a thrilling daredevil spectacle. I’m not much of an advocate of thrilling daredevil spectacles. But I’m not much of a fair ride enthusiast either, and my choices were either watch a thrilling daredevil spectacle or get stuck with my husband in a metal cage that spun on its side, ascended to a vertical 50 feet above the ground before turning its passengers upside down and plummeting into oblivion.
This thrilling daredevil spectacle was no Cirque du Soleil. According to my keen observations that evening, a fair circus act consists of a human size hamster wheel that swings like a pendulum between two rickety metal posts and a steel sphere that the performers proudly call “The Legendary Globe of Death.”
A male and female, clad in shimmering spandex jumpsuits, who gravitate toward feats of psychosis rather than the daring bravery the fair brochure advertises, spent thirty nail biting minutes performing acts of insanity inside this hamster wheel and Globe of Death.
At one point, the male performer covered his head with an executioner’s hood and balanced himself on top of the wheel while it was suspended above the ground. As the crowd cheered in amazement, I looked on in horror, covering my mouth to prevent myself from shouting a not-so-amazed exclamation at the man.
“They don’t even use safety nets!” Dan said, sounding much too enthusiastic about this realization.
Indeed they did not. A fair circus act does not need safety nets. Instead the performers stand below the apparatus so that they may catch one another if mishap ensues.
Before the performers entered The Legendary Globe of Death, they told the audience that insurance companies refuse to cover them so if we would kindly have our photos taken in the steel globe after the performance, all proceeds would cover their emergency medical costs.
Then they entered the legendary globe on motorcycles.
I watched the motorcycles zoom around, upside down, vertically, horizontally, diagonally . . . through my fingers.
"You can't see what they're doing if you cover your eyes." My husband has a knack for pointing out the obvious.
Once the dolorous spectacle ended, the crowd ruptured into applause, and I allowed my face muscles to finally relax after a half-hour of being frozen in fright.
"So, you want to get your picture taken in the Globe of Death?" Dan said.
I responded with a dirty look.
"It's fun to watch these sorts of things with you. It's kind of cute."
Another dirty look, "I'm glad I could be so entertaining."
Then we finished off our evening with an Ice Cream Potato. And the nightmarish visions of The Legendary Globe of Death faded into obscurity.
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