I once was persuaded by our grandchildren to go on the Scooby-Doo ride at Movieworld. Grandpa very sensibly stuck to his guns and left his feet on terra firma. (The less firma, the more terra.)
We climbed into this little car on a railway track, kids in front, Grandma in back. They shut the door and pulled a padded bar down in front of us. No straps, no harness. Oh this will be OK, it will be like the Ghost Train or Dodgem cars when we were kids. We set off, slowly, into the pitch darkness. They closed the doors behind us. Then all hell broke loose. The screeching, fearsome apparitions were of no consequence, nor the axes coming down on our heads - we dipped down in the nick of time. We were thrown at great speed this way and that, unable to see, ignorant of which way we’d be thrown next. They shot us up a pole, spun us around a few times then threw us down a steep slope - backwards. I’ve never been thrown off a cliff in a car, nor been bashed in the chest with a baseball bat, but I exaggerate not. Hanging on, I ripped the cartilage attaching my sternum to my ribs. I would surely have a stroke or heart attack before the bloody thing stopped. Must have been in there for five hours. At home those giggling, exuberant kids reported “Grandma was screaming, she shouted ‘Stop’ but it didn’t, she was hysterical”.
I’d been to hell and back, and everyone laughed, as you are doing now.
PS: I still love the kids but next time we’ll go bushwalking.