Roller Coaster at 20,000 Feet

I love roller coasters; I love the wind blowing through my hair; the butterflies in my stomach as the car rockets down the track. Take me to an amusement park, and I'll ride the coasters three, four, five times.

I also love air travel; it's convenient, (generally) fast, and even though I'm inevitably consigned to sit next to guy with bad BO or small, loud children (rather than, say the really cute girl who smells desperation and sits six seats away), but other than that, it beats driving.

However, these are two things that should never be combined, like chocolate and peanut butter, peanuts and bubble gum or cocaine and baking soda.

We flew to Cleveland on Friday, flying through all the storms. The plane shook. The plane rose; the plane fell. And while I didn't have the feeling of wind in my hair (probably for the best), I did enjoy those butterflies, who were staging a loud, angry protest in my stomach.

Fortunately, we landed in once piece, even though it felt as if we simply dropped straight out of the sky for the last 100 or so feet straight onto the runway, kind of like dropping a stone of a 10-story building. You bounce back briefly, but end up on the ground.

But as they say, any landing you can walk away from . . .