The next-to-last time I rode Space Mountain, the first American in orbit blasted off in a tumult of popcorning cloud, sound tsunami and flame billow overloading the eye until it seemed near to reverse and shadow, amid a chorus, a ripple, a stuttering round of "Godspeed, John Glenn," passed forward in a chant, a mantra, a prayer.

Aboard the Space Shuttle Discovery, the decorated Marine sabre jet fighter pilot who almost became president based in part on the gung-ho, Harry Hairshirt performance of Ed Harris as Glenn in "The Right Stuff" -- I know. Ridiculous to think movie or TV fame could result in a presidency. ... Right? -- became the oldest man to fly out into the wild black.

If you witnessed Phillip Kaufman's art in metamorphosing Tom Wolfe's corn-fried nuggets into a seven-course gourmet meal, you know something of the Mercury astronauts, those brave souls who strapped into afterthought tin cans rattling atop an adapted V2 rocket, lit that dynamite candle and, as we all must do, fought gravity until their bodies melded to the cockpit, flesh on taut faces rippling downward, the only men who could test out on that G-force and not pass straight into a different kind of darkness.

Monday my feet and lower back hurt a little at the end of a day at the Magic Kingdom. For the former, I blame my aimlessness, general spaciness, and inability to commit to a 40-minute line wait. For the latter, I blame Space Mountain. Rollicking romp, Walt, but come on, '80s ergonomic technology! The Superman ride at Six Flags massaged and soothed, by comparison.

When children shriek red-faced like the south end of northbound baboons, is it truly the happiest place on earth? Define happy. No wait: That leads to misery. Happy's a place to visit. We drove down here in 8 1/2 hours.

Magic resides. It snugs around my wrist, purple with an unhidden Mickey that scans us into our room, into parks, into fastpass (I refuse to add the meaningless plus sign; it's either extra, or it's the usual. Don't jargon me, Walt) attractions, into our dinner reservations, our lunch and our snacks. If I look at my left wrist once more to see the time, I have urged cast members to slap me Goofy, as I haven't worn a wrist watch in 20 years, yet the band of Magic compels me.

Unlike much of Tomorrowland, it's fairly futuristic. Pressed against a silvered globe, the Magic Band spins a glow 'round the outer ring, white and gray then glorious green for "go directly to being 'randomly screened' again," despite my recent haircut, and perhaps because of my bulging shorts, stuffed with spare glasses, cash -- because while in the World of Disney magic may suffice, but out in the ugly unhappy wild we rely on a paper, non-radioactive barter -- water bottle, smart-ish phone, necessary cards and various OTC meds because no way am I dropping out of a Twilight Zone Tower of Terror line to wait out a sneeze. You can check out any time you like, but you'd better not leave.

The first time I rode Space Mountain, my responsibilities were minimal: Pick up Mom's morning coffee; help keep an eye on the smaller ones; keep track of tickets; buy everything in the now-defunct magic shop with a hard-saved lettuce sandwich of one-dollar bills, especially all things with Haunted Mansion on them.

The most recent time I rode Space Mountain, the charges and cards bore my name; the cast knows me, and I suspects, tracks me, by my waved bands. But what have I to hide, and hold back, and wait on? We have ridden, we have laughed, and we will ride, and it will hardly hurt at all.

