I’m not a huge fan of fast rides or rollercoasters, not since I was fifteen and fearless. But when Cars first opened up in Disney’s California Adventure, several trusted friends said it’d be tame enough for my liking.

The next weekend I stood with my husband and several friends in the ride’s “singles” line, because the twelve-year-old who led our group who could be trusted to know such things said it’d be faster. True, but the price you pay for saving time is you’re separated from your party as attendants fill in any empty seats with singles. Sure enough, my husband Michael was put into the car ahead while I was politely detained on the platform to await the next sporty coupe with a painted-on smile to pull up.

And there it came, complete with an empty space in the backseat for me. Right next to the—hey now. Really cute guy. Close-cropped hair. Dimples you could see at a distance. College dude? I squeezed in next to him and offered a shy smile as I fumbled with my seatbelt, silently thanking God I’d recently had my roots touched up.

As expected, the first part of the ride was all calm and light, a buggy ride in the park, except for a few notable times when our little speed racer seemed to rev up and want to peel out. I admit this freaked me out a little but I’m sure I hid it well, squashing any sudden intakes of breath.

A few musical moments later we were pulled into a well-lit space patterned after the garage from the Cars movie, fun. But why are we stopping? A second smiling car filled with happy people pulled up on a parallel set of tracks alongside us. Then I heard in a loud, booming voice: “Ladies and gentlemen! Start your engines!”

Oh nooo …

Red lights flashed to green and the double doors in front of us flew open. Both cars shot out of the hanger at once, propelling me from carefree to panicked in 6 seconds flat. I threw myself at Cute Guy, grabbing his knee, his arm, burying my head in his shoulder all the while screaming like a girl. Only when the devil ride had finished its winding race and came to a stop did I unclench my shaky fingers from his borrowed bicep. Trying to smooth my hair and composure back into place, I apologized profusely.

“No problem.” Another flash of dimples. “Should make for a good picture.”

“Picture?”

“Yeah,” he said. “They do a photo blast at the end.”

Dear. God.

We followed the crowd into a corridor that led to the Cars gift shop. On one wall was a glowing array of photos apparently taken during the last few seconds of the ride.

And there I was: hair caught in a mini-tornado and holding on to a hunky stranger for all the world—and my husband—to see.

But they both just laughed and shook hands. And guess what? Cute Guy’s name was Michael, too. Which I feel totally exonerates me.