Coin-Operated Kiddie Rides
art by Ryan Livingston
I’m on my honeymoon, riding a purple stegosaurus in a desolate strip mall. It’s 8 pm on a February night in coastal Oregon. I’m two tequila shots deep. The metal monstrosity creaks and groans in ways that suggest it’s seen one too many tourist summers.
Why am I here, in this strip mall, riding a metal dinosaur during a life milestone? Because it’s giving me the time of my life. I feel like a carefree kid again. I haven’t laid eyes on a coin-operated kiddie ride in at least a decade. It’s transporting me back to my childhood of riding these goofy machines outside diners and department stores. It’s making me nostalgic for this quirky staple of the 1990s that my fellow millennials will remember fondly. It’s reminding me of the magic in the mundane.
When I return home from my honeymoon, I Google the origin of these rides. I’m stunned to find that their existence spans multiple countries and dates all the way back to the 1930s. Several manufacturers dominated the scene—most of them fizzling out somewhere around the early 2000s. Why did this staple of popular culture die out at the turn of the century? What larger social and economic trends caused this chunk of history to fade away? It saddens me to learn that kids these days won’t titillate in the joy that is sitting in the belly of a creepy, anthropomorphic creature while its animatronic voice sings you a static-filled song. They won’t know what they’re missing.
Every generation has its back-in-my-day anecdote that later generations roll their eyes at. The world changes quickly. Shared experiences of our youth bond us together one minute and make us unrelatable the next. Coin-operated kiddie rides fascinate me because they bridge multiple generations. You can ask your siblings, cousins, parents, and grandparents about these weird machines, and it will nudge something loose that’s been slumbering in their memory. Everyone can picture one they rode as a kid or, in my case, as a tipsy adult. Everyone remembers the thrill of begging your parents to spare a quarter so you could experience one minute of unfiltered joy. The rides weren’t even good. They were clunky, creaky, and creepy. The creature’s eyes were painted too wide apart. The machine sputtered to a stop so loudly you thought it’d spontaneously combust. And yet.
I have a memory of a coin-operated ride on the sidewalk outside an Ames department store in a sleepy, suburban town near where I grew up. My babysitter carted at least five kids (including me) around this store inside a strip mall so she could run errands and keep us occupied. I don’t remember what the ride looked like, but I remember it looked large to my six-year-old self. The bigger kids shoved me aside and ran toward it so they could get dibs. I watched in awe as they climbed all over it, rattling it side to side so violently I thought it’d fly off its mechanical spring. Our babysitter did not have time for this lollygagging. We’d linger on the machine while she headed inside. She knew we’d eventually behave and follow behind her like little ducklings.
I have another memory of a cluster of rides inside a commercial mall. This mall was a four-story behemoth that everyone and their mother flocked to on the weekends. It’s where I bought my first Victoria’s Secret thong at 13. It’s where I got my eyebrows waxed for the first time. As I grew into a gangly, awkward teenager, these rides stayed steadfast in their childlike glee. Their presence was a comfort. I grew too big to ride them, but I enjoyed ogling at their bright colors and new designs. I saw tikes climbing all over them, smearing fry grease all over their steering wheels just like I had done with my fellow troops in the babysitter’s club.
The next time I saw one of these rides was in 2025, at the strip mall in Oregon. It looked incredibly lonely and sad. I’d be sad if I were that purple stegosaurus, too. It perched outside a Mexican-American fusion bar that had sticky floors and a potbellied bartender named Juan who wore a shirt with his name on it. This steggy had undoubtedly been manhandled by many a drunken fool who reeked of greasy tacos and Miller Lite. Though it was clearly past its prime, I still reveled in its presence. It was akin to seeing a cryptid. Its lore is larger than its existence, so if you see it, it’s like peeking into a hidden world. The curtain of curiosity pulled back. A snapshot into the strange. There are images of me triumphantly kicking my legs into the air while onboard this trusty steed, but those are tucked away in my honeymoon album and not for public consumption. I think it’s better to let you imagine, anyway.
I decided to go on a quest to see what memories other people had about these crazy coin-operated creatures. Turns out there are Facebook groups, Reddit threads, and whole blogs dedicated to the love of the craft. People like me share summer outings, family vacations, and arcade visits sprinkled with rides of all shapes and sizes. There are photographs of mini carousels, rocket ships, boats, trains, and taxis. They’re all adorned with real and mythical creatures. Most play sound effects, songs, or both. All of them include a mild movement intended to mimic whatever mode of transportation it embodied. People still post them for sale on eBay and Facebook Marketplace. I have to wonder how they came to be in possession of them.
It’s a funny thing to realize there’s so much history behind a simple childhood pleasure. It’s important to use your adult brain to better understand the things that gave you joy as a youngin’. It bodes well for a deeper appreciation of the world—for the people who manufacture weird things to make it all a bit happier.
