Toward the end of my college days, I harbored a not-so-secret crush. She and I carried on a mild flirtation, dancing around the possibility of more, but it wasn’t until she found out I’d never seen The Fast and the Furious that she gave me an opening.

“What?!” she exclaimed. “It’s my favorite movie!” So we made plans to watch it at her dorm the next day. Even if I didn’t like it, I reasoned, the experience would constitute a worthy reversal of the trope about men forcing testosterone-soaked action movies on their girlfriends. I’ll spare you the details of what happened that afternoon, but it may come as no surprise that I gave the film an enthusiastic five-star review.

In the 25 years since the launch of the franchise, F&F has massively capitalized on such runaway infatuations. The big, bald, sleeveless blockbusters serve as monuments to America’s demented car culture, product placement (Corona, anyone?), and the ambiguously defined bonds of “family”—pronounced “fambly.” With their high-octane set pieces that ignore all known physics, leavened by subpar acting and threadbare storylines, the films invite us to submit to some reptilian part of our brain that cares only for power and speed.

Which is why the series was ideal inspiration for Universal Studios Hollywood’s new foray into cutting-edge outdoor roller coasters. On Wednesday, the long-anticipated Fast & Furious: Hollywood Drift opened to the public, offering parkgoers the chance to hop into replicas of the movies’ muscle cars—including Dom Toretto’s 1970 Dodge Charger R/T—that spin and soar along more than 4,000 feet of track at speeds of up to 72 miles per hour. (A different version of the ride is slated to debut at Universal’s Florida park next year.)

The day before, select media and content creators had the chance to experience the attraction without the inconvenience of waiting in line, and I’m pleased to report that it didn’t disappoint: I rode it three times in a row and could have gone back for more. Its four launch sections and three corkscrew inversions made for a whip-fast adrenaline rush, augmented by revving motor noise from seat-mounted speakers. In Dom’s lead car, you can even detect the braking resistance as you slide into a drift. I hollered with glee throughout each circuit, making sure to occasionally shout “TOLUCA LAKE,” the name of the affluent neighborhood next door; residents have been very upset about all the screaming.

Photograph: Rich Polk/Getty Images