Fighting terrorism one 20-mile ride at a time

What with the ongoing national anxiety over terrorism and the resultant formation of the Homeland Security Department, there’s been a lot of talk lately about what constitutes “torture.” Is torture only the really nasty stuff, or is forcing someone to sit through season three of “American Idol” in its entirety enough to qualify? (PS: Yes, it is.)

Personally, I don’t know. I’m repulsed by the idea of hurting someone in order to gather “intelligence.” I also don’t like the idea of some loony toon planting a bomb in a Twinkies factory in an effort to strike a blow for whatever deity/dictator/heavy metal guitar star he pledges his allegiance to.

So, like a lot of Americans, I’m confused, perplexed, ambiguous, and a couple other words that appear in the thesaurus under the word “confused.”

But I may have a solution; one that will appeal to both the right and left, the patriots and the humanitarians: My bicycle.

My bike is a beauty, an older Fuji road model, still in excellent shape with a reasonably light, rigid frame and all the bells and whistles. (Actually, it has no whistle, but it does have a bell.)

It also sports a teeny, tiny seat, made of a space-age material that is —according to the manufacturer and the guy at the bike shop who managed to say this with a straight face—“super comfortable” for long, scenic rides through the countryside. It really is, too, for the first mile or so. After that, things go downhill fast, and not the kind of downhill most cyclists look forward to.

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor and I ride between 10 and 15 miles every night after dinner, and usually 20 to 30 on weekends. People who know me no doubt wonder how I manage to stay so—ahem—full-figured, what with all this exercise. Let me just say that beer and Mexican food provide more than enough caloric integrity to maintain my Jovian physique, regardless of any workout regimen I may undertake. Short of running daily marathons, I’m never gonna be skinny.

But back to torture and how it relates to my bicycle seat. And more importantly, how Homeland Security could use this knowledge to their advantage.

The beauty of it, see, is that riding my bike doesn’t look like torture. A phalanx of Newsweek photographers could line up along the road to shoot photos of bicycle-riding suspects being interrogated and no one reading the magazine at home would think twice about the possible inhumanity of it all.

Riding my bicycle looks like fun! And at first, it is. Even your average terrorist would think so.

For that first couple of miles, it’s a real lark; wind in your hair, sun on your back, the endorphin rush that comes from getting off your fat behind and actually doing something physical. Then—speaking of fat behinds—you notice yours is getting a little uncomfortable. That tiny seat, designed for guys who look like Lance Armstrong, is doing things to your Homer Simpson backside that God and nature never intended.

By mile five, you’re wondering why someone can’t build a bicycle seat that feels more like a Barcalounger and less like an iron maiden (the medieval torture device, not the rock band).

By mile ten, you’re just wishing there was a government agent nearby to whom you could confess, so he could get you a pillow to sit on and make the pain stop.

By mile 20, you’re no longer aware of your backside, except as a distant extremity that’s going to feel really, really weird when you finally stop pedaling and dismount. You no longer care about cadres, terrorist cells or political ideologies—you just want to get off the flippin’ bike, already!

And all the while, to people driving past in their comfortable Buicks and Toyotas, you look like you’re having the time of your life. Only you and Homeland Security know the terrible truth.

More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com.

Who’s your daddy? Not me, that’s for sure

Despite much masculine posturing to the contrary, the male ego is a delicate, fragile thing. Mine is, anyway. Like most guys, I usually pretend I’m above the opinions of others, that my self-confidence is an unassailable rock upon which the tides of opinion beat ceaselessly without creating the merest hint of erosion.

That’s baloney, of course; everybody wants to be liked. My guess is even Saddam Hussein’s feelings were hurt when people made fun of his moustache (which they did, a lot, though probably not while he was in the room).

But guys being guys, we do our best to bandage over our emotional ouchies, shrug off the baggage, and get on with life while doing our best to emulate Sylvester Stallone in any Rambo movie. Usually, I’m as good at this ego shell game as any man, however, last Thursday I got blindsided, but good.

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor was holding her annual yard sale, an event on a par with any major New York fashion show in terms of complexity, presentation and prep time. The only things keeping MTV from covering Mrs. T’s sales are the lack of a margarita fountain and a lip synch performance by Hannah Montana.

At any rate, her yard sales are legendary and people come from near and far to haggle over the junk she puts out there every year.

But to the point (yes, there is one, though I’m already having a hard time remembering what it was—male ego, that’s it): I was sitting on the front porch putting the finishing touches on last week’s column while Mrs. Taylor tended shop beneath a large beach umbrella, making change, answering questions, chatting with the neighbors. From the porch, I could see folks in the front yard, but through the screen, they couldn’t see me.

An attractive young lady in a brown sweater approached Mrs. T’s “checkout” table with a few books, a puzzle and an “almost new” carton of Lincoln Logs. While Mrs. Taylor was tallying up her purchases, the woman said, “Does Mike Taylor live here?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. T.

“I thought so,” she said. “I saw him mowing the yard a few weeks ago. I love the Guinness Brothers.” (The Guinness Brothers is the name of the little bar band I play in on the weekends. Not the best band in the world, but we don’t charge that much, so it all balances out.) “They’re really good,” the woman added.

Mrs. Taylor made a non-committal grunt. She knew I was eavesdropping from the porch and figured my already inflated ego could do without additional excitement.

“My husband and I go see them every chance we get,” the woman continued. “They’re our favorite band. We both read his column in the newspaper, too. He’s so funny.”

“Umm-hmm,” Mrs. T said. She later told me that, even from out in the front yard, she could hear skull bones shifting under the rapid expansion of my head. I have to admit I was feeling pretty pleased with myself at that moment.

Then it all came crashing down.

“Well, anyway,” the woman said, as she tucked her purchases into a canvas bag. “Tell your father we’re big fans.”

Father.

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor didn’t bother to correct her. She just sat there under the beach umbrella wearing a Mona Lisa smile, listening to the sound of my head deflating.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com/ or http://www.mlive.com/. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

The real education takes place during summer vacation

A couple weeks back one of my fellow columnists, Kathy Runyan, wrote a piece in which she implied that, deep down, most kids would rather be in school than on summer vacation. Now, Kathy’s a good friend, a very sweet lady and—in my opinion—the best columnist since Erma Bombeck, but she’s also obviously a little crazy.

Either that, or a girl.

I remember hearing rumors, back when I was toiling away at St. Isadore’s Elementary, that some girls actually liked school. We didn’t have the term “urban myth” at the time, but I assumed it was something like that; a fairy tale invented by girls to further distance themselves from the grimy, skin-kneed rabble that is prepubescent masculinity.

Whatever the case, I do know there are no schoolboys who pine for the chalk-dust-smelling confines of the classroom during summer’s long, temperate months. The school year is a time of vacant stares, watched clocks, irrelevant memorizations and flickering fluorescent lights.

Summer vacation, for a boy at least, is when the real education happens.

Remember that writer, Robert Fulghum, most famous for his book “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten”? Well, all I ever learned in Kindergarten was that I prefer chocolate milk to white, and that you really can eat paste.

The things I really needed to know I learned during summer vacation.

For instance:

- Nothing feels as good as June grass against your bare feet. But there are boards with nails in them out there; care must be taken.

- Crawdad pinchers don’t really hurt that much, but it takes courage and faith to discover this fact for yourself.

- Grapes you pick yourself from wild-growing vines taste better than those you buy in a store, even though they have huge seeds in them and are frequently a little sour. Same goes for strawberries.

- A bicycle can go just as fast as you imagine it can go, and as far.

- A book read in a tree fort on a sultry July afternoon is infinitely superior to any book assigned by your teacher—even if it’s the same book.

- If you lie on a hillside beneath a star-littered night sky and gaze upward long enough, you will see God.

- Like grapes and strawberries, watermelon from the neighbor’s garden tastes better than watermelon from a store. But it also tastes better to your neighbor; don’t expect him to give it up without a fight.

- Skateboards are fun. Sidewalks are hard. It’s the same with life.

- If you sneak one cigarette from your father’s pack on the bedside stand, it won’t kill you. Unless you’re caught.

- Trains, not books, are the preferred transportation of the imagination.

- In the summertime, you sometimes become aware of air, even when there’s no scent upon it but the veiled aroma of faraway times and places.

- Life—despite sour grapes, boards with nails, and the distant shadow that is the resumption of classes in September—is good.

Oh, school serves its purpose, I suppose. We must learn to read and write, after all. But it’s during summer vacation that we learn the things worth reading and writing about.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or petitions to increase the length of summer vacation, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.