Just how obvious is my evil nature, anyway?

I’m not a particularly evil person. Despite what my ex-wives may say. No, really. I rarely lie, I never steal, I try to follow the Golden Rule unless somebody cuts me off in traffic, in which case all bets are off.

I don’t remember all ten of the Commandments, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t broken any in a long time.

But just lately I’m starting to get a little paranoid about my eventual fate in the afterlife. It’s not that I’ve suddenly begun living a hedonistic life filled with degradation, self-indulgence and debauchery (though I’ll admit that sounds kind of fun).

I’m worried because of the priest.

See, for the past couple months, I’ve begun—after decades of inactivity—to attend mass again.

I’ve been going Sunday afternoons to St. Robert’s in Ada. It’s a relatively new church compared to the antediluvian west-side structures of my youth.

St. Robert’s is a nice parish. The people are friendly and I really like the pastor there. His sermons, as a rule, are clever, engaging and charged with good advice sinners like me can make use of in real life.

But like the nuns of my Catholic school days, the Father sometimes seems to know too much, about me, I mean. St. Robert’s is a big congregation, and by all rights I should be just another anonymous face in the crowd. However, there are times during the weekly sermon when I could swear he’s addressing me personally.

Last week’s topic was the Prodigal Son, and the good Father looked my way throughout the entire sermon. I think he did, anyway. I suppose it’s possible that I—like the narrator of Poe’s “The Telltale Heart”—was simply dealing with my own sense of guilt and imagining the whole thing.

But it sure seemed that way.

Surely, I thought to myself, there must be other sinners in a crowd this big; other evil-doers in need of special priestly attention. Why was I being singled out?

This uneasy feeling was only exacerbated when, after the service, I met the Father on my way out. He regularly stands near the exit shaking hands and speaking briefly with parishioners as they make their exodus.

“Nice to see you!” the Father said to the well-dressed couple near the doorway.

“Have a good week,” the Father said to the folks just in front of me.

The Father offered his hand as I approached the exit. I shook it. Then he said—and I’m not kidding here—“Looks like we’ve got all kinds of people here this Sunday.”

By the time I realized what he’d said, I was down the steps and halfway to my car.

All kinds of people? I thought. What does that mean? What kinds of people?

Does the Father know something I don’t? Have my ex-wives been reporting to him directly? Is there some sort of tattle-tale network I don’t know about? Some overly-blabby Facebook kind of thing?

Or is he just guessing? Back in my youth, the nuns at St. Isadore Elementary School seemed to possess a preternatural ability to ferret out my guilty thoughts. Am I still as transparent to members of the clergy as I was in fourth grade?

I’d like to think not, but I just don’t know.

This coming Sunday I plan to attend mass in a fake moustache, baseball cap and sun glasses. If the Father still picks me out of the crowd, I’ll know for sure it’s time to mend my ways.

More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Tune in this summer for the Olympic sport I invented

I didn’t get too caught up in the Olympics this past winter; sometimes I do, but not this time around. I think some of it may have to do with the fact there are now so many sports I don’t even recognize.

Half the time when I did tune in I was treated to athletes riding—boards, vehicles, devices—that I couldn’t begin to identify. It’s just further proof I’m older than dirt, but I kinda miss skis; not the little, sissy “ballet” skis they strap on these days, but the big old Giant Slalom monsters Head manufactured back in the iron age.

At any rate, I’m sure it will only be a matter of time before advanced pottery is added to the Olympic roster of events. But I’m not complaining. Because I have an idea myself for a new Olympic sport, one that guys like me (read: old) can participate in.

Not only does my new sport fit the currently-critical criteria of being “extreme,” but it’s dangerous, foolhardy, possibly fatal and requires only a moderate outlay in equipment expenses, if one doesn’t include the cost of medical coverage.

Also, it makes for great video. The day after my new sport debuts at the Olympics, it’s gonna be all over YouTube like a rash on the butt of baby that’s been fed too much Hormel chili. Trust me.

I tried the sport a couple weekends back while visiting my daughter in Detroit.

The visit was kind of unplanned; in truth, I was hiding out at my daughter’s house because my sweetie and I were having a fight and it’s easier for me to simply avoid stuff like that than face it head-on. I’m a chicken, sue me.

Since my daughter’s busy work life doesn’t come to a grinding halt whenever I’m having woman trouble, I had a lot of time to myself. Much of that time I spent riding my bicycle around Royal Oak, watching the pedestrians, and feeling sorry for myself.

The shopping district in Royal Oak is nice; city planners have included lots of wide sidewalks, benches and trees planted at discreet intervals to provide shoppers with shade on sunny days. Each tree is planted right on the sidewalk, within a circular iron grating about three feet across. They’re pretty to look at and give the neighborhood an upscale look retailers no doubt love.

As I pedaled along on this particular sunny, unseasonably warm Saturday, I was filled with a sense of well-being. Everything will work out, I told myself. Everything will be fine; relationships take work, I told myself. I should call her. I will call her.

Lost in this affirmationist, positive thinking, Zippity-Doo-Dah frame of mind, I didn’t notice the missing tree. The iron grating was there, as was the foot-deep hole the tree used to occupy.

I rode over the grating at a gentle ten miles per hour, and directly into the hole.

The convolutions I performed as I flew over my handlebars would have brought tears to the eyes of any Olympic diver. On my return trip to the sidewalk, I managed to perform a triple-gainer, two pirouettes, and a pas de deux (no easy trick when you’re by yourself).

Though my performance up to that point was flawless, my dismount left something to be desired and I landed directly on my right shoulder and chest, which hurt like crazy for two weeks following. Also, my rotator cup now makes an odd clicking sound I don’t care for at all.

On the plus side, the Royal Oak business district was crowded with shoppers, all of whom showed great appreciation for my athletic prowess, once they discovered that I was, in fact, not dead.

The summer Olympics are not far off, but maybe there’s still time to get my new sport on the schedule. I don’t plan to compete myself, because of my injury, but I’d be happy to coach any team fielded by an English-speaking country.

More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I can’t afford to dress properly for modern biking

When I was 17, I rode my bicycle from Grand Rapids to Quebec. I no longer remember how far that ride was, but it was a long way. By the time I got to where the road signs were in French, I had calluses on my butt that rivaled any bicep Arnold Schwarzenegger, in his “Terminator” days, could have boasted.

I pedaled my Fuji the whole way wearing cutoff Levi’s and a pair of Red Ball Jets sneakers. If I stopped at a roadside café, I’d pull on a T-shirt. Other than that, I had no specialized equipment.

If I chafed, which I sometimes did, I stopped pedaling for a day or two and pitched camp in a pinewood or nearby corn field. It gave me a chance to read whatever Ray Bradbury had written recently and partake of the questionable nutritional value of Lipton’s Cup-a-Soup, the camper’s best friend (at least in the ‘70s).

I was thinking of those times earlier today, while riding my bike for the first time this year. The temperature finally climbed above the 45-degreee mark, melting most of the snow from the bike trails near my new home in Ada.

The first thing I noticed is: my new neighborhood is hilly. Riding around Ada, I felt like Hannibal trying to get his elephants over the Alps. Holy moley! What were they thinking when they built this town? No two homes should be located anywhere near the same sea level? It’s like San Francisco without the palm trees and silicone-enhanced actresses.

Anyway, it’s a lot of up-and-down for an old guy whose only exercise since last November has been drinking beer and eating pizza. But the hills I’ll get used to, or die trying—a distinct possibility. (That “elephants over the Alps” reference wasn’t entirely metaphorical.)

I only rode for about 15 miles, a short run by summertime standards, but enough to work up a sweat beneath my ski jacket this time of year. And while cruising the neighborhood I discovered something wonderful—and dangerous; there are two really good bike shops nearby. They’re the kind of places that offer bikes that require financing plans. Bikes made not from steel, but from carbon fiber. Bikes that weigh six ounces. Bikes that Lance Armstrong would prefer over Sheryl Crow.

And along with all those cool bikes, they have the cool bike accessories. Headlights, tail-lights, water bottles, water bottle holders, bags, baskets, bells, air pumps, and clothes, clothes, clothes, clothes, clothes!

Apparently, riding a bicycle around here without the proper attire is considered rather gauche. Before I go any further I’ll admit, I do have a pair of Spandex bicycle shorts and no, they do not do my backside any favors. The only purpose they serve, that I’m aware of, is to alert approaching motorists to my presence. (The shock value alone often causes drivers to swerve to the opposite side of the road.)

At any rate, the stores offer all kinds of clothing, including leg, arm and knee warmers. Most of these duds are skin tight, because cyclists are supposed to look like Lance Armstrong and date girls that look like Sheryl Crow.

Did I mention I rode to Quebec in cut-offs and sneakers? Quebec, man! I was built like Lance Armstrong back then, but nobody had invented Spandex. Now that they have, I (sadly) look more like Drew Carey than Armstrong. Spandex is no longer an option for me (except as a means of startling motorists).

I just Google-mapped Quebec; turns out the trip was just over 1,000 kilometers. I don’t know how many miles that is, but it looks like quite a few on the map. And I did it without Spandex, special shoes, a helmet or padded underwear.

I had a point to make earlier in this column, but I can’t remember what it was. I’m chafing that bad right now.

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