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.