Tall in the Saddle but Feeling Some Pain (Sabu He’s Not)

Rule 1 from the Jungle King’s Handbook: Never ride an elephant bareback for more than half a mile.

Yes, it’s funny what a little real-life experience can do to instantly demystify a lifetime of romanticized notions.

Earlier this week, I jumped at the offer from Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus folks to ride one of their noble jungle beasts through city streets to the Anaheim Convention Center, where “The Greatest Show on Earth” is in residence through Wednesday.

See, much of the circus moves from town to town by train, and the closest unloading spot to the convention center was 2 1/2 miles away. So they let loose the biggest stars of the center ring--the horses, camels, zebras, elephants--and walked them the rest of the way.

Instead of trying to slip them in the back door, the publicity-savvy circus promoters used the opportunity to hold a mini-parade, thus whipping up interest in the performances to come. And, not to hedge any bets, they then invited several reporters to climb aboard, thinking that it would guarantee plenty of witty first-person newspaper articles. Imagine!

My reason for accepting was strictly selfish: How many chances does one get in life to play Tarzan? (One of the great delights of the whole experience came when the publicist asked whether I had ever been on an elephant before, and I casually replied, “Yes.” So what if it was on a kiddie ride at the Santa Ana Zoo? The game of one upmanship knows no modesty.)

The professional skeptic in me--the hard-nosed, seen-it-all, reporter--thought about churning out lots of smug Andy Rooneyisms:

You know when you’re riding your elephant down the street, and it’s a really hot day and the elephant wants to spray himself down with a trunk full of cool, clear water, but there’s no water handy and he just sneezes all over himself--and you? Don’t you hate it when that happens?

But the lifelong Johnny Weissmuller fan in me overruled the cynic. Plus, there is something mighty humbling about swinging up on top of a 5-ton peanut crusher. All I cared about was finding out from the trainer whether there are special commands I might utter unwittingly--like “Ohmigod, stop!”--that could send a pachyderm into a ruby-eyed rage.

Three other devil-may-care reporters also took part. We all quickly signed a release saying that we understood that riding an elephant carried with it “the possibility of injury.” I’m glad they left it so nebulous. I might have winced if the form said: “Anyone who rides an elephant runs the risk of ending up in a can of Spam.”

We also had to agree that if we did get hurt, Ringling Bros. wouldn’t be sued by us, our representatives or any of our progeny for a thousand generations, or until Ed Meese answers a question directly, whichever comes first.

Rude awakening No. 1 for me came just after I mounted up and asked a fellow reporter if my transportation had a name. “Yes, it’s written on the collar you’re holding.” So much for any jungle instincts I might have developed from watching old Tarzan movies on Saturday afternoon TV.

Then again, his elephant’s name was Susie and others had unstately monikers like Rebecca. Mine was India, so when I read that on the collar, I just figured the rest of it said “Made in . . .”

Off we went, though, past several hundred parents and kids who lined the streets, all weighing their own TV-and-movie-bred fantasy images against the real thing.

Looking up at a bunch of local reporters--and not even Fritz Coleman or Tawny Little--I’ll bet the kids felt something akin to the anticlimactic reaction singer-songwriter John Prine weaved into a song called “Sabu Visits the Twin Cities Alone”:

Hey look, ma, here comes the elephant boy

Bundled all up in his corduroy

Headed down south toward Illinois

From the jungles of East St. Paul.

It’s just not the same as seeing Tarzan leading the charge through a village of hostile natives.

Nevertheless, we did our best to smile and wave to youngsters, and to politely advise them if they were about to become human jujubes on the bottom of an elephant’s foot.

En route, India kept my ride exciting by veering from the pack frequently to strip a tree branch of leaves or wrest some weeds from the parking strips. “Just my luck,” I thought. “I get the rogue.” Luckily, she didn’t sweep up any toddlers for sniffing. Could have been bad for the paper’s image.

Another disappointment was learning from the elephant handlers that none of the behemoths respond to “Um-GA-wa!” that magical command Tarzan used to order his elephants to do everything from “Charge!” to “Please wipe your feet before entering.”

They understand only English, and not even pidgin.

The greatest insult, though, came the following day, when I woke up with a sore throat--undoubtedly picked up because India repeatedly mistook my shirt for a Kleenex, blanketing me with germs and other stuff too ugly to mention.

(OK--maybe I got it somewhere else. But how often can you brag about catching a sore throat from an elephant?)

After the ride ended in the back lot of the convention center, I had developed new perspectives on old fantasies. Watching the old movies, I always admired Weissmuller’s prowess in the water, his upper-body strength as he swung from tree to tree and his vocal dexterity on the famous Tarzan yodel.

Now, I have a newfound sense of wonderment at his ability to cross the better part of the African continent on the back of Mrs. Jumbo wearing nothing but a loincloth.

All things considered, though, I’ll still take the movies. Real life is a pain in the butt.