My Life As An Elephant Jockey

 

 

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls of all ages, the circus came to town last week. Circus Vargas, that is. Under the world’s largest traveling Big Top. That’s circus talk for a tent almost large enough to cover a football field or one month’s trade deficit with Japan in $20 bills. An amazingly big show, supported by four monstrous center poles, each 56 feet high, and 24,478 feet of steel cable and manila rope.

 

Amazing, too, was the call that came the day before the circus opened.
“Jack D. Welch, please.”
“Speaking.”

“Mr. Welch, this is Sharon Brown with Circus Vargas. Your name was suggested to us for the media personality elephant race.”

 

Miss Brown had a really sexy voice. She sounded like a slender redhead who would wear tailored suits and drive a baby-blue Mercedes convertible with vanity plates that said GOTCHA. I didn’t understand what she wanted exactly, but I agreed to do whatever she asked. I hung up the phone and rushed to Peggy Diane with the news.

“What’s a media personality elephant?,” she wanted to know.

 

I found out when we showed up at the Multnomah Exposition Center in North Portland. It was the PACHYDERM 500. A dozen or two local media types had agreed to actually climb aboard a live elephant and see how fast a trio of massive mastodons could move across a concrete-hard parking lot. While carrying an actual adult human being. Who should probably know better.

 

Except for one young TV newscaster – who looked positively fetching in a safari helmet and an outfit straight from the Banana Republic catalog – I didn’t recognize anybody.

 

I met a bunch of disc jockeys; I understand now why they’re on radio.

All of a sudden I start to wonder just exactly how many folks turned down the siren-like entreaties of Ms. Brown. Before my name came up, you gotta figure a lot of important people, celebrities for honest, said, “Sorry, I’d like to, but that’s the day I plan to spray-paint my underwear.”

 

On the other hand, I figured this could be the opportunity of a lifetime. Survive this occasion and I’d be able to scratch ELEPHANT RACING off my list of things to do.I began my pre-race preparations by eavesdropping as one deejay tried to bribe an animal trainer.

 

“You’ve got to do it on your own,” I overheard the trainer say. “Headpiece, balance, butt and legs… that’s all you’ve got. You’re on your own. They can do up to 40 miles per hour. No guts, no glory.”

 

No helmets, no training wheels, no safety net.

 

To be honest, I was expecting some sort of chair, bucket seat maybe, atop a totally-trained domesticated beast who actually enjoyed the concept. I found myself instead aboard the largest of all land animals, a 10-feet tall, 11,000 pound giant of the jungle who was having a tough day in a strange town.I had been assured these animals were vegetarians. Comforted myself with that thought as I watched the radio personalities dicker among themselves. They actually do talk a lot.

 

“I work drivetime. I should go first.”

 

“I should have the big elephant. Our ratings are higher.”

 

Me, I want to go last. I want a small elephant. I want to live. I want to know why we have to do this on pavement. (Wouldn’t barkdust or grass or padded rubber mats make more sense?)

 

I want a graceful way out of this.”The least big one is a boy,” Peggy Diane, my little sweetie, rushes up with this news bulletin. She’s gone behind – and perhaps under – the elephants to check them out. The woman is curious about such things. Don’t ask me why.

 

Meanwhile, several heats have taken place. No one had died. No one has even been hurled to the pavement and stomped flatter than an out-of date frozen tortilla.

 

Not yet anyway. Still looks more dangerous than electric eel juggling.”Jack D. Welch.” You’re up.”

I pretended not to hear. Perhaps they mean someone else.

“Do you want me to go instead?,” Peggy Diane asked hopefully. “It looks like a lot of fun.”

 

The woman always knows just which button to push. I..ever…so…slowly…moved…to…the…trio…of…turf whales, figuring – correctly – the other riders would rush to the faster elephants.

This was the final heat and only the winner would have to ride again.

 

I got Lotti, a former champion in her first race in six months. Today she’d finished dead last every time and was clearly not in top form.The trainer poked at Lotti with a spiked club and ordered her around like a puppy.

 

“Down, down!!”
I stepped on her left leg and swung up behind her ears. I watched my knuckles turn white as I gripped at the headpiece.

 

I watched her eyes bug out a little as I squeezed her neck with my thighs. Squeezed like my life depended on it. Which I think it did.
Decided I could do this. Told myself, “You can do this.”
“Up, up!” I almost fell off.

And before I could regain my balance, some clown – he was a real clown, red nose and big floppy shoes – hollered, “Go!!”

 

So, of course, we won by a trunk.

I’d made the Finals. Finals??? Turns out I had won an earlier heat and completely forgotten about it.

I think I blacked out.

 

For the Finals, I took the animal nobody else wanted.
Col. Joe is the biggest elephant in Circus Vargas. If not the world.
He’s got huge tusks. I can’t say it enough. He’s got huge tusks.

 

Getting aboard the Colonel was kinda like climbing the outside of a brick apartment building. I didn’t mount this beast, I scaled it. When I got behind his head and he stood up, I felt like I was looking out of a second-story window.

 

Don’t believe anybody who tells you such an event is over in the blink of one eye. We’re talking a LIFETIME.
Which probably explains the earlier blackout.

Of course, at this point, I didn’t fear death.
I was focusing primarily on partial paralysis, when another clown hollered.
Forty-five teeth-rattling bounces later, we’re across the finish line and I know two things. I survived and I won.
Call me The Prince of Pachyderm Perambulation. At last, I’ve found my niche in life.

A beautiful redhead in a tailored suit gave me a trophy – a golden shovel – and Peggy Diane gave me a big hug. She said she was “damn proud.”
My first elephant racing groupie.

I started thinking this could be the break I’ve been looking for.
Started thinking about the nationals. Where the various media personality elephant racers from around the country gather to crown a grand champion.

Turns out they don’t have an event like that.
Okay then, an endorsement contract with NIKE. Maybe a helmet with a swoosh and my initials.
Yeah, that’s it. A gun-metal gray helmet with my complete name and a pink elephant decal.

They never called.

Some people may question my claims to elephant racing stardom.
But I still have the trophy. – JDW