Hi ho, Dumbo!

This column originally appeared in The News (a renamed version of The News Messenger for a brief period in the early 1990s).

Blacksburg — As you may have heard, the circus was recently in town, the Clyde Beatty-Cole Brothers Circus, to be exact, “The World’s Largest Circus Under the Big Top.”

You may have also heard they were looking for an honorary ringmaster for our newspaper’s “family night.” When my editor was tapped for the job a few years ago, she did it with some trepidation. There was no trouble getting a sucker this time.

I think I may have vaulted a desk, flinging our photographer to the side, when I volunteered.

You see, the honorary ringmaster gets to ride an elephant in the opening parade. I don’t know what your goals in life are, but riding in a circus parade certainly fits in with my life ambitions. (Isn’t it amazing that some young woman hasn’t snapped me up yet?)

The honorary ringmaster also welcomes the audience and blows a whistle. Ho-hum. I majored in Broadcasting in college — humiliating me in public is nearly impossible. As the day of the elephant ride approached, I cared about one thing: just point me at that pachyderm!

I considered going for the full Tarzan effect, but couldn’t find my leopard skin g-string. I also suspect my boss would be less than pleased with me representing the paper that way.

The big day arrived at last and I found myself sitting in the bleachers hoping to see a geek bite the head off a chicken or a tattooed woman. No such luck. The wierdest thing they had at the show were two women hanging 20 feet above the ground by their hair.

Exactly how does one discover that talent in life? Perhaps I’m boring, but I don’t recall ever being suspended two-and-a-half stories in the air by a body part.

The big moment was here. I mumbled out a welcome and blew the whistle. Then I, along with the publisher’s daughter, who also rode an elephant, jogged back to where the beasts were waiting.

Wow, big animals. Yes, I know you’ve seen elephants before. But until you are about to fling yourself atop one, you don’t realize they probably could eat your Honda for a snack.

“How do I get on?” I asked one of the handlers.

“The same way you get on your elephant at home,” he said.

“Ha ha,” I said.

To my credit, I did it on the first try, stepping up on the elephant’s knee and flinging my leg over the back of his neck. I may have done it a bit too well, as the elephant stood up as my leg was half-way over. I tugged my way up and tried to maintain my cool.

My friends and co-workers were waiting in the audience. I was not going to blow this: the abuse that I would receive if I did would likely kill a weaker man.

So, my gargantuan friend and I lumbered into the tent.

“This is pretty easy,” I thought. I held onto the harness with one hand, waving to the children in the audience and the occasional surprised story source. I even got cocky enough to check my hair as I saw some friends with a camera.

Then my buddy, my pal, my peanut-snorting amigo saw that the parade was nearly over — and he bagan to hustle for the exit.

When an elephant hustles, believe you me, you HOLD ON.

After the parade, I lingered backstage for a moment, hoping to see a disgruntled clown go on a shooting spree or perhaps a tiger break free and maul a worker.

Now, I sit back and remember the presence that a lumbering elephant commands. Riding one was pretty easy; maybe I should consider getting one for the commute to work.