The Passion of the Cruise

He lists some of Scientology's selling points: its drug-abuse, prison-rehabilitation and education programs. "Some people, well, if they don't like Scientology, well, then, fuck you." He rises from the table. "Really." He points an angry finger at the imaginary enemy. "Fuck you." His face reddens. "Period."

It is a beautiful exhibition, and I don't believe that he's acting. Before meeting Cruise, I had been warned roundly by my colleagues. They told of restrictions set in interviews, documents that I would have to sign, unprintably generic answers I would receive. They said that he smiles and listens and talks and looks you in the eye, but afterward, when you walk away, you realize that you've really been given nothing but a command performance.

Frankly, none of that turned out to be true. My afternoon in the Scientology Celebrity Centre, a church (featuring a restaurant, a hotel, a spa and classrooms) that caters to Scientology's Hollywood dignitaries, was the cap to a fascinating and unusual week in the world of Cruise that began in the blistering heat of the Mojave Desert.

I'm training to jump a trailer," Cruise says when I arrive at a Willow Springs International Raceway wheelie school in Rosamond, California. He is in black bike leathers, with a matching black helmet tucked under his left arm and two days of stubble on his chin. He points out a trailer sitting just off the track. "It'll be bigger than that one," he continues. "But it's not that hard."

He narrows his eyes and squints at the trailer for a moment, visualizing the feat. "Well, the jumping's not that hard," he says. "It's the landing that's difficult."

He cocks his right hand and slugs me in the shoulder. Cruise has spent the day training to be an action hero. The trailer jump is part of his warm-up for Mission: Impossible 3. Earlier in the day, he took his Cessna plane out to practice loops, prepping for his role as a World War II fighter pilot in his next collaboration with Collateral director Michael Mann, The Few. I have been summoned to the desert to learn to do wheelies with Cruise. There is only one flaw in the plan: I've never ridden a motorcycle in my life.

But I'm willing to learn -- it's part of the job when you're writing stories about sports and other skills. "That's great," Cruise says. He reaches his right hand out to shake mine as a gesture of approval. When his hand grips mine, his elbow comes flying out of nowhere and slams into my chest, knocking me off balance. He has a habit of making great bonding alpha-male gestures of body contact. When you've said something that earns his agreement or respect, you get a firm handshake. Respect mixed with encouragement earns you a spine-collapsing clap on both shoulders. And if he feels a little healthy surprise, you get the flying elbow to the chest. He is the ultimate high school jock, but not the mean, arrogant one. He's the one who's so guileless and friendly that even the nerds don't resent him.