A Ton of Bull

Sitting in the cowboy’s lounge, back of the holding chutes, my mind filled with some pretty serious second guessing and anticipatory jitters about what was coming up in the next few minutes. Like I had done, dozens of times before, I made my walk out of the locker room, down the corridor toward the event arena. As I climbed up the rack of tubular metal bars separating my next ride from the rest of the world, I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake and whether or not I should have stopped taking part in this crazy sport after my last successful ride, 24 hours earlier. No surprises though. That was usually the feeling I had each time I made the ascent to the top bar before gingerly lowering my frame onto the back of a one-ton monster. The only thing that compensated for the doubt that filled my heart and mind as I grabbed onto the metal penning and put my boot onto the first rung was the absolute explosion of adrenaline and exhilaration that filled my entire body as I wiggled into position for my eight seconds (or less) on a rodeo bull. The bulls that any of us rode always waited reluctantly for their cowboy. The game was set up so that we never have to wait for them. Each preparation for the ride was, for me, as routine as shaving and consisted of a series of steps. If all went well, there might even be one additional celebratory step after everything was over.

The Walk

All of the cowboys riding in that day’s “go-round” marshalled up in the locker room before the event began. We drew our rides for the day and talked with one another about the bulls we would be riding. We all knew each other and we all knew the bulls. We had seen each other riding countless times before and we knew the bulls and how they usually escaped the chute and what moves they nearly always made in attempts to get us off of their backs. When my turn came up, I walked from the locker room to my chute. One of the first things I saw as I approached the bull chute from the back side was the big black eyeball of Widow-maker, the bull I had drawn for today’s ride. It was just one eye, so all of the animal’s enormous energy and pent-up emotion and tension was concentrated in the urgent and fixated glare of that one eyeball. A glare that was intended only for me. I was the target of that glare.

The Climb

As I began my climb, I could smell the sweet and sour combination of testosterone, taurine and bull urine. This familiar aroma emanated from the bull to let me know that I was there. Even if I had been struck blind by some act of God, I would know that I was there and that the rest of the routine could be done on automatic pilot if necessary. Up the bars, paint-chipped and manure-pebbled and past the eye, I was perhaps a minute away from my ride. And because it was a ride on the back of basically a wild animal, the ride would be all but unpredictable. These animals were bred to jump and twist and shake and shudder. Bred to eliminate the irritant from their backs and then to rush violently toward anything or anybody that may look like they might be attempting to remount.

The Mount

There is no feeling quite like sitting on the back of a 2000-pound rodeo bull. I reached across the back of my bull and grabbed the top bar on the opposite side of the chute as I lowered my butt onto his back. As my legs stretched apart and straddled the enormous girth of this fired-up animal, every muscle in his back and rib-cage twitched and shivered with anticipation of what was to come. It was always best to be holding on tightly when I settled onto the bull in case he decided he didn’t like my "feel". These bulls were not new to this game. They knew what was happening and they knew what was coming. Often, just the sensation of a cowboy on the bull’s back was enough to make him jump or twist in an attempt to be free of this annoying stimulus. Throaty sounds bellowed from his mouth and nose. Great globs of slippery snot flew back in my direction when his head reared in attempts to bust loose. Every twist, every jump, every twitch let me know that this was a serious venture and that complacency and comfort could never be part of the bargain during this ride. A 'spotter' cowboy helped to steady me on the back of the bull as he jumped and twisted. Each such move startled me and yet, made me feel as alive as I have ever felt. My state of mind was as it always was – somewhere between settling in on the bull’s back and jumping back out of the chute and fleeing for my life. I had to make sure that I was holding on to the penning so that I didn’t get thrown off the bull and end up in the chute bucket with him. It is one thing to get your arms or legs caught between the metal penning and the massive dense body of the bull but it is something completely different having your head or your body in that tight spot. My ride could well have been over before it started if that happened. I was once pinned by a bull that managed to get up on his hind legs in an attempt to jump over the top railing of the chute. The chute cowboys were quick and managed to pull me up and out of the chute to safety. When that sort of thing happens, it is the only thing that is going on in the world until you are clear of the event. My mind was totally empty while it happened and I was one with the bull, the pen, the cowboys and my will to survive. That may be another reason why we ride bulls – it is the most Zen thing a person can do. It is sort of like writing, I know that I certainly don’t do it for the money.

The Bull Rope Preparation

Somewhere between the time where I mounted the bull and the time where my bull rope was pulled tight and wrapped around my hand, I heard the Rodeo Announcer let everyone know that I was in the chute and ready to go. He called out in an auctioneer-type voice, “Now let me direct your attention, ladies and gentlemen to Chute #8, where we have a wiry little cowboy out of PO-NO-KA Alberta on the business end of a big old spotted bull affectionately known as The Widow-maker.” He droned on as I heated up the braid to get it feeling tacky. My rope man loosened the rope so that the bell could fall directly beneath the bull's chest. Then he pulled it tight around the huge circumference of its forward body. The bell clanged every time Widow-maker flinched and tossed. I slipped my gloved hand through the leather grip of the rope and then looped the free end firmly around my riding hand. If the rope was too loose, I would not be able to hold on and react to the movements of the bull as he jumped, turned, tossed and heaved beyond the chute gate. If the rope was too tight around my hand, I could be hung up if I got thrown or when it came time to release and thus I could be dragged around like a rag-doll until the bull was brought under control. If that happened and I was hung up for longer than a few seconds, I would eventually “lose my legs”. My arm muscles would become, stretched, strained and torn and the bullfighters would then have some serious work ahead of them in order to save me from serious injury.

The Release

My legs were tight against the bull and my back was straight with a slight forward lean. My free hand was up and I stared at the hair-line part on the bull’s back. My rope was tight and around my hand. I was ready. I nodded my head and the gate man, standing outside the chute, pulled the gate open with his rope and the bull was released. At the instant the gate clanged open, time slowed down. The clanging of the rope bells even echoed in slow motion. According to Bull-Riding / Rodeo rules, I had to stay on that bull for eight full seconds. I wasn’t allowed to slap the bull or touch my own body with my free hand and I couldn’t touch the ground, the gates, the penning or the bullfighters before my eight seconds were up. That brief flash of time was the longest eight seconds I had ever known . . . again.

The Ride

My bull ran for maybe two strides and then leaped forward as if clearing a gate in an equestrian event. The sheer power of his forward thrust threw my upper body backward. As he landed, the impact of him stopping, hurled my body forward toward the bull’s head. His head then came back and stopped short of butting my face by maybe an inch. I was so lucky. He twisted to the left with a heavy groan and as he did, his back legs kicked upward and extended out behind him. This time, I lurched to my right in response to the twist. This move was repeated again and then once more for good measure. I wasn’t sure I could survive any more moves in that direction so I dug my right spur into his body (initially just to hang on), but mostly in an attempt to get him to turn to the right which would allow me to get him back underneath me. It worked. He twisted right, leaped, stopped, jumped, leaped, kicked, twisted right and then landed. No buzzer yet. My internal clock told me the ride must be close to over. I spurred again with my left foot this time and he bent up and to his left. I was so close to losing it on that move. I held on and as he leaped one final time, the buzzer sounded. I made my eight second ride.

Dismount and Escape

It may not have been pretty but I got some points which helped me make it to the “short-go” the next day. I always found dismounting to be the scariest part of the ride. There were so many things that could go wrong when landing. After being so focused during the ride, my mind sort of let go and the distractions were back. It was easy to twist and ankle or break an arm or dislocate a shoulder when I didn't have to concentrate so much on what was going on. But, that day I landed almost on my feet and the bull fighters guided old Widow-maker away and back into the holding area. I survived another one. It was always funny how the only time I ever worried about surviving a ride was when I wasn’t on a bull. When I was on a bull, survival never entered my mind. It was just me and the bull and the longest eight-second dance of my life.