Eight Seconds

One.

The initial jerk always took him by surprise. It sent a jolt of pressure up his spine and made him grind his teeth. His hand clutched the worn leather strap as he clung onto the giant animal. The initial buck ended and he found himself flying towards a huge set of horns. The battle had begun, a struggle of wills between a 1,500 pound monster and a man. All for the entertainment of the crowd who were sitting on the edge of their seats.

Two.

The dust the bull kicked up lined his tongue. Salt mixed with the dirt as his sweat made its way into his mouth. He tried to control his breathing but the air seemed determined to choke him. The cloud didn’t let up and the gritty sensation of the dust coated his mouth. The air tasted like earth.

Three.

The smell of animal was overwhelming. Even with the overly-rich food sold by vendors and so many people packed into an arena, the bull’s fur had a musk that covered everything else. The air was dry around him and, thankfully, dulled the aroma.

Four. Sight

Through the hazy fog made of disturbed ground, the bleachers could be seen. They were filled with every color imaginable. Hundreds of people were seated on the metal stands, raising their arms in excitement and shaking their heads in fear.

Five.

His hand was sweaty. The sweat penetrated his glove, making the leather soft and malleable. The rope seemed to cut his hand even more than it had. It took all his will power not to use his other hand, to try and stabilize himself on this deathtrap. His legs burned as he tried to cling around the bull’s middle. His hat was a comfortable weight on his head. It hadn’t fallen off. The gear was the only thing that every ride had in common and even the little things of familiarity helped.

Six.

It was an odd sensation, for the world to be so loud and, yet, so quiet. The people were cheering louder than ever. The time was amplifying their cries, carrying the sound to the rider as their voices tried to carry him those last few seconds. The bull’s hooves hit the ground with a deafening thud as the animal tried to loosen the belt tied around it’s haunches. Horses were shuffling closer and closer in case anything went wrong. Their riders were giving commands to everyone else in the closed arena. His breathing was like an engine trying to shift into full gear and his heart was beating in his head so loud that he was sure the next state over could hear. But it was quiet. The noise seemed to be muted. The crowd was a distant dream and his ears seemed to reject the rhythm coming from his body. It was surreal.

Seven.

It had to be close to over. The crowd was going crazy, cheering his name and trying to push him through those last few seconds. All the training in the world would only go so far. The only real test comes when you are on the bull. When you can feel the weight of the cheering from the crowd and the taste of dust and sweat in your mouth, then it’s decided whether you can make it. There was no thinking. There was no plan. There was only muscle memory and the desperate chant of ‘hold on’ playing in your head. The only test that mattered, the only trial run that meant anything, was the few seconds you sat on a beast and tried to stay on for all the precious seconds that you can.

Eight.