Not For Me

Straddling on fences above the sweaty beast, I slowly ease myself lower. He thrashes around, crashing his head forward into the gate and banging his ribs against the metal panels that squishes my legs as I continue to drape them further down his sides. His bony spine jabs into my hind end while I try to find a seat along his sharp backbone as he slings snot and slobber. Happy Jack is not a big bull, but I was warned that what he lacks in size he more than makes up with speed.  And, he has a good set of horns that he knows how to use.

"He'll take two jumps out and then hit it hard to the left," I was told while positioning my bull rope.
Easing onto the backs of animals that can weigh up to 2000 pounds of raw muscle, and hanging on with only one hand in a rope wrapped just behind their front legs sounds stupidly ludicrous. Add sour dispostions to the mix, a brain that learns how to most effectively dump riders, the requirement to stay onboard for 8 seconds and it's a wonder that it ever became a sport. Bull riding, definitely not the smartest sport to participate in, sure provides an opportunity for adrenaline junkies to get a huge dose.   

I watched and analyzed bulls with their riders and got sucked right into the sport figuring, "Heck, I can do that..."  In a small arena on a farm east of the university, I rode my first bull, Fonzi.  Then I rode my second bull, JB. Feeling like a natural, I upped the ante and hopped on big, bad Frijole.  I don't remember anything about the ridce until I was standing in the showers back in the dormitory, soaking a painful shoulder and a concussed brain. My friend Kevin, who rode bareback horses, informed me that Frijole dumped me head first into the area like I was a oversized lawn dart...no wonder I hurt.

Summer arrived with most weekends traveling with Kevin throughout the state to compete where my spending far outweighed my earnings. At the end of the summer in a small mountain town where the rodeo arena was carved into a thick pine forest, Kevin won the series and was walking away with cash and the championship buckle in bareback riding.  Arena dust stirred up by barrel racers hung heavy in the evening air as I hopped up on the fence to take my seat on Happy Jack.

The announcer's voice echoed over the cheap loudspeakers as Happy Jack, knowing the routine and eager for the gate to open, was slamming around inside the chute. I resined up my bull rope and got it tacky via friction with my gloved hand zipping up and down its length. Satisfied, I set my hand and Kevin drew the rope tight, cinching my right hand to Happy Jack. I slid up high behind his shoulders and leaned forward, preparing for him to explode out of the gate. I nodded and time slowed to a crawl. The gate's latch clunked open and the hinges squeaked as Happy Jack blasted out into the arena.

One jump, two jumps and I was sitting good, like a kid on a rocking horse. He slung his head and, just as forecasted, he began to spin to the left.  I leaned inside to offset centrifugal force from flinging me to the outside and ...BAM! Lights out.

I have vague flashes of very fragmented, foggy memory...paramedics lashing me to a stretcher....a bumpy ambulance ride...resisting an ER doctor who twisted torn flesh on my forehead to force me into submission via pain compliance...trying to sneak out of the medical clinic, and getting caught, in my boxers...

Kevin returned the following morning to give me a ride home and enlightened me.  As I dipped down into the well, Happy Jack slung his head whereby his left horn crashed into my skull.  I went limp, fell off and then staggered up to standing positiont.  Apparently survival mode kicked in as Keving explained my fighting any/all who came to help, including paramedics who drove the ambulance into the arena.  A tackle and pig-pile got me tethered to the stretcher where I was whisked away to the medical center.

My upper left foreheand had a gash that was drawn closed with 3 layers of 11 stitches. Skin between my eyes, across my right cheekbone and right ear were tore up, but only superficially. Happy Jack's horn was like Zorro's blade cutting a diagonal slash across my face. Thank you for avoiding my eye sockets!

Days later, college started where I roamed campus looking like a pure babe magnet with my ultra-sexy Frankenstein appearance...  After stitches were snipped and plucked,  I rode one more bull and then my college educated brain actually functioned with the startling realization that bull riding was not for me...and I have the scar to prove it.