The idea to ride bulls was realized partly because of a casual meeting in my parent’s bookshop with an ex champion bull rider from Texas, but mostly because I’m one of those stubborn freaks who’ll follow through with reckless ideas rather than letting them flutter briefly around in the back of my head. It was a silly idea for many reasons; I’m 34, not very fit or flexible and, at closing time in a pub, I’m not the kind to smash a tequila bottle over my head and shout “where’s the party?”
But how do you learn to ride a wild animal that is eight times your body weight? I could have gone to the local library and meticulously studied the history of bull riding. I could have driven to a local rodeo and quizzed a bull rider. I could have ordered the appropriate book from Amazon. I did none of these things. Instead, I did what anyone of my generation would do: I turned on a computer and dropped “how to ride a bull” into Google. Surprisingly, there were schools for bull riding in America. From a list of three bull riding schools, I narrowed it down to the one I thought the best and booked in. My thoughts were these: if my body (which is not the hardest or toughest or youngest) is to sit aloft a wild animal, if its flesh and bones are to be stomped on, if its nerves are to be stretched, if its mind is to be zapped, if its youth is to be drained, then why not get taught by someone who knows how to ride bulls.
And so it was one week ago that I arrived in L.A. with documentary maker Richard Todd – who was eager to capture this inane quest on film. After arriving in L.A., we picked up a hire car and drove four hours up the coast. At the town of Nipomo, we stopped at steak house and asked if anyone knew of a man called Gary Leffew. Turns out they did – and we followed their directions and pretty soon the road turned off into a beautiful little dirt track which wound its way through a series of gullies and rocky mountains. As the canopies of oak trees touched above us, it appeared to me that my safety was assured – this was far too beautiful a place to die from bull riding.
When we found the ranch, Gary opened the door with a smile. His blue eyes were shining. There was something familiar about those eyes, something comforting. His short stature and warm handshake didn’t earmark him immediately him as a tobacco chewing western brawler. I was introduced to the other students in the group – who were young and gung-ho and wholesome in that American way and all seemed to go by the name Cody or Colby.
The school started with a theory session by Gary’s son Brett. Slowly pacing around a stationary barrel, he meticulously explained the physical mechanics of bull riding. After lunch, we waltzed down to Gary’s arena to attempt to convert what we’d learnt theoretically into bull riding. After watching others being dispatched to various parts of the pen, dust themselves off and limp back to the gate, it quickly became apparent to me that these kids were hard-wired for pain.
My first bull was called “Pooh Bear gone Wild.” In the chutes, Poor Bear did not seem aggressive. He waited for me patiently as I climbed over his back and did not move as the others tied a rope around my hand. After the rope was secured, the other kids – the young wholesome American maniacs – began shouting all kinds of instructions: “Sit up straight.” “Get up on your rope.” “Squeeze with your legs.”
My heart was pumping hard but old Pooh Bear Gone Wild didn’t seem to care. My mind was blank – what had been taught earlier completely forgotten. Judd, another of Gary’s sons, had the role of opening the chute gate to release the bull. He was constantly cracking jokes in the chute, and when releasing the bull, he’d utter the same three words that he’s use for the rest of the week: “Have fun now.”
Pooh Bear Gone Wild was slow moving, devoid of a kick and had been previously described by Gary as the ultimate beginner’s bull. He still had enough power, however, to lope around and throw me into the fence. The truth is I should have ridden Pooh Bear for longer but was completely psyched-out in the chutes. I did not improve much on my second attempt on him, but for those few initial seconds, I felt what it was like to be almost centered as Pooh Bear jumped beneath me. Feeling battered and bruised, we collected our ropes and spurs and headed for a wooden shack named the “bunk house”, where Gary reviewed our rides from the video he’d recorded earlier.
Later that night, Gary told me that if I wanted to become a bull rider I had to learn an old Zen proverb: “to chop wood and carry water.” When quizzed, he explained that it meant I had to practice drills on the barrel every day.
“In bull riding, you don’t have time to think,” he said. “Your mind needs to be blank and relying on instinct. That’s why I’m telling you to chop wood and carry water. We’ll teach you the physical movements required, you just need to hammer them into your subconscious mind.”
Speaking with Gary was clear vindication that everything was right with the world. I believe it is right for this reason: occasionally in life you’ll have a perception of someone or something and that perception will not only be proved wrong but so beautifully and crisply shattered that you’ll be left standing with a shocked goofy smile on your face. I thought a bull riding coach would be boisterous and unruly, Gary is soft spoken and thoughtful. I thought they’d be encouraging strength and force, Gary nurtures balance and timing. I thought they’d eat steak and chew tobacco; Gary eats nuts and beans and makes himself a daily concoction of lemon juice and pepper. I thought they’d drink whisky; Gary practices meditation and frequently discusses eastern philosophy. I thought to ride a bull you’d have to grit your teeth, clench you jaw and fight; Gary encourages you to accept the bull’s energy and move with it – “just like dancin’”.
Back in his glory days, Gary didn’t mind being referred to as the hippy on the tour. It didn’t stop him from winning the bull riding world title in 1970, and remaining in the top 10 for the majority of his 20- year career. Around his house, the shelves are stocked full of books on positive thinking.
And god darn it if “chopping wood and carrying water” and all of Gary’s discussions on the power of positive thinking didn’t work, because by the end of the week I’d ridden Pooh Bear twice and those sore wrists and tweaked muscles didn’t seem to ache quite so hard anymore. So if you ever do find yourself on a windy gravel track 10 kilometers east of the small town on Nipomo in California, do yourself a favour and have a chat with Gary, for what you don’t learn in the way of taming wild bulls, you’ll make up for in the enlightenment of your soul.
Next blog about Vegas coming soon….plus photos.
Sull.
