Oregon, home of the friendliest teenage bull riders in the known universe.  Last week I travelled for over 1000 miles across America from Colorado to Oregon.  My travelling partner was Peter Hyland – a guy I’d met in the Margaret River Bookshop who called me two days earlier and invited me on a road trip.  We skirted around the rocky mountains, read a plaque of the bull riding hall of fame at Cheyenne Wyoming, spoke about love, lust and the decay of civilization with some left wing hip cats at Boulder, drank some home made brews with a friend from Salt Lake City, and arrived in Portland four days later. 

  Finding a place to ride bulls in Oregon is not easy.  I spend an hour on the Internet and discover there are no rodeos within a 100 mile radius.  I spend forty minutes manically calling any stores that sound remotely country and query their owners about a ranch that will let me ride a bull.  My final conversation is with a man named Rusty.

  “Heck, we’ve got a high school bull riding event this weekend,” he tells me over the phone.  “But if you really are mad keen to get on I guess I could bill ya as an exhibition ride.”

    The venue for the event is on a ranch an hour south of Portland.  Peter and his family are happy to drive me down.  He has two children called Eva and Liam who have never been to a bull riding event and, after watching a 15 year old boy get bucked off, stomped on, and then escorted from the arena, I wonder if they ever will again.

     It has been raining for five straight hours.  The middle of the arena is a mud heap – at least it makes for a soft landing.  Huddled around umbrellas, nervous mothers watch their sons trying to hang on the back of a bull for eight seconds.   

    Rusty’s wife approaches me.

   “Are you the Australian?”

    “Yes.”

     “Here, sign this.”

    I sign the piece of paper.  I’ve been bull riding in America for five months now, and have become indifferent to disclaimer forms.  Of course, if I was wise, I probably should give it a quick read through.  I am not wise. 

  “You better get your stuff and get ready,” she tells me.  “You’re up as soon as the actual competition is over.”

    “Ok.”

   My bull riding bag is actually a suitcase on wheels – like the ones you see businessman frantically  rolling through airports.  I am wearing jeans, a black hoodie, skateboard shoes, and trying to caress a business suitcase through the mud.   To anyone remotely familiar with the sport of rodeo, my look is, frankly, ridiculous. 

   I”d bought spurs at a rodeo pawn shop in Texas and rowels at a shop near Portland but now I don’t have the time or tools to attach them. 

  “Hey mate,” I ask a nearby teenager.  “You wouldn’t have a spare pair of spurs would ya?”

  “Yes sir.  Let me check me gear bag,” he responds swiftly, and returns limping with a set of spurs.

  “What happened to your leg?” I ask him.

  “Oh, I broke it a couple of months back.”

  “Bull riding?”

  “Yep.”

   He spends ten minutes attempting to jemmy the spur around my boot heal.  By now a group of boys have surrounded us.

  “If I could make a suggestion sir,” one says.  “There is no way that spur is going to fit on that boot.  If you like I could go to the car, and you could borrow my boots.”

  “Could you really?” I ask, amazed at his kindness.

  “Yes sir, will be back shortly,” the boy says, and limps off into the rain.

  “What happened to your leg?” I ask, when he returns.

  “Broke it a month ago bull riding.”

    After attaching the boots and spurs, I discover that I’ve left my bull riding glove over 1000 miles away in Texas.

  “Which hand do you ride with?” another teenager asks.

  “Left.”

  “So, do I.  Would you like to borrow my riding glove?”

  “Sure, thanks so much.  I’m not usually this disorganized.”  I lie.

  The teenager returns moments later with a limp and his bull riding glove.

  “Let me guess, did you break your leg bull riding?” I ask.

  “Yeah, how did you know?”

    At this point I shall digress. Occasionally I have a tendency to make these blogs a little more colourful.  If one boy has a broken leg, for example, wouldn’t it sound more exciting if three boys have a broken leg?  But honestly…. I was at high school bull riding event in Oregon, it was raining non stop, and the three teenage boys helping me were all recovering from broken legs. 

  I’ve ridden about fifty bulls and have only had a few concussions – maybe I’ve got off lightly.

   I thank the teenagers.  Their handshakes are firm.  Their names are Austin Lee. Ben Hedgingly and Isac Brown. These are not your typical teenage boys.  They do not grunt.  They do not brood.  They will tell you both their names on introduction and then ride bulls. 

  They rush my bull into the chutes.  I discover from Austin that the bull’s name is Carmello.

    Carmello weighs about 700 kilos. He is sweet sounding but not sweet looking.

   “Do you have any advice?” I ask Austin.

   “He’s gonna be strong,” he states directly.  “You’ll need a good hold.”

   I throw on my helmet and vest, climb above the railings and lower myself onto Carmello.   Over the past 50 bulls I have learnt not too spend too long in the chutes – no point giving your mind the chance to flirt with doubt.  Austin pulls my bull rope.  As soon as I have a decent grip, I nod for the gate.

  Carmello leaves with power.   I ride out the first two bucks but get pushed off my rope on the third.  Airborne.  I am above the bull.  I am flying.  It feels pretty good.  I land behind the bull in the mud, surprised to find myself on my feet.  The bull is now bucking to the far end of the arena.  I walk quickly to the fence and jump over it.

  “Holy Heavens boy,” a man says to me.  “You must have been ten feet in the air.”

  He justifies this by explaining that he was watching my ride behind a six foot fence and my ankles were four feet above that.

  The three teenagers approach me smiling.  “Hey, you didn’t tell me you could ride.” says Austin, slapping me on the back.

  A thought occurs.  These guys think that I deliberately got launched and landed on my feet.  That it was all part of the exhibition ride.   Do they know that I had tried to ride the bull? That I did not want to get bucked off? That landing on my feet was a complete fluke?

  I hand back my gear to the teenagers and thank them.  We drive away in the rain.  

  I seriously need to work out bull riding.  I need to go back to Texas and train.  I’ve been riding on luck, but at some point, I’ll have to ride on skill. 

 

    To all faithful readers.  Lately, I have not been adding blogs very often but will be doing three a week from now on…..promise.

   Sully.