Typing this from the foyer of the Mcarran International Airport in Vegas.  Just had an amazing weekend watching the top 40 bull riders in the world battle it out for a world championship at the PBR Finals.

  Many interesting things to report…….a young Brazilian (Wesley Lourenco) in the lead at completion of 3 rounds.  It was Lourenco’s first time in America; he’d personally taken the screws from his mouth after a broken jaw two weeks earlier so he could eat and have enough strength for the finals.

  Brazilian’s rider Robson Palermo landing on his head and being stretchered out of the arena to a hospital, only to return the following day and win the 5th round.

  The battle between the American Austin Meier and Brazilian Renato Nunes for the championship.

 The quest of the Aussies (Ben Jones, Pete Farley. Jason o Hearn and Brendon Clark)

  Dramatic moments over 5 days before a crowd of 15 000 people at Thomas and Mack Arena and, by being lucky enough to snavel a media pass, I saw the entire event from the dirt –  only metres from each ride.

   I’ve written a 3000 word article about the event for FHM magazine in Australia, but will not post the article on here until I get the green light from them.  I know this is a lame way to finish a blog, and give everyone permission to boycot all blogs from now on, but if you really want to read the article you’ll have to be patient………or buy the next edition of FHM magazine.

 A wreck in bull riding is the same as a wipeout in surfing.  I’ve been having a few bad wrecks over the past week.   Was thrown over the horns of a bull last Wednesday at a practice pen.  While airborne, the bull hit me in the chest with his horns, which left me winded for a few moments.   

  “Do you want another ride?” a guy asked, while I was leaning against a railing trying to catch my breath.

  “Nah, I’ll be right.”

  And then on Sunday at another practice pen, they matched me up on a 750 kilo black bull called Reebok.  My best friend in high school, Chad Mainstone, used to wear a pair of Reeboks.  The effortless way he could cover a tennis court while wearing those things was something to behold.   The shoes were beget with leather, far more refined than glittery Asic Gel or  grandiose Nike Air Jordan.  I never had a pair of Reeboks.  The maximum height of sport shoe splendor I reached was Adidas.  What does all this have to do with bull riding?  Absolutely nothing……except that I’d drawn a stout looking bull called Reebok on a ranch on the outer reaches of southern Texas and I felt, on account of warm memories of Chad Mainstone dashing swiftly across a tennis court, instantly confident that I could ride the bull.

  I lasted 4 seconds on Reebok.  He turned out to be far nastier than the tennis shoe.  After bucking me off, not only did he stamp on my leg, he then proceeded to line me up and run straight over the top of me.

  “Never seen him do that to anyone before,” was the dry observation of an old timer who had been watching the incident.

  I’ve been hobbling around Stephenville for the past three days.  The ranch owners have invited me back this weekend for a re-ride on Reebok, but I’m off to Vegas to check out the PBR World Finals……what a shame.

“Stayin’ positive,” he responds. “Been working out, improving my bull riding, keeping focused.”

His hands are firmly clenched on the wheel and he’s leaning forward for a break in the traffic.

“Comon sweet cheeks. I ain’t got all day,” he barks to lady passing in a car, and I instantly realize that I’ve missed him.

We are driving to the annual Freckles Brown memorial bull riding event in the town of Hugo. Ever since the beginning of my journey into the bull riding world, I’ve been told stories about the legendary Freckles Brown.

I’m lucky enough to meet Freckles’ daughter at the event. Here is what I discover about Freckles: He rode a bull called Tornado (which had been deemed “unrideable” by other cowboys) at the NFR Finals in 1967 when he was 46 years old. There is no real mystery to his name. He was given it one day by a farmer, who declared that from now on everyone should call him Freckles – and everyone did. Although he dropped out of school at 13, he had an incredibly high IQ and learnt to speak Mandarin when in China during World War 2. Aside from being a world champion bull rider, he was also proficient in every aspect of the rodeo and had won events in roping, bareback riding, saddle bronc riding and bull dogging. Freckles died on his ranch in Oklahoma in 1987. After speaking with his daughter, I have a clear image in my mind of what he must have been like: raised on dust and leather and horses.

I speak with one of the organizers of the event. I’m short of money and decide against trying to rustle up $100 dollars at the last minute to enter the open bull ride.

“Is there any chance of getting an exhibition ride after the event,” I ask him.

“I’m sure we might be able to find something for ya,” he tells me.

I guess there are about 1500 people in the stands for the start of the event – not a bad crowd considering that it is not a traditional rodeo, but a bull riding event. Behind the chutes, I instantly feel the familiar mix of adrenalin and nerves as the bull riders straighten their ropes and stretch beside a pen of large bulls. Moments before his ride, I attach Tom’s glove to his hands. From riding bulls with him for six weeks at Gary Leffew’s ranch, I know enough to not talk to him at this moment.

He lowers himself over a sandy coloured bull that is completely hyper in the chutes and I wonder, by the way Tom constantly shifts and moves attempting to attach the rope to his hand, if he has not already physically and mentally worn himself out before the ride. But when the bull comes out it is a straight jump kicker and he rides it well across the arena for a score of 60.

There are a bunch of spectacular wrecks in round 2.

“How on earth did they all walk away from that?” the rodeo announcer, a stocky man patrolling the arena on horseback with a microphone, announces after a bull bucks the rider into the fence, then throws the gate man over the chutes and the bull fighter over its head.

I’m impressed with Tom. In the second round, he hangs on to a PBR bull called Red Onion for 7.8 seconds – a fraction of a second short of notching up a very high score and possibly winning the event. Still, he seems fairly happy to finish seventh and collect a few hundred dollars. Immediately following the last bull ride in the competition, they seem content to rush the bulls back up to the trucks and I do not get an exhibition ride. It is the first time in a while I’ve come to rodeo and not had a ride and I feel disappointed with myself – and vow to get my entry fees in earlier next time.

The winner of the bull riding is presented with a check, a flask of whisky, and a shot gun. It’s all good fun, but later, when the cowboy is swinging the shotgun inches from my head on the dance floor, I do wonder if they’d given it to him loaded.

After the awards ceremony, we are invited to an after party by John – who is the grandson of Freckles Brown. The venue for the after party is exactly how you would imagine the perfect ranch in your mind. There are two wooden huts, a handsome house built of wooden shingles and iron, grassy fields and cowboys telling jokes around a camp fire. There’s a lot of drinking. Things get pretty rowdy. One of the cowboys decides jump the camp fire naked.

John’s girlfriend invites me for a tour of the main house.

“Whoa, what’s is all this?” I ask the girl, when inside.

The house is filled with framed photos on the walls, a board full of little notes and signatures, belt buckles, spurs and trophies.

“This is Freckle’s house,” she tells me.

“Really, this is where Freckles Brown lived?” I ask, amazed.

I walk around the house and it feels like I’ve discovered the treasure of a past life. I briefly wonder if Freckles would be offended to know that cowboys are currently running around naked on his ranch. I decide that he wouldn‘t. Infact, he may have been one to join in the frivolities. Must have had a sense of humour I reckon – that Freckles Brown.

 

 

 

 

“Do you have a bull for me?”

“Yep, you’ve even drawn one without horns.”

I begin to feel relieved.

“He’s an angry son of a bitch,” Cody adds. “Always has been since the rest of the bulls grew up with horns and he never got any.”

Cody is smiling and I can’t figure out if he’s joking. They love doing this in the rodeo world in America – lulling you into a comfort zone and then quickly snapping you out of it.

I’m eyeing the bulls up and feeling nervous. The only one without horns is by far the biggest in the pen. My nervousness increases as the sun descends and the good folk of Tishomingo stroll in for the rodeo. I meet the bareback riders, who recognize me from the rodeo in Clayton. Their names are Clint, Brian and Stetson. They wear their cowboy hats low and their shirts are freshly pressed. They are young, fit, and incredibly inclusive.

“Hey Aussie. I’ve missed your accent.” Clint tells me. “You gonna ride a bull tonight?”

“Guess I’m gonna try.”

“Tonight’s the night you’re gonna make eight,” he says confidently, slapping me on the back.

I watch Clint, Brian and Stetson ride. They have drawn good horses but are currently the top three riders on the Stampede Series and do not get bucked off.  Nine year old bareback rider Jayco Roper, who I’d also met in Clayton, swings his rigging bag behind the chutes.

“I told me school teacher that you were from Australia,” he tells me, tightening a glove to his hand.

“What did she say?”

He shrugs. “Guess how many girlfriends I’ve got now?”

“Um, don’t know.”

He holds up three fingers.

I grab a jumper from the car, and walk up into the stands to watch the junior bareback. Jayco punctuates his winning ride by executing a back flip from the back of a pick-up man’s horse – which evokes a cheer from the crowd. Quite an entertainer – that Jayco. I buy a hot beef roll from the canteen for 2 dollars and water for 75 cents. I eat the roll and watch the barrel racing. The barrel racing is usually the last event before the bull riding and I can feel my anxiety rising. It probably does not help that I’m standing less than 10 feet from an ambulance. I go to Wes’ truck and grab my gear bag. Behind the chutes, the bull riders are kneeling in prayer with a minister, and I kneel down beside them.

The prayer breaks and then the other riders go about preparing themselves and I instinctively feel that energy, the same feeling before each bull ride. I smile. I shake hands with the other riders. I’m scared. Cody tells my bull is called Bald Cat and is the second last in the race. As promised, Bald Cat does not have horns. He’s about 700 kilos and looks ready to buck.

“You ever done this before?” a young man asks me, no doubt sensing my apprehension.

“Yeah, but I haven’t ridden many,” I confess.

“I’ll help you out. Where’s your rope?”

I hand him my rope, and am amazed at the speed that he can climb the race and maneuver the rope around Bald Cat.

“Have you been around many bulls before?” I ask him.

“All my life.”

“Do you know much about Bald Cat.”

“He’s gonna blow up out of the chutes but he ain’t vicious.”

I contemplate his statement – trying to decipher the good from the bad – and climb over the chutes to lower myself onto Bald Cat. Bald Cat’s head is twitching toward the gate. H feels warm underneath me. I can vaguely hear Wes telling a crowd of about 1000 people from Tishomingo my story. Surfing U.S.A. comes over the loud speaker. From chatting to Wes earlier, I know he’ll have the “WWWW- Wipeout” sound cued for the moment I’m bucked off.

I thought flashes through my mind. What if I can do it? What if I can ride Bald Cat? But I also feel scared and decide against taking a double wrap. I grab the rope in my hand and slide up on the bull’s shoulders. I nod my head. Slow motion. The clank of a chain. A quick move of Bald Cat’s head. A powerful leap. I survive the first jump, but he gets me on the second. My head hits the ground hard but the helmet has protected me and I’m only dizzy for a few moments.

The bull fighters hand me my rope. Behind the chutes, I feel disappointed. So far I’m only making a commitment to jumping on the back of bulls but it doesn’t feel as if I’ve made a commitment to ridding them. The only consoling factor is that 18 of the 19 other bull riders also fail to make the 8 seconds.

Later, I see a photo of my ride from a local photographer called Lesley, and realize that I’d been pushed too far off my rope, and, even if I’d ridden Bald Cat, I probably would have been disqualified because my free hand had touched the bull.

“Not many of the bulls ridden tonight,” I comment to another bull rider, when throwing my bag into the back of Wes’ truck.

“You ever heard of Skat Cat? Bucking bull of the year in ’96 and ’98,” he asks me.

“I think I’ve heard of him.”

“Well, these were all his offspring.”

Remembering back to the rodeo, I realize that every second bull appeared to have “cat” in its name.

“So Bald Cat is the son of Skat Cat?” I ask him.

“Yes sir.” he responds, and on the way out of Tishomingo, I suddenly do not feel so bad after all.