Was not quite in time with MacDaddy.

Oklahoma Rodeo.

  On the road with Wes, a stocky, 45 year old rodeo announcer who was once a good bareback bronc rider.  Wes arrived at the ranch of Scott Mendes a week ago looking to help around the ranch and personal growth with God.  His christian disposition is tested on arrival at Clayton, Oklahoma, when we discover he’d left a chord vital to rodeo announcing in a small town two hours away. 

  Four hours later, we arrive at the rodeo grounds with only minutes to spare and briskly go to work setting up speakers and chords. 

The rodeo grounds at Clayton are beautiful; lush grass behind the pens, hundred metre long arena with bleachers both sides and large trees behind that.   The bulls roam idly in the pens.  They are big but seem relaxed.   Around the pens, there are Ford Pick-Ups, horse trailers, trucks and men in cowboy hats looking purposeful.  People begin filing in, sitting on the steel bleachers.

   There is an orange sky and wafty breeze and I feel relieved that we have escaped the stifling heat of Texas.  As I sit on the bleachers , listening to Wes warm up the crowd with deep tones of excitement, there a steady stream of wildly in love 17 year olds parading hand in hand past me.  The town of Clayton consists of a petrol station, a hotel, and a dollar general store, maybe love isn’t a bad option. 

  By 7pm there is a pretty big crowd, around 1000.  I guess it must be half the population of the town and surrounding ranches.  This is small town America at its purest.   At a canteen, you can buy a chilli dog for a buck, a hamburger for a buck fifty, and a soda for three quarters. 

  The first event is bareback bronc riding and most of the participants appear to be the male half of the love struck couples roaming the grounds earlier.  And those boys can ride pretty good too.  After the open bareback they have the junior bareback and I watch kids younger than 7 being tossed into the dirt from spritely ponies.  The standout of the junior bareback is a 9 year old called Jako,   After riding his bucking pony for the required 8 seconds, his dismount is smooth, his stroll from the horse to fence complete with cowboy swagger, and his back flip celebration from the top railing of the fence acrobatic, ala current world No 1 Renato Nunes. 

   Cody, brother of Wes, the rodeo announcer, approaches me.

  “Still getting on a bull Aussie?”

 “Um, yeah, but I don’t have any spurs.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find some.”

 “You’re not going to put me on a psycho bull, are you?”

  “Nah,” he responds with a smile.  “I’ve got a perfect little jump kicker for ya.”

   I sit up on a fence railing to get a better view of the rodeo.  A boy climbs up the fence and sits beside me.  It’s 9 year old Jako, fresh from his domination of the junior bare back.  He hands me a little toy gun and I pull the trigger and immediately get zapped with a jolt of electricity.  He cracks up laughing.  I hand him back the gun.

  “Pretty good trick,” I confess.

  “You talk funny.  Where you from?”

  I tell him I’m Australian and he immediately apologizes for zapping me with the gun.

 “Can I get your phone number?” he asks.

  “Why do you want my phone number?”

 “I’ve never met anyone from Australia before,” he confesses.   “I’ve gotta tell my teacher when I get back to school.”

  Jacko has been riding horses since he could walk.  He’s got a cheeky smile.   He wants to be a professional bare back rider.  He wants to travel the world.  He shows me the gap in his teeth.

 “Hey, I used to have that when I was your age,” I tell him.  

 We are sitting on the fence watching girls ride fast and hard around barrels.  It is now dark.  I have seen the program on a folded sheet and know bull riding is next and start to feel sick.  I say goodbye to Jacko and walk to Wes’ dodge pick-up, get my gear and climb a fence to the back of the chutes.  The bull riders are in a huddle.  A minister is amongst them saying a prayer.  He motions me over.  I join the huddle.  Each bull rider has a hand on the others back.

  The bull riders quickly get to work when the huddle breaks.  Some strap on spurs, others comb their rope with a wire brush.  They all look young and nervous. 

 “Hey Aussie.  You got yourself some spurs yet?” Cody shouts from the other side of the fence.

  “Still looking,” I respond.

  “You need some spurs?” the minister asks.   “I’ve got some in my truck.  I’ll run and grab them for ya.”

  The ministers name is Tony Shoulders.   Like Scott Mendes, he was once a professional bull rider .  He is also the nephew of the legendary Jim Shoulders.  Jim Shoulders, having won sixteen championships in rodeo, including seven bull riding and four bare back titles, is generally regarded as the most accomplished rider in American rodeo history.   And here I am in Clayton, Oklahoma, borrowing spurs from his nephew.  I’m already wearing the silver vest and black boots that Scott Mendes wore in his bull riding days and it occurs to me that my entire bull riding outfit has been provided by two ministers.   Surely I can’t get hurt now?

  The bull they’ve lined up for me is a black Brahma called MacDaddy.  I guess he weighs about 650 kilos – not the biggest, but also not the smallest.

  “Any advice?” I ask minister Tony Shoulders, moments before sitting on MacDaddy

  “Treat it like surfing.  You’re a cork in the ocean and you’ve got to find your balance point.”

  I hear Wes introducing me over the loud speaker.  The clown and announcer are bouncing off each other, making jokes about my surfing background.  Surfing U.S.A. booms over the speakers.   My right leg is squashed between the chute and the side of MacDaddy. I cannot seem to get it around the girth of the bull.

  “Ya ready?” I hear the gate men ask.

  “Not quite.  I can’t get my leg around the bull.”

  “Ok son.  Take your time.”

  I spend a minute trying to push the bull off the side of the chute so I can get my leg around him but he does not want to budge.   I decide to just ride and try to swing my leg underneath him when he leaves the chute.  I nod my head.  They open the gates.  At some point, I mistime a jump and the bull pick me up with it’s head and launches me over its horns.  Weightlessness.   Dirt.  I feel the bull’s hooves on my leg.   I need to get up.  I need to run. 

  While running towards the crowd, I notice they have exchanged Surfing U.S.A. for Another One Bites the Dust.  I examine personal damage when behind the chutes.  I have a bruise swelling on my arm, sore wrist, and sore leg from being stomped on but am pretty sure that nothing is broken.

  I pack my bull riding gear gingerly, sling the bag over my shoulder, and make for Wes’ Ford Pick-up.  I have survived my first open division bull ride in my first rodeo.  Now, all I’ve got to do is learn how to stay on for eight seconds.

   The new game plan is to run a few miles every morning and ride bulls every night.   There is a rodeo in a town thirty miles from Springtown tonight but pastor Mendes reckons I’m not up for the open bull  division just yet.  If all goes to plan I should be riding Spec (the big white Brahma) in the next week or so, and once I’ve lasted the eight seconds on him I’ll look at entering rodeos.  I’ve not touched alcohol for a month and feeling healthy. 

 Snowball left the ranch yesterday, heading back to Mississippi.  I don’t know all the reasons for his sudden departure but believe it was mostly because he did not want to be away from a girl back home.   I was sad to see him go, but (to quote an eighties pop song) that’s the power of love.

   I’d been coerced into driving my dodgy jeep two hours from Springtown to a little town called Tyler to pick up Justin Snow (aka Snow Man).  I constantly stare at the rear view mirror on the way down feeling anxious to avoid the cops– the naïve Australian card can only get you so far.  My rego has expired over a month ago and I seriously do not want to get my beloved Jeep Larado impounded. 

  I turn the radio dial to Jack FM (the only station not playing Country, Christian or Spanish), and they pump out rock ballads with gusto.   Snow Man’s parents have driven him eight straight hours from Mississipii.  Why they cannot drive an extra two hours to Springtown is never fully explained to me.  A typical  kafuffle explodes about the best place to meet him in Tyler.  I won’t go into details but, essentially, the dilemma is exacerbated by my mobile phone dying at an inopportune time.

   Snow Man is 22 years old.  He stands at six feet tall.  With denim shirt, blue jeans, leather boots and hat with feather he looks every inch a cowboy.  On the journey back to Springtown he talks about bull riding and his aspiration to become a church minister and how excited he is to be leaving home; his Mississippi twang going a million miles a minute.

  When we arrive at the ranch, he immediately steps out and dreamily walks off towards the stock yards.  “It’s beautiful out here,” he proclaims.  “Just like I how I imagined.”   And therein lays the magic of Snow Man.  Days earlier I’d arrived at the ranch feeling hot, flustered and bewildered that there was not a tree in sight, and here is Snow Man pondering the beauty of a bare field and a few portable buildings.

  We ride bulls in the afternoon.  Pastor Mendes lends me a vest, rope and kid’s helmet.  I do not have boots or spurs, instead riding in sneakers.   It is my first ride in over a month and I feel nervous when lowering myself to the bull in the bucking chutes.  Also, I’ve decided to ride left-handed, something I’ve not done since Aileron Station.

 “Come on mate, this should be a cinch, you’re only on Droopy,” Pastor Mendes tells me.

  He has a point.  Droopy, weighing about 450 kilos, is fairly small for bull standards.  He gives a decent kick when the gates open though, and I quickly get thrown off, landing on my back.

  “You’re alright?” Scott queries, as pick myself up from the dirt. 

  I have a cut on my arm and momentarily feel dizzy when standing.   The bull leaves the yard and runs back out to the pen.

“Do you want another shot on him?”

 “Ok.”

  I go through the process of donning the helmet, lowering myself to the bull and strapping the rope around my hand again.  On my second time aboard Droopy, rather than worrying about hanging on, I decide to focus on not falling off.  My reasoning is this: If I do not come off on the left or right, over his horns or off the back of his rear; the only option left is to stay on the bull.  It probably is warped logic, but 30 failed bull rides have me thinking like a madman.  And praise the lord if it doesn’t work.  They open the gates and I have a breakthrough moment, hanging on for a good six or seven seconds on Droopy. 

  Snowman is a good rider.   He lasts the eight seconds on a smaller bull called Scat Cat but has less good fortune on the big white brahma Spec, being dispatched on the bull’s third buck.  

  After shooing the bulls back in the pens, we gather ropes, flank straps, spurs and helmets and I head to the bunk house feeling weary and satisfied.  The left wrist is holding up.  I’m getting the hang of bull riding.  The plan is this: as soon as I can ride Droopy for eight seconds, I’m going to give old Spec a shot.

   My relationship with pastor Scott Mendes has changed.  Now, instead of dreading his conversations about Jesus and ambitions to turn the ranch into the spiritual bull riding centre of the world, I find myself understanding the guy.  Truth is, apart from devoting his life to God and claiming that his favourite president was Ronald Regan, his dogged ambition and straggly pants pragmatism in a stiff wind of resistance is somewhat familiar.

  It is a shock to realize that we are similar types.  Actually that’s a lie; there is something about the way he introduced himself yesterday, then waltzed around in shorts with a fleck of sandwich on the corner of his mouth where I instantly knew we were alike.  The guy is  actually pretty hard core though, having won a bull riding world title in 1997. 

  I have shown him the little I know of social networking.   Strangely, he does not think of twitter and facebook as the devil, instead considering them powerful tools to spread the heavenly message.  Strange cat, pastor Scott Mendes.   And now I’ve got myself in deep of course, like I always do with strange cats.   Through my limited knowledge of facebook and twitter, I have now become a kind of marketing manager for Western Harvest Ministries.  Today we spent six hours planning a sponsorship proposal for bull riding events, training camps and church seminars.   We will reveal this by way of power point presentation to local businesses next week.

  Scott Mendes, 97 bull riding world champion and minister, is a man of ideas.  Just off the top of my head, here is a list of things he wants to accomplish in the next three months; gain sponsorship from a local business to build a grandstand around the bull riding arena (approximately costing $100 000), gain sponsorship from the local council to complete a gravel road that will wind into his ranch (approximately costing $250 000), host a  three day bull riding school every month, gain sponsorship to cover the cost of that school, start a quarterly rodeo (featuring bull riding, barrel racing and team roping) gain sponsorship to cover the cost of that rodeo, start a weekly bull riding buckout and bible study, gain sponsorship to cover the cost of the buckout, go to every home game of the Dallas Cowboys to sell popcorn and icecream, start his own bull riding equipment line (including spurs, vests and ropes), begin his own clothing line (including hats, jeans and shirts), buy a mechanical bucking bull and take it to local events, save wayward teenagers by putting them up in the bunk house, hire the bull riding arena to other team ropers and barrel racers for events,  begin an online data base, produce a weekly newsletter to send to that data base, promote an energy drink line and nutrition supplement, and finally, run a church service every Sunday. 

  Western Harvest Ministries (“Spur’n with Jesus) is, however, a non-profit organization and no doubt I will convert to the cause.  Have to drive for two hours tomorrow to pick up another disciple called Snow Man – a twenty year old guitar strumming bull riding Christian from Mississippi.   The plan is to quickly form a team with Snow Man, combining wills to convince Scott to let us ride the big white bull in the back of the pen.

   On arrival, there sign on the fence which says:  “Western Harvest Ministries: impacting lives with extreme sports and God’s Love”   I drive inside.  The ranch consists of a small house and three portable buildings in the middle of an empty field.  There is not a single tree in sight.  Fifty metres behind the portable buildings, there is a large cattle yard which separate three bulls and four horses. 

   There are kids playing around the house, I ask them if they know the whereabouts of Scott Mendes.

  “Yessir, he’s back in them buildings,” a red haired boy informs me.  I thank him and drive to the portables.  Scott bounds out.  “You must be Sullivan.” 

  Scott Mendes is forty three years old.  There is a scar running underneath his left eye which is, no doubt, a legacy of his bull riding days.   He was an extremely accomplished bull rider, winning the World Championship in 1997 and twice finishing runner up, but now is a devoted church minister.  He gives me a whirlwind tour of the area.  One of the portables is a bunk house, one is an office, and the other is a church.  Inside the church, there are a row of pew’s, an alter and a drum kit in the corner.  We go to the back of the church and he shows me posters of the rodeo events that the church has organized.   Inside his office, I read a poster that says: “Spur’n with Jesus.” 

  We walk outside to the cattle yards and he reveals a grand plan.

  “This will be a sanctuary for kids to learn about God and bull riding,” he states.  “See around here,” he continues, pointing at the expansive dirt field, “there will lush grass and trees.”  He points at the cattle yards.  “There will be a grandstand, so people can watch the rodeo events.  We have a lot of work to do.  Your arrival is a miracle from God.”

  Two hours later I am driving with him in my dodgy jeep to the Dallas Cowboy’s Stadium.    At a 7/11, he puts 20 dollars of petrol in my car and buys two 32 ounce slurpies. 

  “What political party do you vote for?” I ask him.

  “Oh, I guess you’d say I’m a conservative Republican.”

   I suddenly notice the Obama figurine stuck to my dash. 

  “It was given to me as a gift,” I lie, feeling self-conscious. 

  “Oh yeah, pretty funny,” he responds.

   The Dallas Cowboy Football stadium is a five storied glass and steel modern masterpiece that feels like a symbol of the America dream.   Inside, above the playing field, there is a television screen fifty metres long and eighty metres high.

  “Biggest television screen in the world,” Scott informs me.

  “Really?”

  “Hey, I wonder why they don’t have it on,” he says, and walks away with purpose.

  I follow him, thinking; surely he’s not going to ask somebody to turn that thing on.

  It’s my first time inside an American football stadium, and I feel excited.  Below me, on the field, cheerleaders are practicing dance routines.  The reason we are in the stadium is because Scott has secured a contract to sell popcorn and ice cream on every home game to raise funds for his ministry, and today is a training day for the first home game of the season.  We spend thirty minutes with a short fat lady who conveys to us, in a high pitch voice, the importance of stock control and how to use the cash machine.  

  On the trip back, we listen to heavy metal Christian music on the radio.  Back on the ranch, with the sun setting, and the temperature cooling, I walk with Scott to the cattle yard to check out his bulls. 

  “Do you reckon I could ride him?” I ask, pointing at the white bull with black spots wondering around the yards.

  “Sure mate,” he replies.

 It is all settled.  I will be working on the ranch, riding bulls and discovering Jesus.  There is nothing left to do but grab my bags and move into the bunk house.

  Dale takes me out to a back pen to check out some bulls.    Finding shade under a tree (it is ridiculously hot), we talk about the mental/physical aspects of bull riding.  He debunks common beliefs about competing in rodeos.  When asked about declining bull rides, he responds:  “Look man, don’t listen to what anyone tells ya.  If you don’t feel comfortable riding a bull then don’t do it.  You think the guys that want you to ride the bull are gonna be the same ones that pay your hospital bills?”

   There is something refreshing about his words.  Dale turns out to be extraordinarily helpful.  He gives advice about the right bull riding gear to get, and the cheapest place to get it.  He calls his friend on another ranch (an Aussie called Hubcap) and arranges work for me that will begin in a month.   Chris, the owner of the ranch, never shows up, but I leave feeling uplifted and resolve to come back tomorrow.

  I meet Paulo Crimber outside my hotel room.  He has a medium build, brown eyes, honest face.  His English is very good and accented with and pronounced Texan accent.  He wears a cowboy hat, checkered shirt and leather boots – and it is immediately apparent, of course, that I’m shockingly under-dressed in shorts and thongs.   Paulo tells me about his current injuries.  He broke the c1 bone in his neck six months ago.  Before that, he was out for another 6 months because of a broken bone in his neck.

  “So you broke a bone in your neck, came back, and then broke another bone in your neck?” I query, incredulously. 

  “Yep, it happened on my first ride back.”

  “Are you planning to ride bulls again?”

  “Yeah, is looking that way.”

  While speaking, Paulo runs a little metal cross through his fingers.  It does not feel right to question his religious beliefs.

  I follow him to the ranch of his friend Valdiron.  Valdiron de Oliveira is currently ranked 4^th on the PBR World Tour.  (He was leading the ratings earlier in the year but missed 6 events because of an injury.)   Valdiron is one of the most open and inclusive people I’ve ever met.  Immediately following introduction, he gives me a tour of every room in his house.  He actually walks me into the bedroom that he shares with his wife.  Seriously, who does that?    I converse with Valdiron in the broken Portuguese that I’d learnt three years ago when living in Brazil.  Having forgotten many words, my Portuguese is not fluent but he seems to appreciate the effort and speaks some English.  We come to an arrangement; I’ll speak Portuguese and he’ll respond in English. 

  I go horse riding with Valdiron, Paulo Crimber and another bull rider, Paulo Lima.  They promise me a tame horse, and, apart from brushing up against a fence and walking backwards, he’s fairly mellow.   Actually, it feels pretty good to be back on a horse.  While trotting around the yard doing my best not to fall, they’re darting in and out of each like maniacs.   Afterwards, we have lunch at a restaurant in town.  They each order a large margarita.  I decide not to have one – it may be a good bonding maneuver but I’ve resolved to give up drinking and am sticking to it.   

  In the afternoon we go to a bull riding “buckout”.    Essentially, everyone puts in 5 dollars and the winner takes the 500 dollar jackpot.   I sit down on a chipped wooden railing beside two old men with thick Texan accents, and listen to them talk feeling happy.  There is something immensely pleasurable about listening to wise old men speak with a Texas accent.   There is a man selling hotdogs and drinks beside us.  Young white guys, who all seem to look the same with their cowboy hats, bull riding bags slung over their shoulders and smelling of brute deodorant, begin showing up.  Some buy hot dogs from the vendor.    Valdiron decides not to ride (saving himself for the PBR event on the weekend) but Silvano and Paulo will ride and I have a feeling that no amount of hot dogs or youthful abandon will take the money from them.   Sure enough, they finish first and second and split the jackpot.  It is, frankly, unfair.

  They Brazilians leave the way they arrived – joking and laughing with Brazilian country music playing from their car stereo.   Valdiron expresses an interest in learning English and I promise to teach him twice a week.   Meanwhile, I have secured work in exchange for food and board from the man who organized the buckout – Chris.

   I do need buy bull riding equipment pronto, having left what I did have at Gary Leffew’s ranch in California.  Another post coming soon.

  He said yes.  So there I was, weaving through the drunken hoards at 2 am in the morning on 6^TH street in Austin.  I don’t remember how long I rode for.  The memory of all of this came to me like a jolt when I woke up this morning. 

  Anyway, on the straight and narrow tomorrow……will not drink again until flying back to Australia.

   These thoughts were drifting through my head on the drive; this car does not have insurance.  This car does not have registration.  This car is not mine.  Essentially, life would change if pulled over by the cops.  The car, a blue jeep Larado, had been given to me by my cousin.  I’d bumped into him in a hostel in L.A. three months ago.  Considering that I was unaware that he was in America, let alone in the same hostel in Los Angeles, meeting him was one of those weird, lovely, strange things that the universe throws at you occasionally when it feels you need a break. 

   My travelling companion to Dallas is a twenty one year old Aussie.  I met him in L.A.  This was our first conversation:  “G’day mate, how long have you been in L.A?” “A few weeks, leaving tomorrow.”  “Oh yeah, where are you going?”  “Texas, do you want to come?”  “Yeah, sounds good.”

  So, after knowing me less than 30 seconds, he’d agreed to drive with me for over 1200 miles across America.  Yeeoowww- life of a traveller.   For the first eight hours of our trip the temperature did not drop below forty five degrees.  We drove through a lightening storm in Phoenix, played on stage with a band in Las Cruses, ate steak in Big Spring and partied in Dallas.  We saw disheveled towns where clothes hung on railings and windows were boarded up with ply wood.  We saw rough arid land and mountain ranges and cactus.   In this country there are no limitations.  We saw a sign promoting McDonalds: “How is your fry gauge?” and another for a sex shop: “stop violating vegetables”.  When meeting people, we exaggerated heavily.   We told them the kangaroos were killers and the sharks were harmless.   They liked our accents.  I liked the way they say “y’all”.  Seriously, I will never ever get sick of the way Southern Americans say y’all.  So, anyone who follows these blogs will know that I have neglected to mention anything about bull riding – the sole reason for this journey.  Will be drinking a couple of cold Corona’s tonight in Austin, checking out some bands, exaggerating  more about Australian animals, and then making way to the ranch.  The bull riding will be coming……..

  Peace and love,

  Sully.

  Just on that, sorry to anyone following this blog for the lack of updates, but I’ve just spent time with my girlfriend travelling around America.   My journey into the heart of bull riding will continue in earnest today, and the good news is that, so long as I’m not down and out sleeping on a damp hay bale in a disheveled shed in Texas, or strung up somewhere in traction, I have resolved to blog three times a week.  (I probably will blog even if down and out sleeping on a damp hay bale in Texas).

 For the past week, I’ve been staying at a lively little jaunt on Hollywood blvd called Banana Bungalow.   It’s the full-on communal loud German snoring bunk bed situation.  This is what happened last night:  I returned from a night out and went to jump into my bed and noticed someone was already in it.  Interesting.  Not wanting to cause a scene, I found an empty bed in the room, but, when attempting to climb in it, discovered something auspiciously wet on the sheets.   Still not wanting to cause a fuss, but at the same time, not wanting to sleep in another person’s vomit, I approached reception and told them of my little conundrum.  After twenty minutes of casing other rooms and finding no other spare beds, there was only one option left – to confront the person in my bed.   The hostel worker and I go back to my room, turn on the light and discover that there are, in fact, two people in my bed.   After waking them, they sheepishly get out.   I don’t think the guy was even meant to be staying there and who knows what happened to their bed.  So, I’m now going to sleep and the guy (who was in my bed) starts asking me if I’ve seen his phone charger.

  “Um no,” I reply.

   Five minutes later, he taps me on the shoulder and asks again if I’ve seen his phone charger.  At this point the humour of the situation has waned. 

  “Look mate, I have just found you sleeping with a girl in my bed and have been far more liberal than most.   This is the last time I will tell you:  I have not seen your charger.  Do not ask again.”

  The guy mentions his phone charger again and I think: this is it; I’m seriously going to thump him.  I go through what I have to do in my mind: It will look ridiculous of course, wrestling on the floor in underpants as backpackers try to sleep around us.  

  Anyway, it fizzles out.  While conjuring up an image of banging his head against a bunk bed post, he exits the room.

  So that’s the story.  I’m too old to live in hostels.