My bull riding days are over….

  Still, it was a hell of an adventure.

  I’m currently writing about the experience and hope to have the book finished by the end of the year, so stay tuned to this website for updates about when the book will be released.

  For those who have supported me throughout the year – thank you very much.

  Special mention to the amazingly beautiful and supportive Rachel, who spent eight months in Australia patiently waiting for me to end this reckless pursuit.

The story behind the photo:

  Billy Bob’s Bar in Fort Worth, Texas is a 270 000 square feet institution.  At one end is a mechanical bull, the other a live bull riding arena, and in the middle a massive dance floor.  Even by American standards – the set-up is outlandish.   I’m dragging my gear behind the bull riding arena when I hear someone shout “hey sully,” and I turn to see two bull fighters.

  They’re difficult to recognize with painted white faces, but on closer inspection I realize I’d met them in Stephenville.  Their names are Malcolm and Austin.

  “Ya gettin’ on?” Malcolm asks, grinning.

  I tell them I am and they wish me luck.  There are 15 bull riders in total at Billy Bob’s, but the event will have two rounds (half will ride at 9pm and the others at 10).  I’m in the 9 o clock show.  Our names are posted beside the bull we’ve drawn on a sheet of white paper in the change rooms.  My bull does not have a name but a number – 7117.  The crowd fills into the arena.  They rush the bulls into the race.  I size them up, hoping the large, spotted white bull that is first in the chutes does not have the number 7117 in its ear.

  “Who’s got number 7117?” a stock contractor shouts.

  “I do,”

  “Good, you’re up.”

  Bullocks.

  I grab my rope and make my way towards the bull.

  “Hey, you ridden much before?” another bull rider asks me. 

 He has blond hair and a cheeky smile.  I wonder the reason for the question.  Is it because I’m not wearing a cowboy hat?  Is it because I’m not wearing chaps?  Or is it because of my bright purple shirt – a gift from a closed-down thrift shop.

  “I’ve been on a few bulls,” I tell him.

  “I hope so.  He’s good,” he replies, motioning towards the bull.

  “You wanna swap?” I suggest.

  “Nah.”

  Bloody cowboys.  They’re always doing this – filling me with dread moments before the ride. I last 2.8 seconds on number 7117.  The reason I know this is because I ask an official about my time, and, rather than offering a verbal response, he gives a small flick of a digital watch, revealing the number 2.8.   I briefly wonder if the clock face is upside down and the time is actually 8.2 seconds, but decide not to seek clarification from the official – he’d already chastised me heavily earlier for being behind the arena without a cowboy hat

  After the event, while I’m removing my glove in the change rooms, Malcolm Jimenez, the fit, 18 year old bull fighter, looks at me earnestly and says: “Almost had him.”

  There was, of course, no part of the 2.8 seconds where I almost had the bull. I think back to the ride and remember someone stepping between me and the bull, and realize that person must have been Malcolm.  Malcolm had also saved me at a practice pen in Stephenville when I came down hard on a bull called Reebok.  Consider the life of a bull fighter – they not only traverse the country, throwing their bodies before 900 kilo animals, they then offer compassionate lies to boost the rider’s morale.

  “I’m gonna go.  Thanks bro.” I say to him.

  “Hey, you comin’ back out to the practice pen in Stephenville tomorrow?” he asks.

  The white paint is still on his face.  He is looking at me seriously.  He has saved me twice and wants to save me again.

  “Not sure.  Maybe.”

  “Ok. I’ll see you out there,” he says, and slaps me on the back heartily as I leave.

“Suulee” he rolls the words. “And where you from Suulee?”

“I’m Australian.”

“Really.”

This takes him by surprise. His horse trots back a few paces. He quickly pats it on the neck. He is staring at me beneath his cowboy hat. He has dark hair, a moustache and is smiling.

It is 3.30 in the afternoon. There are teenagers rustling bulls behind me. There are two old Mexican guys drinking beer fifty metres away at a makeshift bar. Behind them is a mysterious white roof-less concrete structure – built as if someone had decided on a house and then abandoned it. The arena is a forty minute drive from Stephenville, but it had taken me two hours to find it. I’d come through windy roads and then arrived at a entryway so innocuous, that, after pulling up, I had to ask two Mexican kids if I was in the right place.

“You ride Mexican or American?” Chino asks.

“American,” I reply, meaning that I hold onto the bull rope with one hand instead of two. The Mexicans ride bulls with both hands. You’d think it would be easier but it is, in fact, far more dangerous. Having been to two Mexican rodeos, I’ve witnessed a few bad wrecks. With both hands strapped, there is nothing to break the impact of crashing into the horns, or worse, being upside down, underneath the bull, while still attached to the rope.

“Do the bull riders get paid?” I ask him.

We begin a friendly tactical exchange. American rodeos employ a capitalistic structure to prize money distribution (winners take all) but Mexican rodeos prefer to be socialist; the event is considered entertainment rather than a competition and everyone gets paid a little.

“I’ll pay you $50 dollars a ride. The rodeo starts at 7.”

It seems like a good deal. I go back to Stephenville, do some stretches, feel nervous, pick up Tom Banner, and then we head back to the Mexican rodeo.

“Park your car near the road,” Tom instructs me on arrival. “I’ve been to a few of these Mexican deals. We might need to make a quick exit.”

I decide not to request an elaboration of his cryptic remark. Tom has a groin injury and is not riding but gets excitable and happy around that unmistakable energy of a rodeo and the smell of bulls.

It’s a cold night and there is a small crowd; maybe eighty in the stands. Cans of beer are sold from the bar for two dollars, and hotdogs go for two fifty. I lug my gear behind the chutes. A group of Mexican men, I guess other bull riders, are chatting in Spanish. Chino greets me.

“Which bull would you like?” he asks, pointing at a group of bulls in a pen.

“You’re giving me the choice?”

“That’s right.”

“What did the other riders choose?”

“They’re waiting for you to decide. We are courteous people.” He winks and adds “we always let the gringo go first.”

I’m staring at the bulls. There doesn’t appear to be any mellow ones. It reminds me of a story a school friend had told me about his dad making him chose the stick to be hit with when he misbehaved.

“I’ll take the white bull,” I declare.

Immediately following my decision, the white bull buries its head and rams the fence.

The first rider is a young Mexican rider who last eight seconds. The second rider gets stomped on and limps away. I’m up. I sit down on the back of my white bull in the chutes. I have a bad feeling. There is extremely loud Spanish music being played by a band dressed in red and black capes. The band takes a break momentarily to introduce me to the crowd. I can feel my heart. I can feel my lungs. I can feel a tingle in my legs. Two Mexican guys are pulling my rope in a strange way; they’re levering the rope around a metal rod rather than pulling it from above the bull. I do not have a good grip on the rope and it is in the wrong place on the bull. My instruction to loosen the rope is somehow interpreted as “please open the gate” and the gate is swung open while I’ve only one leg around the bull. Frantically, I grasp the swinging gate as the bull goes bucking out into the arena.

From the little Spanish I know, I can tell the band are heavily chastising me to the crowd. I can make out my name and the word “cohunes”

“I’ll ride the bull again,” I tell Chino,

Pride is such a silly emotion.

They run the bull through the race and back up the chutes.

“Enough of this bull shit, I‘ll pull your rope” Tom declares, as I lower myself back down again on the spotty white bull.

This time around, I tie my rope off quickly. The less thinking involved in bull riding the better. I move up on the bull and nod my head. They open the gate and, surprisingly, I find myself still centred over the bull after three or four jumps. The buck off comes unexpectedly. Perhaps I was thinking too much or not enough. Whatever the cause, it is not the ideal dismount, and my head connects with the dirt forcefully. I collect my rope, and go back behind the chutes for the rest of my stuff.

Chino pays me 25 dollars for the ride. He‘d promised 50, but there is only about 100 people in the stands and it seems like the right amount.

“Hey man, you coulda made eight,” Tom tells me in the car on the ride home.

“Yeah, how did my riding look?”

“Ok I guess.”

“How did the bull look?”

“Like a son of a bitch.”

I have a sore neck but nothing is broken. Truth is, I’m feeling pretty good, probably the happiest I’ve been since starting this ludicrous quest. In Stephenville, we pull into the car-park of a pub.

“My shout,” I declare, fingering the 25 dollars in my pocket.

After arrived back from Vegas, my plan was to visit a bull riding friend called Jesse Pullman, so I jumped in the good ol’ jeep, and drove for eight hours – mostly in the wrong direction. I blame telephone reception. Hours earlier in Texas, when asking Pullman where he lived, he’d responded: “Fort Scott”, but I heard “Fort Smith.“

I drive into Fort Smith at 8pm, call Jesse and discover that I’m not only in the wrong town, I’m in the wrong state. I’m in Fort Smith (Arkansas). Reasoning that I’m still over 300 miles away from Fort Scott (Kansas), I roll into a cheap hotel in Fort Smith and book a night. Any person of reasonable intelligence would ask themselves this: why didn’t you make sure the town was called Fort Scott before leaving Texas. For those who have read Tunnel Vision, you will know that I often make these travel blunders, but it‘s been a while since I‘ve ascended to this level of stupidity, and, when crawling into the crisp white sheets of a 29 dollar motel in Fort Smith, it feels good to have the old me back.

I make it to Fort Scott the next day. Jesse is taking off for the weekend and leaves me in the hands of four young bull riders: Nick Lica, Brian Ridley, Jake Johnston and Tyler Adrian. Were the boys concerned that an unknown Aussie has joined them unexpectedly before their bull riding jaunt? It doesn’t appear so.

We drive for three hours and cross the state line into Missouri – to a town called Republic. Night falls, temperatures plummet. It’s bloody freezing. We approach the organizer of the event, pay our fees and chat with the other cowboys. My body is feeling all the usual mixture of pre-bull ride fear and doubt. The brainwashing begins: I can do this. I can surf. These guys aren’t going to paddle 300 metres offshore and drop into an eight feet peak.

My bull is grey, weighs about 1500 pounds, and is a relation of Yellow Jacket Junior, 3 time bucking bull of the year. I’m one of the last out so I watch the others – who are pretty darn good bull riders. The best seems to be Tyler – who makes it look easy on a spinning brahma.

“How do you get over the fear?” I ask Tyler behind the chutes, as he hangs his rope over a fence.

His short response is probably the most logical thing I‘ve heard in six months: “They can’t hurt ya if you stay on top of ‘em.”

I ask the stock contractor, who is standing beside the race, if he has any advice about my bull.

“He’ll blow up out of the chutes, but is pretty much just a jump kicker from there,” he replies. Verbatim, it is almost exactly the same response I was given before riding at the last rodeo.

“Just stay away from his horns and hoofs and you’ll be fine,“ and old timer tells me as I lower myself over my bull. My bull is a nightmare in the chutes. He lays down, swings his head, pins my leg against the steel girders of the chutes. My legs are shaking. Where did the confidence go? I think of everything in my life I’ve managed to do. I think of surfing. I think of standing up comedy – of holding a microphone in a spotlight and performing fearlessly. I can do this.

The bull bucks me off in about 3 seconds.

“Wow,” the announcer cries, as I lay in the dirt.

I go back and pick up my stuff but don’t feel too bad – one of these days I’m going to crack bull riding.

Later, we hide in the car park of a hotel and Nick negotiates a good price.

“How many are staying?” the receptionist asks him.

“Just myself,” he responds.

The four of us pile into the hotel room.

“I saw a twist in your bull rope,” Brian informs me. “I can try to get it out for you if you like.”

It is one o clock in the morning and we are all tired and dirty and sweaty and the one thing Brian Ridley (22 year old from Kansas) wants to do is to spend time helping me with my bull rope. I thank him and tell him it would be ok to check the rope in the morning. It’s two per bed in the hotel room. We strip down to out underwear and climb into bed. There is no laughter, no jokes, no awkwardness. I sleep beside Brian and keep him up by grinding my teeth (a habit I did not know I had) but he does not complain. In the morning, he spends 30 minutes tying my rope to a balcony railing and stretching out the kink. Unbelievable – these young cowboys.

  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.

  “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.

  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.

With the friendliest teenagers in the universe

About to be launched from Carmello.

 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.    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.