No Place for Fear

The rules for riding a bull are deceptively simple. Stay on the animal for eight seconds, only touching the bull with your riding hand while your other hand remains in the air for the duration of the ride.

Eight seconds.

Eight seconds is a relatively short time. Eight seconds is the time it takes to brush your teeth, take a sip of that robust coffee you just brewed, walk to your mailbox to get your mail or kiss the sleepy cheek of your newborn baby.

Eight seconds.

Simple right? In most cases, eight seconds is a mere blip in time. Time forgotten and readily passed. Time that is insignificant unless your job, your main goal, is to ride an 1800-pound bucking bull without being thrown off.

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Lucifer, or Luci for short, was a nasty, mean, son-of-a-B. At 1800 pounds, Luci was a behemoth of a bull that no man had ever claimed bragging rights of lasting long enough to claim victory. Anyone who mounted Luci knew that eight seconds was an eternity. The difference between life, loss of limb and possibly death.

The last man to mount Luci was Austin Jaxon. Rodeo champion from down in Louisiana. Gossip is that when Austin pulled Luci’s chip, he exhaled a silent prayer and gulped an audible gulp that was heard way up yonder in the stands. He then marched into the bullpen cowboy hat in hand.

Austin’s trainer begged Austin not to get on Luci, but Austin being as stubborn as old Luci, don’t listen, and well, we all know how this story ends. A mere four seconds after bursting from the chute–long enough for Luci to taunt Austin in believing that he just may last–Luci bucked so violently that Austin lost his hold, propelled into the air, and landed on Luci’s horns. Luci shook him with the same ease of salt shaken out of its shaker.

Five broken ribs, a punctured lung and clinging to life, Austin hung up his chances of ever surviving eight-seconds on another bull.

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“Jo, you can’t ride Luci,” Austin pleaded.

“Come on, Austin, you know me, I have a way with animals.”

“For the love of all that’s holy Jo, I’m your trainer and your brother, you saw what that beast did to me. I can’t stomach it. He’ll kill you.”

“Look, little brother. I know what Luci did to you. That was three years ago. That damn bull is older now.”

“I’m not letting you get on that bull.” Austin yelled and stormed off.

Jo walked over to the bullpen and looked Luci dead in the eye.

“I’m riding you, you nasty piece of crap. You nearly killed my brother, and I’m going to sit right up there on your back and ride you for those cursed eight seconds. I’m not riding you for me, but for all the cowboys you messed with over the years–Austin included”

Jo stretched out an arm to stroke Luci’s head. Fire from the pits of hell must have ignited, for Luci bucked his head and nearly cracked Jo’s hand in half.

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“Ladies and gentlemen, if you can please join me–gentlemen, we ask that you remove your hats–as we rise and pause for the singing of our national anthem.”

A hush fell over the arena. Jo looked around and could see the fans standing in anticipation. Jo’s brother, cowboy hat in hand, stood with the other trainers at the chute entrance. He disapproved, but as hard as he tried, he could not convince Jo to forfeit. Jo was determined, and if anyone understood that determination, it was Austin.

“Las Vegas, it’s time to meet the bull riders.”

Jo adjusted the cowboy hat and waited.

Jo had spent the last three years training with the best of the best. The Brazilian bull riders had elevated the sport to a level of competition, unlike anything seen in the sport in previous years. There was something feral about how Brazilian bull riders approached and handled their animals, and Jo wanted to channel that energy.

For three years, Austin and Jo tended to the farms and ranches of Brazil. They were shovelling manure, feeding farm animals, selling produce at markets in exchange for the opportunity for Jo to learn the art of bull riding from the best. Ten to twelve hours a day working and two hours a night training. Bruises upon bruises scattered legs, arms, and face. But still, Jo persevered until Alvez, her Brazilian c0-trainer, nodded approval.

Now here Jo stood–ready, waiting and determined.

“Our next rider, Jo Jaxon.”

A hush fell over the crowd as Jo walked out. Waving the cowboy hat in the air, Jo didn’t know if the silence was because Jo was related to Austin or that she was a woman. Standing at 5’2”, with a petite but muscular frame, Jo waved at the crowd and took her place in the ring of fire amongst her male counterparts.

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Jo rubbed her hand up and down the rope. She felt the rope heating up, and that sensation furthe fuelled her adrenaline. She wraped the rope around her glove and then holded tight, hoping to hell that the glue stuck andpraying that she could hold on.

Jo looked at Austin and mouthed, “It’s only eight seconds.”

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There’s a moment before the chute opens after the bull calms down. There is a calm that washes over the rider. Some call it the moment of connection and understanding. The relationship between you and the bull. The knowledge that you want to survive, while the bull focuses on your defeat.

Your heart pounds inside your chest. You see the misty breath of the bull rise in front of you. You nod to the gatekeeper, and the chute opens.

Eight seconds.

One, one thousand. The bull bucks four times.

Two, one thousand . Head up, head down.

Three, one thousand. Hold it steady. Arm in a perfect “L” shape. Move with the bull Jo. Breathe.

Four, one thousand . Halfway there.

Five, one thousand. Head down, contact with Luci’s head. Warm sticky fluid from my nose. Crud, my nose is broken. Sticky liquid–blood dripping. Coughing. I’m rotating from side to side, grip slipping. Hold on. I must hold on.

Six, one thousand. Everything is getting blurry. Coughing. Choking on my blood. Keep your hand up. Keep your hand up and legs tightly wrapped around the bull. Move in unison.

Seven, one thousand. There is no place for fear.

Luci must have sensed that last thought. He bucks violently. Airborne. Contact with his face. Eyeball to eyeball. Then arm connecting with the ground. Hearing the bones shatter.

Laying face-up, disoriented.

Austin’s voice.

The crowd screaming, or are they cheering? My head rolls to the side, but before I blackout, I look at the clock–it reads–eight seconds.