Precipice

My father’s drinking came through our family like a forest fire. The hot winds and flames stirring up the cinders and ash in our lives and filling the air around us with choking dust that left us unable to breathe. We could not protect ourselves from our own incineration or that of those around us.

The smoldering aftermath resembled the final effects of a crematorium chamber where the only remnants were scattered bits of bone that left us questioning who we had been and how we would ever find ourselves moving forward. Our very history as a family was being erased in a way that changed forever the story that we would leave behind in the years to come.

As the oldest child, I knew it was my fault. It had to be. If I could just be better, my father would not be so angry and unhappy when alcohol intruded on our lives. I could make it better if I could just be perfect.

This particular hot summer night was surreal. I’d like to be able to say that all the memories from 50 years ago came flooding back. But, as I sat there on that wood bench in the stands...there was no flood of memories. Maybe being just another spectator was the issue. Or maybe it was just me protecting myself from the anger, fear, and frustration of those days long ago.

I rode bulls. At the rodeo, my world was always behind the chutes. This was where I chased perfection. I could make my Father proud. He would be happy. If only I could be perfect.

The bulls were loading into the chutes with the typical banging of metal and grunts of the animals. Huge shoulders and hips pushed against steel tubing as the bulls asserted their dominance over the world around them. Every one of them, an alpha.

Chutes are loaded, the bulls locked in position. A rider climbs the rails and drops into the first chute. The crowd is strangely quiet in anticipation as the rider settles himself on the bull. Chute men position and tighten the bull rope and bucking strap. The rope on the chute gate is tight, the chute man tense and ready to jerk the gate open and then move quickly to safety.

The chute flies open. A huge white Brahma explodes into the spotlights and seemingly levitates himself and the rider straight up into the air right at the gate. From a height of two feet or more the bull slams his nearly two-ton weight straight down into the dirt of the arena and shifts his weight just slightly sideways. The rider, desperately attempting to keep himself glued to his position, shifts just a little with the torque of the landing.

With lightning quickness, the big Brahma hurls himself sideways into a twisting launch in the opposite direction of the cowboy’s shift. The rider is hurled straight down into the dirt, his rope hand tearing loose as if he has been slapped off by a huge hand.

It’s over in the blink of an eye. Sitting on my piece of wood in the stands, I shake my head. Over and over, the scenario repeats itself with rider after rider smashed into the dirt right in front of the chutes. Finally, the sixth rider makes a short ride. He doesn’t make eight seconds so it’s not a ride, but at least this rider is on the bull long enough to provide a little entertainment.

Being there, where I had competed 50 years ago, was amazing and I found myself longing for those days, reliving that night in my mind. It was the very first rodeo at these fairgrounds. My father was there with my mother, brother, and sisters to watch the show. I was down behind the chutes, once again seeking perfection.

I was at the precipice that night. Poised on the brink of a ride that would carry me the next 27 years and eventually take me far away from the sport I loved and the family that watched it that night. I would soon discover the sad truth. The rankest bull I would ever ride was my own addiction to gaining my Father’s approval and love.

My signature beat-up black Stetson hat is jammed down onto my head, tight. In those days, we believed or wanted to believe, that if you jammed your hat down on your head tight enough, the air trapped in it would cushion any blow to your head. I don’t know if we were right or not, but these days they make you wear a helmet when you ride bulls. I guess our argument about the air didn’t hold up.

My orange rodeo chaps were made of rough-out leather with white fringe and had my initials on them. I was never really the superstitious kind but like everyone else, I wore my chaps over my ‘lucky’ jeans. That meant the last time you wore them, you made the buzzer and didn’t get hurt.

The heavy adjustable-shank spurs that I wore with big 5 point rowels were buckled tight and wired up. Old beat-up cowboy boots were strapped tight at my ankles. My lucky western shirt had a paper number safety pinned to the back of it. A deer hide glove fitted tight on my left hand, anchored to my arm with a wrist strap. My right hand was bare and held my bull rope and bell.

Brahma bulls are like teenage boys on steroids, full of testosterone with the strength of Hercules, and no conscience. Good eyesight, in all directions, quick and flexible as a slinky.

But at this moment, I am invincible in the arrogance and anger of my youth. I will be perfect.

I drew a big Brahma, short stubbed horns, a 2000 pound red and white spotted mass of muscle, bone, and fat. I don’t remember his name. I doubt it even mattered to me and I’m sure he didn’t care about mine. He wasn’t the rankest bull in the pen but maybe he would be tonight. A tough enough ride to win or at least get me to the finals tomorrow night. Tough enough, and big enough to get a smile out of me. This bull could be my ticket to a win. This bull could be perfect.

Tonight, I am in my element. Here, with my tribe of fellow riders in the lights and shadows, the smells of sweat, leather, dust, manure, and the animals themselves drift in the air. Fear and nervousness have their odors. Testosterone and adrenaline swirl in an atmosphere where the fight or flight response is alive and well.

The time has come to climb up the rails and get down in the chute. No matter how many times I’ve done it, it is intimidating. The bulls are just big. And, in the chute, even bigger. To complicate the matter, one of the riders before me had gotten hurt. In the end, we are no more than a piece of paper on that bull’s back, and sometimes the paper gets crumpled.

The crew has rigged my rope and a bucking strap. All I need to do is get down onto the bull’s back and work my hand into the rope. All they need to do is get the bull to let out the massive amount of air he has taken in. The bull knows if he can get out of the chute with air in, your rope will go slack when he lets it out and you will be gone. This procedure is a big deal and the crew is good at it. I get down in position and slide my legs down along the bull’s sides. He is leaning to one side and the crew needs to get him to move over so I can get my second leg down. It’s a game, a dance, and a potentially deadly one.

I'm solidly on his back. As much as I can be but the reality of my situation is that, as tight as that rope is cinched, even with all the bull’s air properly expelled, even with the slit handhold in the rope crushing down on the palm of my hand and the bubble and slack held as tightly as I can hold and with all the stickiness and grip the resin can provide, nothing is solid.

What I have worked so hard to be reliably attached to is not attached very well at all. First-time riders are always amazed and horrified to discover this. It’s the bull’s skin. It moves all over. It’s as loose as one of those Asian dogs with all the wrinkles. How can an animal where you can see every muscle under the skin have any fat? I can slide side to side and even somewhat forward and back. Welcome to bull riding.

I am not the alpha here. And the moment I think I am, bad things can happen. This is when I am most vulnerable. Right now, right this second. I’m tied onto a 2000 pound animal in a tiny box. I can feel the power and weight as the bull shifts from side to side, pinning my legs against the chute. I feel huge muscles rippling under my butt and thighs. The bull cocks his head and I catch the look in one of his eyes as he attempts to see the source of his aggravation. I recognize that the look in his eye is not fear. He does not see it in mine. Our moment has arrived.

I seek and believe once again in perfection. I pray for it. I know embarrassment, injury and even death are possible. All it takes is 8 seconds.

The bull tenses in anticipation. The crowd holds its breath. I nod my head. The chute opens and the world explodes.