This is an age-old question that has been pondered over by many men below the Mason-Dixon line or from Hell’s Kitchen, NY. Today, I am focusing on the former. To get a ride in is to remain on the bull for 8 long seconds while it viciously tries to remove you. Get bucked off and you receive no points. However, remain on for those 8 seconds and watch proudly as your score is judged by a couple grizzly, weathered southerners with a horseshoe of Red Man chewing tobacco that has been in there for a few hours now.
Here are a few other laws of the loam. At no point can your free hand touch the bull, the ground, or anything for that matter. The clock will not stop until you officially let go of the rope and hit the ground – so getting a little air at the end there might secure you a ride. And lastly, the rider and the bull are each ranked on a point scale out of 50. For instance, you score a perfect 50 (you wouldn’t) and the bull, who just had a hefty meal, was a bit lethargic today and scores a 44. You have ridden for a score of 94.
Now that I have explained the rules as well as a kindergartener might have, let’s get into this doggerel: can I ride?
Identify the Strength
Mentally, I am as tough as a paper straw that sat in your drink for too long. Soggy, useless, booze-logged. Physically, I am the embodiment of man during bulking season, except he forgot that he also still needs to keep going to the gym. Spiritually though, I am as tough as a wounded lion surrounded by a cackle of hungry hyenas. Down for the count, but vigilant and not yet ready to give up. During this ride, I will need to rely on my spirit to get me to the glorious end of those painstakingly long 8 seconds.
The Prep Work
Now that I have identified where I can succeed, it is time to put in the effort. These riders are small, lean, and tough as nails. They are the men that make the ring in a bull’s nose quiver in fear. I need become one of these audacious specimens.
Each morning, I will start out with compressing my spine with a medieval torture device. I have a friend on Craigslist. This smaller stature will prevent me from whipping around on the saddle like an inflatable tube man from a newly opened car wash.
Now I need to shed some lbs. In order to do this, I will first go to a hypnotist who will convince me I am deathly allergic to Taco Bell. I will take up a diet that will prove devastating to my mental health, but put me on a path to righteousness in the body-building community. I’m thinking unsalted almonds and bark from a landmarked tree.
In order to become tough as nails, I have to become a nail. In the event a nail is beaten down, twisted, and hardly resembles a nail anymore, it is still a nail. So, each night before I go to bed, I will bring a hammer down on each one of my fingernails like a disgruntled father who is tasked with fixing up his father-in-law’s leaky roof. He’s pissed, it’s hot out, and by God can you expect some new curses once that hammer inevitably comes down on his hand.
Physically, I am on my way. Mentally, I am still that paper straw. To combat this, I hire a Ronnie Coleman look alike. He might not be an 8-time Mr. Olympia, but he will have a similar build and mindset. All day long, he will follow me around and rip apart everything I do with the utmost unconstructive criticism, vitriol, and hate. I may cry, but I always remember why I pay him $25/hr. This will all be worth it in the end.
The Big Day
No more prep work. I am set to ride in 15 minutes. The final rap battle in 8 Mile has been on a constant loop for hours now. I’m 5 inches shorter, look like Hercules, and have built a fortress in my mind that makes the Great Wall of China look like a Hasbro playset. This bull just became my Papa Doc.
I’m in the chute on top of a bull named ‘Udderly Mean’ and there couldn’t possibly be more amber rosin lining my rope. I hear my name announced followed by little applause and lots of jeering, but I’m not fazed. Ronnie Coleman look-alike was way worse. As I am getting settled, the clock is winding down fast. 3…2…1…I nod my head and the chute doors fly open.
The world spins as the bull furiously tries to get me off the saddle. I grip the rope tightly as I feel my joints all becoming unhinged. I must be close to 8 seconds. I’ve been on for like 30 seconds by now. No amount of pensive thought was going to speed that clock up. Next thing I know, I am flying through the air. I land on my left arm – dislocated shoulder. I try and sit up but am swiftly knocked back to the dirt by strong hoof to the head – concussion. As I lie there dazed and confused, another hoof comes straight down close to my other shoulder – destroyed clavicle.
As they rush the bull into the gate, I notice the suspiciously large amount of EMT’s rushing to me. “Ew,” one of them hisses as they get me on a stretcher. I slowly turn my head to see what my time is. Did I do it? Did I ride? Wait. Is the crowd laughing? To my surprise, the clock didn’t read 12s. I didn’t even read 8s. All I could make out was 0.96s before I passed out from pain and disgust in myself.
I didn’t and never will come close to riding those 8 seconds. Kudos to those who have. I’ll stick to this.