I enter my first bull riding event, walking into into a world of food stands and tee shirt stands and stadium seats. But then I am shepherded to the hidden, behind-the-scenes world, an elevator ride away, where the corridors smell like a cow barn and the cement floor has a coating of dust. In the back pens the bulls stand four or five to a pen and mill around in a neighborly way. One of them licks another one's neck. Most of them are from Texas and the big Teague trailer is parked next to the holding pens in the underground loading area.The Touring Pro riders mill around as well. You can tell which ones are on their way up to or down from the BFTS elite level, because they are less care-worn. But this is not the big leagues and many of the riders have worn chaps and battered boots. They walk in and out with their ropes over their shoulders. They look at the ride list posted on the wall and talk with the stock contractor. Behind the chutes, down on the dirt (which is, if you are wondering, packed really hard), one of the judges surveys the scene. It's workman-like back there. There's a sense of purpose and focus before the riding begins. This isn't a time for chit chat. They get their gear ready. The lights dim and smoke fills the arena. I am standing by the rider out-gate. They saunter by me after the opening ceremony. Cowboys. Now I get it.
Then the riding begins. If you've never been, the adrenaline of an 8 second ride fills the entire stadium. It radiates off the riders and fills every spectator. The rider is pumped. The bull fighters are pumped. The stock contractors are pumped. You are pumped. I go in there determined to try my hand at predicting scores, but I am so distracted by the sights and sounds that I don't notice much about the scoring. There is a 91.5 point ride. There are several in the high 80s. Other than that, I really don't care much about it. I do notice that the judges - there are two of them, perched at the ends of the chutes - seem to be communicating their scores to the announcer with hand signals.
The bulls are younger, I think, and maybe a little less well behaved than some of their big league counterparts. Many of them buck and spin for many seconds after the rider is on the ground. Then they stand there in the middle of the arena, defiant, as if daring someone to try that again. One of them, when lassoed by the horseman, plants his feet and refuses to leave the ring. Everyone cheers for him. There have been times when I have wondered if the bulls really like this whole thing. I don't wonder now. They are amped up and they are royally fierce. They come out the out-gate and into another small run where their rope is taken off, and a lot of them still want to fight . Wondering whether a bucking bull likes to do this is like wondering if a dog likes being a dog. In person, you can feel it. They are warriors. They are born for this and they know it.
As the event wears on and more riders are done with their rides, they sit in small groups of three or five and watch the rest of the action. They hang their vests and ropes and chaps on the fence rails, their gear bags on the ground beneath. And then suddenly it is over, and I am back up in the lobby and out into the heat of the day and the cool of the parking garage and the long ride home.
At home, watching the BFTS event I recorded while I was out, I see the shiny and colorful rails and chutes, and the superstar riders in their shiny chaps being filmed by TV crews even in the locker room. Touring Pro is a different ballgame. The rails and fences are older and battered. The riders, many of them, are younger, and slighter, some of them seem barely more than children. It might not be the big leagues, but even though it's smaller, the stakes are high and the goal is to move up. The top five riders from every Touring Pro region will be invited to compete in the first round of the PBR World Finals in October. And the top two of those will continue through. It's a chance for a guy to make his stand under the bright lights of the big game.
As for me, I wasn't prepared for the way it made me feel. I wasn't prepared for the mystical beauty of cowboys, how old and elemental it all is, and at the same time almost innocent. I didn't know how much all of that would move me, but it did, right to the core. Combine that with the adrenaline, and I spent the rest of the day head in the clouds, dust in my lungs, stunned just about speechless.
