Bull Riding in Texas
by Jim Friend

Welcome to bull riding: The author about to take two hooves to the chest.

iterally at the moment my flight dropped through the clouds heading down into Houston, a small blasphemous thought tried to worm itself out of my mind and squirm its way inside my already concerned heart: "Am I really doing this?"  I refused it.

A few hours later in my hotel room, by the same sneaky means, another traitor attempted to infiltrate its way from my thought chambers into the throne of my eternal soul: "What in the hell am I doing here?" I pushed it back just like the first.  The course had been set, there would be no turning back.

I slept pretty well that night.  Ok, let me rephrase that.  I slept pretty well that night… after reading several Psalms and laying prostrate on the floor praying to God for about ten minutes.  Not kidding.  As I laid there facedown praying on the carpet, I came to understand that God wasn't going to guarantee anything.   I knew over the next few days that I would either get hurt, not get hurt, or get hurt really, really badly.  I got up from the floor accompanied by a peaceful feeling, but also with an understanding that I knew I was charging off into The Dangerous Unknown, knowing that the Sovereign God was choosing to not let me get a glimpse of the fate was going to befall me.  I just had to go and see what he had planned.  Yikes.  But I would charge ahead and do it anyway, that's for sure, just like always.

So, the next morning when I arrived at the CV Sallas bull riding arena just north of Houston, things started off for the members of our bull riding class that day exactly how you and I have become brutally accustomed to life.  We stood in a lot of lines with a bunch of strangers in an unfamiliar building filling out a lot of paperwork signing away most of our legal rights.  You know how it is.  Just a bit later though, we got around to the tasty business of the preparations of real live bull riding:  Checking out a bunch of cool gear, learning a few technical procedurals, and practicing the fundamentals of falling off of a 1,500 pound angry animal on a mechanical beast named Il Toro.  As was proved to be absolutely true later, while all of these valuable lessons were being taught to us by our very knowledgeable instructors, most of our learning minds kept hitting the delete button after considering storing all of this useful safety information for later use.  

Throughout the day, there was some rather eager speculation among the students about whether we would actually be riding bulls that first day.  At the end of our lessons that evening, our instructors confirmed it:  Before retiring for the night we were all going to ride our first bull.  So, we all lined up with our equipment and waited to be called, as the bulls were procured and loaded into the chutes.  Standing in line waiting for my turn, I thought that maybe since it was our first day, bull riding on this initial occasion might just actually be relatively safe.... it couldn't be that bad; certainly they were providing us with kind, elderly, and sedate bulls that would flop around like tired old mules shaking off mosquitoes in a serene pasture on a warm summer's evening. 

I was soon to find out that I was wrong on both counts. So horribly, horribly wrong.

Hmm, now by the way, I should also mention that if you're going to bull riding school, it's virtually a complete certainty that the next stop for most of the bulls you'll be riding is the slaughterhouse.  Texans, in their straightforward and plain-speak manner, refer to this place with somewhat milder but more cryptic terminology: "The killer market."  However, some cattle owners reckon that they may as well give their steers one last chance to dance in a bull riding pen, because if one of their animals happens to show some potential, the ranchers might just be able to give their doomed little beasts a reprieve from a high-pressure air-powered bolt to the brain while also potentially making themselves a decent amount of money someday through renting the bull as rodeo bucking stock… so heck, why not give them a shot?  What you find out at bull riding school is that the bulls somehow already know they're unlikely to be the 1 in 100 with any potential to make it to the county fair, so, as a matter of fairness and justice, and with the smell of that double cheeseburger you just ate roiling in their nostrils, they are absolutely determined to kill you before you contribute, by your meat-feasting habits, to the killing of them.

Thomas Bosma at the chute confidently awaiting his next sortie.
Photo credit:  Jim Friend

The bull I was to ride was a small, black, maniacal steer with a couple of little nubs for horns, and it so happened that it was having a few problems adjusting to being confined by the chute.  A chute is the last confining space a cow at the slaughterhouse experiences before its flight off to the Giant Pasture in the Sky, so duly confused, this wily little insaniac probably thought I was the Death Angel that was about to administer The Dreaded Bolt.  It kept wanting to turn around in the chute to the place from whence it came, back to freedom, which was not a good situation for me, as I was supposed to tie myself onto its heaving backside at once, as there were other riders waiting their turn in other chutes behind me.  Complicating matters, my new little half-ton friend preferred standing on its hind legs to peaceful four-legged repose, which rather impeded my descent and securement.  Unfortunately, on one of these occasions, I was already sitting on its back.  When the bull stood up on this particular occasion, I sprung up and stood on the rails, but was soon chided by my instructor, Ed, to be "either all the way in or all the way out of the chute."  Easy for you to say, Mac.  Tell that to the bull.  On my hasty retreat out of the Broken Leg Zone, my forehead soon found there was a four inch metal bar squarely in the way of my intended exit strategy.  Bang.  The aforementioned metal shaft left a zesty, bleeding reminder on my forehead that it was the winner of the molecular competition of measures of solidity.

Eventually, after the bull's neck was tied fast to the chute with a thick rope, I got situated on its writhing back again, but with all the commotion of this exotically dangerous experience, my mind blanked, so my chute procedure was horrible.  Distracted while trying to keep my legs from being crushed and my ankles from being snapped, I didn't even anymore remember what I was supposed to do.  Ed looked on at me with some sort quiet admiration reserved only for fools and idiots, and did his best to get my bull rope strapped around the evil little brute and deal with his confounded new recruit.

When things seemed to be arranged, indeed exclusively by Ed's efforts alone, he spoke: "Give us a big nod now when you're ready!"  I thought about it for a couple of seconds, and then nodded, thinking I was ready, but of course, I certainly was not, which was perfectly demonstrated only milliseconds later.

Thomas Bosma on the tail end of a valiant effort. Photo credit:  Jim Friend

The chute door was pulled open with a clank and the bull exploded from its execution chamber.  As good as I was sure my form would be, it immediately failed me as the bull shuffled me to its left side on what was probably its third jump.  Not lacking in heart (if maybe not so much in the intelligence category), I held on tight as I toppled over the left side of the bull, hoping that maybe some extraordinary Professional Bull Riding miracle would pop me right back up on its back again.  Instead, as I should have guessed, I continued my one-way back-first descent to the earth below with great haste, and upon my horrific arrival, was greeted in the chest with the full downward thrust of the bull's two back hooves, as the doomed beast had apparently already decided my ribcage looked like it would make a great trampoline.  Kuh-thump!   Both hooves impacted with great force, roughly in area of my sternum and left lower ribcage.  Adding the finishing touches to my newly-found trauma, the bull then decided to anoint the inside of my left calf with one of his front hooves.  Ouch.

As soon as the Great Trampling was over with, I decided to get out of there.  I scrambled the 25 feet or so back towards the chute (maybe it was closer to five feet, I refuse to remember) and was duly greeted by a wide-eyed Ed, who was about to explain to me what I did wrong in great detail, I figured, as soon as he could assess I wasn't a candidate for the hospital.  Before that assessment and chiding could transpire, the victorious bull, in an ecstatic religious frenzy, decided to turn around so he could run back and dutifully kill me off once and for all.  As it charged at us, Ed and I jumped up onto a nearby arena fence to avoid its wrath, and the bull ran past us proudly as if by our acquiescence it had obtained yet another victory, and bounded off to continue its celebrations.  As soon as that fiery-eyed eutherian wolf was ushered out of the arena and into the hell-fires from whence it was birthed (the pasture out back), one of the bullfighters, Clint, walked up to me, also wide-eyed, and asked if I was ok.  I offered that I thought so.  Ed's inspection of my condition found that as a result of the nasty impact, my safety vest had been torn apart… not by the Velcro fastener in front, but by the stitched seam on the right hand side, where it's not at all supposed to separate.  Oh yes... this is what I came here for... bad to the bone.

After walking out of the arena, I was initially a bit sore, but a couple of hours later, my sternum and ribcage began their travailing with great fervor.  Farther down, my leg was also beginning to feel like some sinister Mengele-schooled doctor had recently replaced my left calf with an oak implant.  Practicing a few necessary bull riding moves, and poking and prodding around my chest, I realized I had cracked the entirety of my sternum and lower left rib cage, especially the few ribs charged with protecting my somewhat-important beating heart.  Complicating matters, my left pectoral muscle was complaining exotically in response to pulling-up and gripping movements, those that are most particularly critical to keeping yourself on a bull's back while riding.  It didn't take long to realize that my bull riding weekend was probably already over.  Just like that.  I decided I'd put off making the final decision until the next morning.

David Disi cowboys up on yet another squirrelly bovine maniac
Photo credit:  Ed Arnold, Capturing Life Photography

When the new day arrived it was clear that my concerns were well founded: I felt like some naughty giant had picked me up like a toy and smashed my chest in his vice grip just for the fun of it... I could feel pain every time I inhaled.  This second day of school was scheduled to be all bull riding, and on more difficult bulls, with additional practice on any skill set deemed weak available to a rider at any time.  My weekend of riding was already over that morning, but for others, it had just begun, and of these, I was fortunate enough to meet some of the most interesting cats I had have ever met on any trip I've taken.  Exactly what other types of fellows would get involved in this sort of dangerous pursuit?  Here are three examples, and their backgrounds and life stories were surprising: 

Richard Smith, a 35 year old British expatriate and ex-RAF pilot, possesses all of the qualities that cause Americans to admire Englishmen: Intense, sincere, unfailingly polite, friendly, helpful, and brave.  He met his wife at a friend's wedding in Houston and ended up moving to Texas as a result.  He soon got interested in the uniquely American phenomenon of rodeo, and eventually got involved in the Rodeo Speaker's Association of Houston, which goes to schools and speaks to kids about rodeo.  His wife bought him a gift certificate to his first bull riding class in Carthage, Texas, last year, and he was returning this second time around to practice his skills and improve his chute procedure to the point he could get on a few bulls every now and again at local practice pens.

David Disi, 29, is an investment banker from New York City, a first lieutenant in the Army, and recently spent a year in Iraq.  As if that wasn't interesting enough, add on two Ivy League degrees: Columbia MBA, Harvard MPA.   Best of all, he immediately comes across as one of those rare individuals whose great intelligence and quiet, stern will has disciplined his heart to rule over any fear or threat of trouble.  If you were in a war, this is the kind of guy you'd want to be there with, amongst truly the finest America has to offer.

Thomas Bosma, 21, from Abbotsford, Canada, arrived at bull riding school with a heart for adventure as big as they come.  He came on a 30 day unlimited Greyhound pass, deciding to see as much of the US as possible, his goal to see all lower 48 states.  All he brought with him was an old steel framed backpack, a tent, a sleeping bag, and a few clothes.  You heard that right... yes, there are still apparently a few Jack Kerouacs left out there in the world.  Wow, super cool.  Thomas grew up on a dairy, and has always been interested in the rodeo.  He is a university student, taking classes in philosophy and English. 

I decided to follow the progress of these new friends of mine and soak it all in, watching their preparations and rides while talking to them about their individual subjective experiences.  Throughout that morning, watching them go through their necessary paces, I wasn't much regretting my decision to not continue with school.  My chest and ribs and arm were firing off all kinds of strange synaptic output, and after lunch, I would quickly learn to cherish my meager injuries, as disaster was about to unfold.  As I walked out of the lunch room on that afternoon, I came out just in time... Complete mayhem was about to ensue in the arena, and I walked out at precisely the moment it began.  Still licking my lips from the cheeseburger I had just devoured, I saw a tragedy unfold.  A bare back rider and horse came flying down the length of the arena at top speed.  At the end of the ride, the rider got majorly thrown over the top of the wildly bucking animal, landing in front of the horse, face down on the ground.  As he was trying to get up, and with the most horrible timing available in the universe taking place at that very moment, I saw the front hooves of the horse come down with its full weight and force square on the back of the young man's neck.  It was utterly-BAD-news-looking in the first place, but to make matters worse, the kid just went limp immediately, unconscious.  A woman from the bleachers screamed, "Jesus!" as if imploring his presence at the site of the disaster.  A swarm of people descended on the scene, and the ambulance workers (already standing by) began their treatment.  I ran into David right around this time, and we watched this go on for about 20 minutes.  After taking a good hard look at the kid, they decided just before transporting him away in the ambulance that his injuries were so severe that Life Flight needed to be called in.  Whoa...      Whoa.

Life Flight, horse and rider. Photo credit:  Jim Friend

As if building momentum, the havoc continued unhindered.  As David and I were talking, waiting for the helicopter to arrive, another student got kicked square in the gut by another bucking horse.  Then, just as Life Flight landed in the parking lot, a panicking horse jumped out of the arena and started running around amidst the cars, with cowboys galore streaming out of the building on horseback working their lassos, looking to re-corral the terrified equine.  There was concern the horse would somehow end up in the blades of the helicopter.  One cowboy circled the chopper on his galloping horse, spinning that lasso around.  Sheesh.  It was an incredible sight.  After that particular chaos was resolved and the student was rushed away in the helicopter, another horse in the arena, after shedding itself of its rider, somehow didn't see that the gate barring its exit to the back pasture was still closed.  It ran at a gallop, head first, right into the gate, and immediately crumpled to the ground, unconscious.  Wild.  Out of control.  Later on, at least one more person left in an ambulance, as I recall.

Despite the woeful luck available in the arena that day, Richard and Thomas ended up having several good rides, as did David.  Unfortunately, Thomas suffered a leg injury, while David and Richard escaped with less debilitating traumas.  After all the riding for the day was done, video replays of the goings-on were reviewed while the instructors gave comment on them while we ate dinner.  All three got good reviews:  Thomas stayed on for more than four seconds on his first ride, a great achievement, with our instructor, Ed, adding that he had done a great job of maintaining his composure.  Richard got two complements, with Ed noting: "Every time you've got on you've improved, you're doing way better than your last school already."  Ed stated that David had excellent form but seemed to be jumping off rideable bulls a bit early in an attempt to avoid further injury.  

At the end of the reviews, a survey was taken.  The instructors asked how many people were hurt.  So many people raised their hands, they had to retool the question and ask how many people were not  hurt.  Two hands were raised.  The lunch room, on the end of the second day, quickly became known by the students as the "CV Sallas triage room," with riders constantly limping around and patching and wrapping wounds and strains all throughout the day and evening.  Toward the end of that night, we learned the bare back rider who went to the hospital on the Whirlybird Grim was in critical condition in the neuro-ICU:  Swollen brain.  Yowch!

Richard Smith serves up a big chunk of hardened, stout homebase position
Photo Credit:  Ed Arnold, Capturing Life Photography

The third and last day of school consisted of more bull riding and the ride-off competition, where everyone left standing would compete to see who was the best or most improved.  The day went off with a few big injuries, one person left in an ambulance, but Chaos did not reign supreme like the day before.  Thomas sat out initial rounds due to injury but participated in the ride off.  Richard ended up riding a bull for a full eight seconds, one of his stated goals for the weekend.  Unfortunately, he ended up with a pretty bad shoulder injury, when a bull dumped him and gave him the stomp.  David re-aggravated a hip injury incurred in Iraq, but was otherwise in fairly good shape at the end of the day.  The ride-off winner ended up being Jason Martinez, of KKW ranch, Bandera, Texas; and the most improved was Joey Raley, of Haslet, Texas.  The best of juniors was the super impressive Alejandro "Hondo" Flores, 13, of George West, Texas.  At the end of the day, another survey was taken in the lunch room.  We were all asked again if there was anyone who wasn't injured.  This time, no one raised their hands.

The day came to a close with our class saying warm goodbyes to each other, relieved and grateful to have survived our experiences and also stoked to have been privileged enough to participate in such a surreal life event.  Thomas and I ended up sharing a hotel room that night, and had great conversations about life and God and many other things over a couple of beers and a weird Texan melon called a Santa Claus.  We saw that thing in the store and had to get it.  It was pretty dang good, too.  We feasted upon it, and also upon our memories of our truly wild weekend.

So as it turned out (and thank you, God) I didn't get hurt really bad that weekend, but got hurt badly enough to remember it for a long time.  I could feel the injuries in my chest every time I inhaled for a full month and a half, especially when I tried to sleep, but after having considered what could have happened to me, I felt really fortunate.  All in all, I was left feeling completely grateful to have been able to experience such a challenging and defining life event.  Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to McDonald's to get another double cheeseburger, whilst musing over the memory of that angry little black bull who made it all possible.  Revenge is sweet.

All Capturing Life Photography used by written permission.