Rodeo Rider

Clang! Bang! Smack! I shivered, not just just from the icy chill of the corrals behind the rodeo ring. Six chutes were lined up, side by side, in the middle top end of the arena. They were painted yellow, but years of rust had almost completely faded the colour. To the watching crowd's delight, each chute was occupied by a tough, angry bull, soon to be ridden by a group of eager cowboys, including myself.

In Chute 1, a rather small Black Angus shifted warily, put on edge by the yelling, rowdy crowd, seated in the old metal bleachers. Next to him, in Chute 2, stood a large, quite slobbery, old Red Hereford. He was a fairly easy ride, but the old boy still shook the fillings out of your teeth if you kicked him too hard. Chute 3 held a shaking, sweaty Longhorn, his horns intact and dangerous. You had to watch the horns if you drew that cow. In Chutes 4 and 5, enormous brown bulls snorted and banged repeatedly on the sides of their confinements. But Chute 6, the final box, held Big Ben, the most enormous and intimidating of all the bulls here tonight. Named for his huge, grey hide, the frothing monster rattled and shook the chute, the cause of the deafening clangs. With a reputation on the rodeo circuit to match his monstrous appearance, Big Ben was a bull to be wary of. He was the proud owner of two, short, stubby horns that, despite their underwhelming appearance, could easily pierce through a cowboy's skull.

I shuddered just looking at him. Just then my mate Luke wandered over.

" Some ride, eh?" he said, inclining his head towards Big Ben.

"I'll say! Hope I don't draw that fella," I answered, trying to sound unconcerned. I failed miserably, my voice coming out quaky and terrified.

"Me too. Well, gotta go get me chaps on afore the rides start," Luke said, and headed towards his bag, lying in the sand that padded the back-pens of the rodeo arena. A horse snuffled behind me, and I pulled my stetson hat on.

An old cowboy ambled towards me with a hessian sack in tow and my heart began to pound. He was an official, the one who carried the sack that us bull riders drew our chute numbers out of . We had to reach into the sack and pull out numbers 1,2,3,4,5, or 6. This indicated the chute number that the bull we were riding was in.

The cowboy held out the hessian sack, grinning at me with his almost toothless smile. Probably knocked out by Big Ben,I thought anxiously. Please don't let it be Chute 6,please don't let it be Chute 6.

I reached a shaking hand into the sack, feeling the prickly hessian brush against it. I felt a smooth, square piece of paper and pulled it out. Hardly daring to look, I turned it over. There, written in rough, hasty writing, was -  

Chute Six

Oh No. The very number I dreaded drawing. Not Chute 6. Any one but Chute 6. I gulped, and sweat trickled down my face and neck. An official called for Chute 1 to come over and mount. The tall, skinny cowboy next to me grinned and stood up, stretching. He swaggered over and clambered onto the chute's bars. He mounted, assisted by other cowboys not game enough to ride. Those guys have always said us bull riders were loco, and now I'm beginning to agree.

' And chute number one is off at any second now. THERE WE GO! And he's off like a rocket and-' The announcer yelled in his almost indistinguishable, hasty ramble.

"Ooohhhh!" The crowd groaned in sympathy. The young bloke musta bit the dust early. Chutes 2 and 3 were called and so far no one had stayed on for the required eight seconds. Chute 4, Luke, had the worst time of them all, staying on for barely two seconds, and being bashed against the high metal fence by the brown bull under him. Finally, he flew almost heroically through the air before slamming full-pelt into the sand. The bull exited triumphantly through the gate on the right side of the chutes. Luke staggered up and out of the arena. He looked smashed, poor fella. Chute 5's rider stayed on for eight seconds, first of the night to do so, drawing a relieved cheer from the crowd. He dipped his hat and ran out, the winner so far.

Then, Chute 6 was called.

"Could I 'ave rider number 6 o'er 'ere please? Rider number 6?" an aged man in a white stetson and chaps called, his withered lips stumbling over the words. I gulped, and rose shakily, my clammy hands clenching and unfurling. I staggered over to the final chute, averting my eyes from the monstrosity within. I clambered up the bars, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 of them, my feet stumbling every time. I paused at the top, and stared down at the broad grey back, a taut rope stretched around his girth for me to grip onto, and another behind where I would sit. A cowboy, standing on bars above the bull's head, was bending down to hold him still as I straddled my legs over his back. I lowered myself down to a shaky seat on the grey table-like hide. The cowboy let go of the bull's head and he swung it around to glare at me. He was gonna smash me. I slid my sweaty hand under the rope and hung on. The assistants tightened the ropes and counted down the seconds until the chute opened and I was flung out.

3...2...1... The gate swung open creakily and Big Ben jumped, literally jumped, out. He landed and immediately began to buck and twist energetically. I clung on with one hand, the other flailing through the air, as required. He kicked his way over to the tall, metal fence around the rodeo arena and threw himself against it with all his might and will. I felt dizzy as the impact reverberated all through my body, but I clung on. The bull, angered at my continued presence on his back, bucked more powerfully than ever before. So powerfully, in fact, that he flipped himself right over the exact millisecond that the 8 second buzzer went off. The crowd gasped as one, and someone screamed. It seemed like an eternity before Big Ben landed on his back, but when he did, it ached. Somehow, I had managed to roll out of the way just enough to miss the impact, and, as such, was completely unhurt. I stood, and the crowd yelled and cheered wildly, some still gasping at my narrow escape. Behind me, the bull writhed and struggled to stand. He succeeded, and the crowd cheered even louder. He staggered off, dazed and confused, towards the gate. I ran out dipping my hat all the way.

On my way out, Luke congratulated me.

"Hey, buddy. That was some ride. Can't believe you drew Big Ben and lived to tell the tale," he joked.

"Ha ha," I said sarcastically. "You know, he's not that bad at all."

As I clambered over the metal barrier to join the other cowboys, I felt exhilarated inside. 

I, Tim McCarthy had just ridden Big Ben, a feat experienced cowboys envied.