Chapter 3

Shikictaawa and company set me right back down at my kitchen table. It was a Friday morning in June of 2008. I was pretty much out of luck getting into my clothes now and I couldn't very well go downtown with my young self to go shopping. I hopped into my truck and drove to Dallas. No one would know or care about me there.

That wasn't exactly true. When I went shopping and clerks caught onto the fact that my credit card had no problems they cared about me; no matter how raggedy or ill fitting my current clothes were. I didn't bother even trying to go to Wal-Mart because I knew I'd need help determining my new sizes. When it came down to it, finding a place with real clerks and that sold Wranglers wasn't as easy as you'd think. I had to park my pickup and hire a Limo. I even had to call six Limo companies before I found one that had a driver who thought she could help me out.

Maybe I was being too careful by not showing my face in my hometown, but there it was. I just knew someone could recognize me in my new condition and after that the questions would never stop. Besides, it wouldn't sit well for me to be roaming around town trying to pick up a young girl, especially since I'd probably gone to high school with her Mama or Daddy.

It took the rest of the day to get decked out with a dozen pair of wranglers, a couple of dozen shirts and all things in between. I had to settle for a store bought hat and boots, but I could get down to Austin later for a hat or two and then to San Antone for some hand made boots.

Even though I looked young and was physically better than young, my head was still old inside. There was a lot of new knowledge all right, but I couldn't see it helping in my current project. After all, what sweet young East Texas girl was going to be impressed with an explanation of a Warp Drive or a visit with Nancy Pelosi? Not a damned one was my thinking.

Hell, I didn't even know what kind of music kids listened to today. I might recognize a few of the new country stars but I didn't know a rapper from a pimp, even if there was some difference. I did think of one place I might fit in though.

In my misspent youth I had once wanted to be a bull rider. I found out quickly that it wasn't even nearly as easy as it looked. If you think about it, you'll see that you don't know where in the hell you even go to learn to ride a bull. I didn't either. It isn't like you can just go out in a pasture and saddle one up.

The places I learned to ride bulls were called buck-outs. It isn't even a rodeo, just a ratty assed arena in one small town or another where a stock provider sends a few bulls and lets young idiots give it a whirl for money.

My first trip to a buck-out wasn't productive either. Oh there were enough bulls all right, but I didn't have any bull spurs and I didn't even have a bull rope. I'd figured there would be a guy with a tack trailer there that could sell me anything I would need. Wrong again, Jake. They barely even had lights on the arena, and the crowd was extremely small.

I did get a break when I spotted Billy Scoggins. Billy went to the same high school I did, when he went. He had an alarming case of little man syndrome. He was barely five feet tall but he would end up in a fistfight with anyone that said a cross word to him, and damned if he didn't win a lot of them. Billy was even too small to ride bulls, or for most any kind of rodeo event. He made up for it by being a rodeo clown, possibly the most dangerous occupation on earth.

Anyway, since Billy and I had never been in a fight, and since he knew just about everything about bull riding, I talked him into riding to the state line for beer and got him to tell me everything he thought was pertinent to riding bulls. He even went with me the next day, helping me find where to buy, what to buy, and how to get it ready for the next buck-out.

The next Friday Billy went with me to Ardmore Oklahoma to a big buck-out. This one was so big that there was even a showing of audience, though not really that many. They even had three tack trailers there, but Billy told me the stuff they had would be nearly worthless.

"Hell Jake, nothin' is more embarrassing than having your bull rope break on you at the first jump out of the gate."

Well, I signed up for bull riding practice. It was ten bucks for all the bulls you had the strength to climb aboard. Most of them weren't even too rough.

Billy had spent a little time showing me how to rosin up my bull rope and how to tie the thing to my hand to make sure it stayed tight as long as I wanted it to but would come off the instant I released my grip. He told me it wasn't so embarrassing to still be attached to the bull after it had thrown you off, but that it could sure be painful.

Soon enough they called my name and it was my turn to straddle that chute and lower myself onto the back of a bull that did not want me up there. Plenty of cowboys were hanging around to help you in this chore. They threaded my bull rope around the bull and held it tight while I wrapped it around my hand and pounded the knot soundly to make the rosin stick.

My first jump out of the gate wasn't much with this bull. It was my first buck-out but it wasn't the bulls, and he was tired of the routine I guess. There I was, hanging on for dear life, squeezing hell out of my grip around the bull rope and with my bull spurs dug in tight under the bull. All the damned bull did was lope away from the gate and I'd ridden horses with a rougher gait.

Now I wasn't completely stupid. I knew that this happened sometimes and that I was supposed to get off the bull, since it wasn't bucking, and try again. Unfortunately, neither Billy nor I had discussed how to get off a bull that wasn't trying to throw you off. I'm sure he thought, like I did, that it was something that would just never come up. Finally I realized I could swing a leg over and let go.

Of course the announcer made a production of explaining what happened and that everyone should dismount promptly without trying to teach the bull to neck rein. Hell, I never even lost my hat.

It wasn't long until my turn came round again, and whoever was assigning which bull to what rider made sure I got my money's worth this time. When I got to the proper chute three guys were beating the bull around the head and shoulders with short clubs, trying to get it to be still long enough for me to get aboard. As I came up they were just getting its front legs back inside the gate. It had been trying to climb out. They only had to hit it between the horns four or five more times for me and the helpers to get the rope around it and my hand wrapped up in my bull rope.

This was a jersey bull, and it probably weighed at least seven hundred pounds more than my first ride. The bull was not in a good mood either. One of the last things I noticed was that one of the bull's horns seemed to be turned around a hundred and eighty degrees. It was bent back and seemed awfully close to my left leg.

I nodded my head and they turned it out. I got more than my money's worth this time. First jump out of the gate the bull slammed that bent back horn into my thigh and I thought it had broken my leg. I didn't have any trouble getting off this time, though the three second ride seemed longer than the previous thirty-second gallop.

It was damned luck for me that Billy and plenty more rodeo clowns were also taking this opportunity to practice their skills. As soon as I hit the ground and had the time to realize that I couldn't stand up on my injured leg, right after I realized that I'd had the wind knocked out of me, the darling bull turned around and started directly toward me.

Billy wasn't the first one to get its attention, but that one was sent flying right away. Billy was actually the third one to be butted over twenty feet. By that time I had hobbled over to the fence and climbed it for all I was worth.

The bull was tenacious though and its head hit the wooden fence right as I got my injured ass out of the way. He broke two of the two by ten fence stringers. I was hurt but happy because even though the crowd was small, I did get a standing ovation for my trouble. I didn't give them much of a ride but it was sure as hell exciting, for everyone. Maybe they were applauding the bull.

As they say, that was then and this was now. I was going to try a buck out again with my new and improved body. I wouldn't have Billy Scoggins to help me out this time but what the hell; I'd already ridden a bull once, even if it wasn't for very long.

A little checking and calling around let me know that yes sir ree; they still had the occasional buck-out at Ardmore. I was there with bells on, or thirty-degree angle bulls spurs anyway. I wasn't planning on finding a horny young cowgirl at a buck-out, though there'd be some here for sure. Hell though, they'd be Oakies. No, I was practicing up for a real hometown rodeo.

At least this time I didn't look stupid. I still had my same old bull-rope, it had been the best money could buy at the time and after all these years it didn't look brand new any more. Course I looked brand new to everyone there but that didn't really matter.

My first bull wasn't a loper this time but it wasn't a wild assed Indian either. With my new equipment, and I ain't talkin' 'bout the spurs or rope, I didn't have much trouble staying aboard for eight. I even got a smattering of applause.

My next turn was on a more excitable bull. It was still nothing compared to the disaster of the Jersey with the bent back horn, but he was energetic. I stayed on for the full eight seconds again, but the ride wouldn't have counted because he did surprise me once and I tagged him (touched the bull with my free hand) and that is always a no no.

I had two more rides that night and I paid a lot closer attention to them. I managed to ride them both and it seemed that each one was more of a handful than the last. I found out though that with my super quick reactions and inhuman strength I could stay ahead of their gyrations.

By now I figured I could make a decent showing at a real rodeo, and by the way the cowboys warmed up to me after I showed them I could ride, I knew that the cowgirls would probably be receptive soon enough.

Two weeks from now would be the rodeo in Mt Pleasant Texas. Yes indeed, the home of Don Meredith, one of the toughest Cowboys of all, for a quarterback. He might not be the best quarterback that ever played the game, but to my mind he was by far the toughest. Toughest I'd ever seen in person or on TV either. He played before they had all the rules to keep the precious quarterback from getting hurt. He's sure the only quarterback I ever saw to get his nose broken twice in one game and never miss a play.

Making my appearance on a Saturday night in August I was amazed at just how many people still showed up at rodeos. The place was packed and not just with spectators. There were over fifty cowboys signed up just for the bull riding, not to mention all the other events.