Why I Almost Killed Myself
Oh my God. What have I done?
Those were the last thoughts I remember before I hit the ground.
I was sitting on a fifteen hundred orange and white bull. I was praying.
How did I end up here? Got please help me.
Five cowboys helped strap me in and wrestling with the angry beast.
I was too scared to pay attention to what they were up to. There’s got to be a strategy that nobody has thought of yet.
One of them offered some instructions and tips, but all could do was pray and nod like I was listening.
I have a better idea.
I bet nobody has ever shown this poor creature any love. What if I treat him with true emotion and tenderness?
The strategy seemed viable. With some gentle hugs and pets, I imagined his gratitude when he finally gets the love and tenderness he’s probably been seeking his whole life.
I imagined the gate bursting open and Red Light trotting out like a show horse — forever grateful for my love. I imagined waving to my family and friends in the bleachers as we leisurely strolled across the rodeo dirt.
I bent down slowly to give him a tender hug and a gentle rub. I whispered “It’s OK” in his ear in my sweetest softest voice.
He didn’t like that. He jumped and snorted angrily. His eyes rolled all the way back in his head. His left eye bulged at me with white rage.
“Hey, hey easy!” The cowboys kicked him and wrestled with the ropes to try to calm him down.
This bull hates me. How did I even get myself into this situation?
It was a regular family fun vacation day in West Yellowstone national park. I called the rodeo to see what time it started. It sounded like a fun family evening that the kids would enjoy.
When the automatic operator menu answered the phone, I zoned out like I always do when electronic operators answer the phone. For some reason my brain thinks it’s the perfect time to think about other stuff.
So I normally miss all the menu options until the 3rd or 4th round before I have to crack down and really concentrate.
When I finally zoned back in, the operator said “press 9 if you are a rodeo contestant.”
“Isn’t it weird that anyone can enter the rodeo?” I said to our horseback riding guide later that day.
“I’m going to be in the bucking bronco contest tonight.” He said. He was an 19 year old local kid.
“I can’t ride the bulls anymore. I broke my back last year in that rodeo.”
He explained that everyone bought their spot in the bull riding event for $40. Winner take all.
I can’t believe it’s just open for anyone.
What if I enter the bull riding contest and win? How glorious would that be?
I dismissed the thought, but it came back. I dismissed it again.
For 40$ someone can compete against professional bull riders.
I tried to convince my friend to enter the contest.
“What if you won? I pleaded with him. “How glorious would that be?”
He wasn’t taking the bait.
But I kept thinking about it. I can’t believe anyone can enter the rodeo.
The rodeo clown tried to recruit my youngest boy to be his assistant in a goat chasing contest. My son was too shy to accept, and the job went to our friends daughter.
I could tell he was disappointed in himself.
Would I be disappointed in myself if I didn’t enter the bull riding contest?
Maybe I’ll just ask about it. It’s probably too late to sign up anyway.
I found a rodeo worker behind the bleachers and told him what I was thinking.
“It’s too late to get in the bucking bronco event, but you can get on a bull.” He said.
“Listen,” I said to him, trying to bring a voice of reason. “I’m over forty years old. I’m not very limber. My back is not in great shape. Be honest with me. Do you think this is a good idea?”
“You’ll be fine,” he assured me and pointed me to the rodeo office. The lady at the window handed me a waiver form to sign.
“Listen,” I said in the my most serious sounding tone. “I’m over 4o years old and I have a bad back. Are you sure this is a good idea for someone my age? I studied her face for signs of deception.
“You’ll be fine.” She said. “You can enter the contest for $40, or you can just be an exhibition.”
I gave her two twenties and she motioned for a cowboy to show me where to wait behind the stalls.
I grabbed his shoulder so he would know I was serious. “Listen man, you gotta be honest with me. I’m over 40 years old and not in the best shape of my life. Is this something I should be doing?”
“You’ll be fine. Just wait right here.” He walked away.
I need to stretch. I wasn’t feeling very limber after a week long RV trip. I don’t care if these cowboys think I’m a pansy.
The ground was freshly raked cow manure. I climbed over the back fence behind the coral into a patch of weeds. I started doing toe touches.
“You can’t be back there.” The cowboy said to me.
I did a 20 minute yoga routine in cow shit. I prayed the entire time. It was more like a numb, hopeful plead than a prayer.
Our friends daughter came running by. “Hi Chayse!” I was happy to see a familiar face. She was still helping the clown. “Weird place to see you.”
I got up out of the cow shit.
“You’re up.” Said the cowboys.
“Listen man, can you give me your worst bull? Like the weakest one you have?
“You’ll be fine.”
They put a chest protector on me, and helped me climb over the gate onto Red Light’s back.
They handed me a helmet, but it was way too small. The bull was getting restless. I handed it back expecting a larger replacement.
Red Light was getting aggravated. This was was taking longer than he was used to.
The cowboy handed me his hat instead of a helmet. I didn’t ask any questions.
My strategy backfired. Red Light hated my whisper and hug. The cowboys kicked him and pulled his ropes to try to calm him down.
I just can’t let go of this bull. Please God help me.
These were the last thoughts I remember before a blur that ended with a car crash force body slam.
I was dizzy and in shock when the cowboys helped me up and over to the side.
I was the last rider so they helped me across the arena to my family as the crowd exited.
I was beat up, sore and bruised, but I was OK. Just like they said.
“Did I win?”
“You came in second place.”
I believed him.
“Who won?” I asked.
“Nobody won. You have to ride for 8 seconds to qualify.”
That would’ve been nice to know before I entered.
My wife tried to wipe a long black smudge across my forehead.
“That there’s some bull shit.” The cowboy laughed at his own joke.
I was too dazed to get it.
We drank a beer with the cowboys and they gave us a ride back. They had a baby boy in the back of the truck with cowboy boots on.
I found the video a couple days later on Facebook. I sent it to my friend to convert into slow motion. I wanted to figure out why my leg was black and purple.
I wasn’t able to figure out what happened to my leg, but the video made it clear that the bull shit line across my forehead was from Red Light’s back hoof shooting past my head with bone crushing force.
It wasn’t until I saw that video that I realized how stupid I had been.
Red Light didn’t reciprocate my love, but he gave me something much more meaningful that night.
He gave me a long black line of bull shit across an area of my body I should use more often.
