Rodeo Days

I'd had one experience with the rodeo before last Thursday. 

(And I like how it's referred to as "the" rodeo much the same as we say "the" circus, not "a" circus.  Unless you're my father, who calls any given badly organized affair "a" "three-ring circus."  But I have been to "a" three-ring circus and it was a model of precision performance.  So.  Take that, Dad.)

(And now I can hear him saying, "Don't get smart with me.") 

My one experience with the rodeo before last Thursday happened on Sunday, November 23, 2003, beginning at about 1:00 AM when labor pains that eventually yielded Gemma had kicked into way high gear. I didn't wake Bryan up for them because I knew it would take an hour or two before they were close enough to warrant the trip to the hospital.  (I don't think I am the only pregnant woman who harbored just one chief concern about giving birth--the one about being turned away from the hospital because you're not "far enough along.")

What is on television at 1:00 AM on a Sunday morning?  The rodeo. 

I watched some kind of riding. . . something that involved a huge animal bucking like crazy and I remember sympathizing with it instead of the cowboy.  "You go, animal!"  (And, in the midst of a contraction: "I wish I could buck my way out of this one!")

Two weeks ago, when the superheroes went to the Pikes Peak or Bust Rodeo, I paid a little more attention to the events.  There was one singular conclusion to reach:  The rodeo is a lot of crazy.

Not stupid.  I would never fault a sport for being stupid.  Hitting a ball with a piece of wood?  Throwing a ball into a hoop?  Hitting a ball again and again and again over huge swaths of lawn until you finally get it into a tiny cup?  No.  Stupid is fine with me.  Stupid is the beginning of sport.

I'm talking crazy.  At least, the riding events were.  I hadn't realized that the rodeo features more than just bull riding, which is the sport whence the cowboy climbs aboard and stays on as long as he can, but with only one arm.  Because. . .  Because. . .   Using two arms would be sissy-like? 

It also features bronco riding, whence the cowboy climbs aboard either a bare-back or, in a different event, a saddle and then hangs on for eight seconds.  Judges give him points on his style.  Less than eight seconds on disqualifies him (and gets him booed, at least by audience members who knew more about the rodeo). More than eight seconds doesn't count for a thing.

What is he judged on?  Dang.  Who knows?  Something about leaning back as far as he can on each buck, and kicking his legs in a certain time with each buck.  If I were a chiropractor, I'd hand out my cards at the rodeo dressing rooms.

Here's the amazing part: After eight seconds, another cowboy who works for the rodeo rides alongside him and grabs him off the bucking bronco. 

Carried off of your horse?  For safety?  Talk about sissy-like. 

Hey rodeo: Keep your safety riders and let the cowboys get off the bronco on their own.  Add the dismount to the points.  Then you got yourself an interesting event!

Maybe these events when compared illustrate a truth that spreads past the rodeo:  There are some trials you just have to hold on tight for and ride out for as long as you can however you can.

There are other trials that have a definite end and you try to ride them out with style. 

Other portions dazzled.  Dana Bowman parachuted in with the colors to kick us off.  He was an active duty serviceman who became a paraplegic during a training sky dive.  He recuperated.  Figured out how to use his prosthetics and then re-enlisted.  Now retired, he parachutes into various venues.  He walked by our row and I teared up as I shook his hand and told him it was honor to meet him. 

Then Joshua tripped him.

Total accident.  One of those "didn't see the little tike" kind of things.  Yep.  That's my son . . .

The rodeo MC was impressive.  He knew a ton about each competitor and his or her career and the horses and bulls they were riding.  We heard so much about it because it was his job to fill the gaps between runs.  Sure, color commentators do that for televised sports, but no one can see them, so they can use as many cheat sheets as they want. 

This guy sat on his horse in the middle of the sideline with nothing but his cowboy gear and a headset microphone.

His shirt was pink, by the way.  Because "Tough Guys Wear Pink" that night.  Because it was breast cancer awareness night.  Because--the day after my port removal--of course it was. 

Gemma's favorite part was watching the Ranger-ettes ride in.  They were a team of 30 or so cowgirls, all wearing satinny hot pink blouses and pink hats.  It would be their job to charge the flag of the various sponsors around the arena between events.  But when they first came out as a group and ran around in a little routine, their horses in full gallop, I found myself thinking, "Why am I not a cowgirl?"

(Because I'm a superhero instead!)

(Note on this, Joshua found one of our ParTAY invitations, which includes the graphic of a naval officer standing next to a super-heroine.  He asked, "Are you like this for real, Mommy?"

"You mean, am I a superhero?"

"Yes."

"Yes, I am."

"You can't be!  You don't even have a cape." 

I wanted to explain to him that the cape stuff and the secret identity stuff--that's all Hollywood.  But I'll wait until he's older.)

Joshua's favorite part was the barrel racing.  I think he liked it because it was the one thing that made sense.  Everyone knows what a race is and what it's for.  Interesting that women do this event but men do not.  Maybe because if men could, no one would choose to ride the back-breaking wild animals.

My favorite event was the team steer roping.  Two cowboys would charge after a runaway steer.  The first would lasso its horn, then the second would lasso it's rear leg.  That was some good ropin'.

But each time a steer came charging out of the gate, I was cheering for it. And a few of them made it all the way across the arena to the far gate.  You go, cow!

Bryan's favorite was calf roping.  Why?  "Lot of action.  A lot of skill."

The overall family favorite, by far, was mutton bustin'.

I thought this was when children were sent to tackle sheep.  No, no.  It's when a child is suited up in a couple knee and elbow pads and a helmet, then placed on board a sheep, then set out like a bull or bronco rider.

The sheep kicks a lot, too.

And the kid hangs on for dear sweet life.  Longest time wins.

Gemma and Joshua couldn't believe it.  Then the MC announced the next competitor was a 6 year old girl.  My daughter exclaimed, "That means I can do it!  Can I do it next year???"

Sure!

Joshua's face trembled.  He feared this would be another left-out-cus-yer-too-young moment.  At which point the MC announced the next competitor was a 4 year old boy. 

Josh's face lit up. Same question.  Same answer.  And I thought a) what kind of forms do the legal guardians have to sign for these kids?  and b) I wonder if Mr. Colorado will let my kids practice mutton bustin' on his golden retriever. . . 

We left before it was over, though it was late for the kids--9:30.  They both stayed awake for the whole ride home.  Another sign of how big they're getting. 

*****
Epilogue:

That weekend, we went to Grand Lake.  The next weekend (so, last week), we'd planned to visit our friend, Helen, up in Story, Wyoming.  It was going to be a family trip.

But Amy Burch had been planning to take Gemma to the Renaissance Fair here in Larkspur.  She'd even asked her friend to make Gemma a beautiful fairy costume so the three of them could go as fairies, and this was to be the last weekend for the Fair.  So, could they have the kids for the weekend?  Please?

Uh.  Yeah. 

The kids had a great time, of course.  They spent all of Saturday at a Burch family reunion picnic.  And Joshua got to spend a special time with Miss Betsy while Gemma went to the Fair on Sunday.  It was a fairy tale come true for her. 

It was a dream come true for me and Bryan.  Story is a 7 hour trip away.  A beautiful drive. Time to talk without interruption.  We left Friday afternoon and began our return trip on Sunday morning, so it was a brief time.  But it felt like we had all the time in the world.

Helen is doing well.  She lives in an 1880's log cabin on a beautiful property.  We chatted with her on Saturday morning, then walked across the street for lunch on an outdoor porch and chatted, then went to her sister's place and sat on her porch and chatted, then went back to Helen's yard and chatted, then all went to dinner and dined outside and chatted. 

There are times when all you really want to do is enjoy good company, and that's just what we did.  I found myself thinking of something Sister #1 had said around the time of what felt like another crappy hurdle to deal with--that she was looking forward to a time when I would just be able to enjoy my husband and my kids. 

The season for that has been heaped upon us, I'd say.

(I should include: To get everyone to the restaurant for dinner included, for the sake of making things easy and because I felt a little adventurous, my climbing onto the back of Helen's sister's ATV.  She toodles around the little town on that thing and it looks so fun.

As soon as we were on our way, it occurred to me that we weren't wearing helmets.  And it didn't matter that we didn't pass a single car to or fro, or that she wasn't going fast, or that the restaurant was only 3 blocks away.  I kept thinking, "If I endured 7 weeks of radiation only to die of stupidity, a lot of people are going to be pretty annoyed with me. . ."

But here I am.  Thank You, Jesus, Whom I spent most of the ride praying to.)

So, yes.  Good company. 

On our drive home, we passed through Cheyenne, where "The Grand-daddy of 'Em All" rodeo was taking place.  We skirted through at just the right time to avoid traffic, but the interstate did take us right past the arena.

I thought of all the riders inside.  Some hanging on as long as they can.  Some riding it out with style.  It was a beautiful ride home.