Bull Rider self portrait

Its really something, when one hunkers down on his bull rope, sitting upright with his hand poised in mid-air, sitting up tight on that rope, rosin smelling up the air mixing with the crowds anticipation,Your whole world goes silent... Until you nod your head and that chute gate swings wide, unleashing the freight train beneath you, slobber arching in the air, churning with mud and grime as the freight swings upward, belly curling to the sky, almost graceful, the power-house launches and groans, spins and doubles back, the noise from the stands is almost deafening, that is of course, if you could hear it over the blood pounding in your ears. Eight seconds seems like an eternity, but the safest place for you to be in high up on that arching back... You skitter sideways, off the left side, the ground that seemed to be miles under you comes racing up to meet you, but you dont stay there long, there's a beast to be reckoned with and he's out for blood, running now, the bull fighters are on your side, one leap and you're safe on the arena rail. One of the more graceful maneuvers you've come to master- the beast is roped and dragged from the arena. A six-point-nine second ride, once on the preparing side of the fence, you dust yourself off, and with a shake of your head you walk away from the chutes, bull rope slung over one shoulder, you silently thank the bull and thank the Lord and wander on- theres a rodeo in Fort Worth next weekend, and you don't want to be late.