Riding the Bull

The Texas sun seems to be helping my cold. Rather than losing my voice, I’ve seemed to get better as the second day of class progressed. The weatherman says it may hit 80 degrees here. It’s 9 degrees in Vermont. I eat lunch by myself at a taco joint with outside tables.

In the evening I decide to hit the Rodeo. Sick or not, I couldn’t resist an event that describes itself (at http://www.hlsr.com/) as “Houston’s version of Mardi Gras, the Super Bowl and the running of the bulls in Spain, all in one.”

I walk there, and I’m glad I did, despite the fearsome tumult of the cars. The warm air seems to reopen my sense of smell, or maybe it’s just that there’s not much to smell in a Vermont winter and I had forgotten what it was to use that sense. I revel in the smells as I walk. The odor of earth and rotting vegetation from the hotel lawn seems unimaginably sensuous. My heightened sense continues inside the gates. The popcorn and cotton candy smells from the midway are bright and nostalgic. The smell of goat urine and cow manure in the agricultural exhibits adds an air of authenticity to this man-made environement. I may be losing my mind, but I take pleasure even in the second-hand cigarette smoke from the hatted, booted walking Marlboro ads.

I stroll the rodeo, a tiny bit depressed because I realize that I’ll never be able to find words to describe it. To get a sense of the scale of this thing you must first understand that I had no intention of attending any actual rodeo events. For many people the Rodeo is a chance to see Country Music superstars perform. Others come for the crafts fair, or for a trade fair that includes local radio stations, cell phone companies and others. For me there was plenty to see in the crowds (over 300,000 last weekend), the 4-H exhibits, the midway, the concessions, and the food booths. Think of a Vermont country fair writ large. Very large. Think of a shopping mall the size of a metropolitan airport displaying and selling every imaginable aspect of the cowboy lifestyle from the most practical and authentic agricultural tools to the silliest urban cowboy frippery

I spent some time watching and smelling Longhorn and Brahma cattle, the likes of which you won’t find in Vermont. I made an attempt to eat a barbecued turkey leg of ridiculous size. It was tasty, but too darned big. It could have come from an ostrich (which, by the way, the 4-H kids had here, too, though I didn’t find them). Thoroughly defeated by this attempt, and worn out by my week’s studies in comparative barbeque, I began to consider a return to vegetarianism. Rodeo prices were outrageously inflated. I was on an expense account for the Turkey leg, but couldn’t bring myself to pay $6 of someones else’s money for a bag of peanuts.

I watched the mechanical bull for quite a while. I was fascinated by the way the operator handled his customers. If it was a young child, he gave a gentle ride that wouldn’t throw the rider, then stepped onto the airbag and gently lifted the little one off. Boys between about 8 and 14 got long yet challenging rides, especially if they looked like they were serious about the business. Any beer- or testosterone-crazed male got a few quick spins and an ignominious buck that sent him flying to the airbag after a few seconds. If he had a cheering section, it was even quicker. Middle-aged folks got a ride that was short but not very humiliating. Attractive young women, of course, tended to get more time than they wanted, since they drew a crowd. Texas men are, in general, not your sensitive New Age guys, and there was a lot of whooping and hollering from the audience. I watched two of these young ladies, and it was quite a sight. Both were gracious about the noise from the peanut gallery, smiling through the whole thing, though one must have wanted a more challenging ride. She yelled to the operator “I’m falling asleep here!” as she rocked back and forth.

It took an impressive mix of psychology, mechanical aptitude, seat-of-the-pants marketing skills, and kinesthetic sense to operate the hydraulics in a way that handled each customer appropriately, and I was quite impressed by the man’s skills. He was also one of the few people at the rodeo self-assured enough to be wearing a feed cap rather than the ten-gallon standard.

I grabbed a glove, paid $2, penned my name to the bottom of a full page (small print) of legal mumbo-jumbo which waived the entire US Constitution and Uniform Commercial Code if I got hurt, and had my 15 seconds of fame. The spins and the bucks (comparatively mild ones, I suspect) were no problem, but when the hydraulic bull bucked foward and then stopped for what seemed like a few seconds, I lost my firm seat. The next spin sent me flying.

Perhaps I could learn to like Texas.