The Bull Rider’s Manifesto: A Thousand Words on Defiance, Dust, and the Dirt That Builds Legends
In the dim glow of the arena lights, where the air hangs heavy with the scent of sweat-soaked leather and fresh hay, a bull rider doesn’t just climb onto eight seconds of fury—he stakes his soul against the chaos. I’ve been that rider, bucked off more times than I can count, each fall a lesson etched in bruises and grit. They call it the toughest sport on dirt, but it’s more than that. It’s a reckoning with the wild heart of life itself, where control is an illusion, and survival is the only prize worth chasing. Today, I release these words—not as a confession, but as a challenge. A thousand of them, raw and unpolished, to every dreamer staring down their own bull. Ride or be ridden. The choice is yours.
Let’s start with the fear. Oh, it’s there, gnawing at the edges like a coyote in the night. You feel it in the chute, that metal cage rattling as the bull shifts, his muscles coiling like a storm about to break. Your heart thuds against your ribcage, a war drum echoing the crowd’s distant roar. “Eight seconds,” you whisper to yourself, gloved hands wrapping the rope, resin sticking to your palm like a promise you might not keep. But fear? It’s the spark. Without it, you’re just another spectator. I remember my first qualified ride, back in ’09 at a dusty podunk rodeo in Texas. The bull was a rank son of a gun named Diablo—black as midnight, horns like scimitars. He spun left, then right, slamming me against the gate before the buzzer. I held on, barely, scoring an 87. The crowd cheered, but I tasted blood and victory in equal measure. Fear didn’t break me; it forged me. As the old-timers say, “The bull riding ain’t over till the bull riders ride.” And ride we do, because backing down ain’t in our blood.
But this ain’t just about the arena. Bull riding is a mirror to the mess of being human. Think about it: life’s full of bulls—unpredictable, unforgiving, ready to toss you into the dirt at the slightest provocation. That job you hate, the relationship that bucked you off without warning, the dreams that spin you dizzy before you can even grip the rope. We all climb into chutes of our own making, bullfighters at our sides (if we’re lucky), praying the flank strap doesn’t snap and the pickup men are quick on the draw. I’ve seen riders lose everything in a heartbeat. My buddy T.J. from Oklahoma—tough as barbed wire—took a horn to the chest in Vegas. Docs said he’d never walk again. Three years later, he’s coaching kids, his limp a badge of honor. “Pain’s temporary,” he told me over warm beer one night. “Pride? That’s forever.” That’s the truth bull riding drills into you. You don’t quit because it hurts; you quit because you forget why you started.
And why do we start? Glory, sure. The buckle, the purse, the whispers of “world champion” that echo long after the dust settles. But dig deeper, and it’s simpler: freedom. In those eight seconds, there’s no boss, no bills, no bullshit. Just you, the bull, and the rhythm of the ride. I grew up on a failing ranch in Wyoming, where winters bit harder than any bronc. Dad was a has-been roper, Mom a waitress with calluses from more than coffee pots. Bull riding was my escape, my rebellion. First time I snuck into a practice pen, age 14, I got launched so high I saw stars. Landed wrong, cracked a rib. Grinned through the tears because for once, I felt alive. Not safe—alive. That’s the hook. In a world that wants you leashed and predictable, bull riding screams, “Screw that.” It’s the ultimate fuck-you to mediocrity. As one quote I scrawled on my glove case goes: “When the bull throws you, don’t just fall—fly. The spirit of a rider thrives on challenge and grit.”
Now, let’s talk safety, because the critics love to harp on that. Yeah, it’s dangerous. Fractures, concussions, the occasional trip to the ER that makes you question your life choices. Stats say one in five rides ends in injury. But here’s the rub: we know the risks. Sign the waiver, tape your wrists, kiss your hat for luck. And the bulls? They’re athletes too, bred for buck, not broken for blood. Handlers treat ’em like kings—top feed, vet checks, retirement ranches when they’re done. I once drew a bull called Thunderhoof in Billings. He was 15 years old, a grizzled vet of a hundred outs. We locked eyes in the pen; I swear he nodded. Rode him clean, scored a 92. Post-ride, I scratched his flank like an old dog. Mutual respect, see? That’s the unspoken code. Ain’t about dominating; it’s about dancing with the devil and coming out whole.
But respect cuts both ways. The fans, the sponsors, the clowns who dive in front of horns—they’re part of the circus. And the women? God bless ’em. They stitch you up, talk you down from the ledge after a bad string, cheer louder than any PA announcer. My wife, Lena—she’s my anchor. Met her at a after-party in Tulsa, her laughing at my dirt-streaked face. “You look like you lost a fight with a tornado,” she said. Twenty years later, she’s still right. Bull riding tests marriages, but the good ones endure. It’s taught me patience, humility, the art of saying “sorry” before the bruise shows. Life outside the chute? It’s the long haul, the off-season grind of mending fences and chasing calves. Teaches you that champions aren’t born in the spotlight; they’re built in the shadows.
Speaking of shadows, let’s address the dark side. Addiction creeps in easy—pills for the pain, booze to dull the what-ifs. I lost a friend to it last year, a top-15 guy who rode like poetry but couldn’t outrun his demons. Bull riding saved my life once, pulled me from the streets like Rachel Crawford says. Got me clean, gave me purpose. But it can take too, if you let it. That’s why I mentor now, hit the junior circuits, tell kids: “Grip tight, but don’t squeeze the life out.” Balance the thrill with the therapy. Read the books, talk to the shrinks. Hell, journal it out—turn your falls into fuel.
And the future? Bull riding’s evolving. Tech’s in the mix now—wearables tracking vitals, VR sims for practice. Women’s divisions exploding, proving grit ain’t gendered. Global too—Australia’s got rank stock that’d make a Texan pale, Brazil’s sending riders who spin like dervishes. Me? I’m semi-retired, coaching on the side, writing this to pass the torch. Because legends fade if we don’t feed the fire. To the next gen: Embrace the suck. Learn from the legends—Lane Frost’s heart, Ty Murray’s steel, Adriano Moraes’ grace. And remember, it’s not the ride that defines you; it’s what you do after the dismount.
As the buzzer fades and the arena empties, you’re left with echoes. The creak of gates, the snort of beasts, the thunder of hooves. Bull riding strips you bare, leaves you wiser, wearier, wilder. It’s taught me that life’s too short for half-measures. Grab the rope, nod your head, and ride like hell. Because in the end, we all face our bulls. Some buck us off, some we master. But every out leaves you standing taller in the dirt. That’s the gift. That’s the gospel.
So here’s my statement: 1,000 words from a bull rider who’s been thrown, trampled, and risen again. Not for pity, not for praise. For you. The one staring down your storm. Saddle up. The clock’s ticking.
