I used to consider myself a "manly man." No, really. Not anymore. Last Friday night, something happened that drastically altered my self-image, possibly forever. As these things so often do, it happened in a bar. The band I play with on weekends, (shameless plug alert!) The Guinness Brothers, was working in a lakeshore bar, a great place, more of a night club than a bar, really. In the course of any weekend, the bar features live comics, games, prizes, and - this is where my unmanliness comes in - a mechanical bull. That's right, just like the one John Travolta rode in "Urban Cowboy." The band has been playing there since the club opened over two years ago, and they've had that bull there for at least one of those years. I've seen guys and gals ride it hundreds of times. I always thought it looked like a lot of fun, but never really considered trying it myself. Why? I'm too old, for one thing. Also too fat and too chicken. Mostly too chicken. But last Friday they fired the bull up early, before many customers arrived. Other than the guys in the band, the bartenders and a half-dozen urban cowboys and cowgirls, the club was empty.
The cowboys were ridin' and whoopin' while us guys in the band sat at a table near the stage drinking gin and tonics, trying to look cool while surreptitiously ogling the cowgirls. Now, the funny thing about gin and tonics is this: they sometimes make you think you're something you're not. Like a cowboy. They also make bull-riding look easy. The cowboys, one after the other, hopped lightly onto the back of the mechanical bovine, gave a nod to Ken, the bull's operator, and proceeded to whip back and forth at an alarming rate as Ken at the controls did his best to send them flying. Which eventually, of course, they did. But before being launched into the stratosphere, the cowboys looked like they were having a great time. So great a time, in fact, that - aided by the aforementioned gin and tonics - I decided to try it myself. The guys in the band - my dear, dear friends, who never want anything but the best for me - encouraged me with such helpful comments as, "C'mon ya wuss!" and "Does anybody smell poultry, ‘cause I sure do, haw, haw, haw!" Those guys love me. By the time I finally worked up the nerve to ride the bull, money was changing hands. The odds being offered against my continued existence were not encouraging. Trying to appear confident and failing miserably, I announced to Ken that I wanted to ride the bull. "Really?" he said. "Yeah, sure, why not?" I said. Ken eyed me dubiously for a long, slow moment. I knew what he was thinking: Too old, too fat, too chicken. "Well, OK," he said. "Sign this." Ken pushed a form across the table. A release form. Unlike most of the cowboys present - all of whom looked to be about 24 years old and in perfect physical condition - I read the form. The dismemberment clause gave me a moment's pause, as did the paragraph absolving the club of any and all responsibility for lacerations, broken bones, contusions and - ahem - "male dysfunction" incurred while riding the bull. If nothing else, the organ donor card affixed to the bottom of the form should have tipped me off; riding the bull is more difficult than John Travolta made it look in that stupid movie. But by this time it was too late; cowgirls were watching. And being a manly man (remember, I still thought I was one at this point) I had no choice but to proceed. One nice thing about a mechanical bull; it won't stomp you to death when you fall off. That's about the only nice thing I can think of to say about it. Other than that, a mechanical bull is a lot like a real bull. It's big, it's hairy (though the "hair" might be fake - I couldn't tell), and it's hard to hang onto. I was a little surprised to discover there were no stirrups on the thing; no place to put your feet. Also, it didn't have one of those saddle horn thingies (I THINK that's what they're called). The only thing to grab hold of was a small, leather strap. Ken instructed me to stick my hand through this at an angle almost guaranteed to break my wrist when I fell off. "Just lean back when it goes forward and lean forward when it goes back," Ken said. "That's it?" I asked. "That's it," he said. "And try to hang on." "Uh..." I said. Ken could see I was nervous. "Do you want me to run it easy?" he said. "Do you have a setting for toddlers and elderly ladies?" I asked. "What a kidder," he said. I wasn't. My buds from the band - great guys who worship the ground I walk on and would be forever saddened should anything bad happen to me - were off to one side casting lots to decide which of them would inherit my stuff and which would be the first to ask my recently widowed wife on a date. Except for our guitar player, Mark. Mark was standing ready with a camera, a nice Nikon, ready to shoot digital footage of my demise to later post on the band's Web site. Anyway, he never got the chance to videotape my ride. No camera, not even a Nikon, can shoot that fast. The bull leaned slightly forward and I executed a perfect somersault directly off the front of the thing. Lying there on my back, nose to nose with the bull, I was thinking how glad I was that it was mechanical and would not now commence stomping me to death. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear a smattering of applause coming from the cowboy table, but I'm almost sure it wasn't being proffered as a sincere appreciation of my rodeo prowess. And farther in the distance, I thought I could just make out the delicate, tinkling laughter of pretty, young cowgirls. All of whom were more manly than I felt at that moment. The walk back to my table was a long one. To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or the name of a good chiropractor, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Want more? Archived "Reality Check" columns as well as photos, links and previously unpublished "mini-columns" are online at http://mtrealitycheck.typepad.com |