Saddle Grabbers

School of HARD KNOCKS The Ups and Downs of Bull-riding Lessons

Eye Number 88 carefully as they run him into the chutes. He's a big white Brahma bull who has no horns, and for that I am grateful. But he's no slouch-he just bucked off Sean, a 17-year-old student from Tempe, in two seconds flat. While 88 looks calm enough, I am pacing, fidgeting with equipment, tightening my bootstraps, adjusting my spurs. I put my riding hand in the leather glove. It fits tight, warm. Another rider ties the glove to my wrist. We share a knowing glance. I stretch, hoping that stretched-out muscles injure less easily. Doing a long, low stretch for my inner thighs, I inhale deeply, smelling fresh dirt, old wood, the livestock. I am willing myself to ride Number 88. I watch the others, not really seeing them ride. I am jazzed up, impatient, still undecided about riding-all the while trying to appear cool and confident. It is the final day of rodeo school, the final chance to ride. Except for a few family members, the bleachers of the Payson Rodeo Arena (home of the Jim Bob pulls the rope as tight as he can from where he stands on the gate. HE HANDS ME THE TAIL OF THE ROPE. I carefully take the 1-inch flat rope across my palm and behind my hand, pulling it tight. I put a small twist between my thumb and fingers and lay the rope across my palm, closing my fingers. I AM NOW TIED TO 1,200 POUNDS OF ANGRY BULL.

Annual World's Oldest Continuous Rodeo in August) stand empty. I put on my flak jacket, not noticing the heat of the June afternoon. As I try to control my breathing, Lyle Sankey, owner of the traveling school, asks, "Is she going to ride?"

I look him in the eye and nod.

"Then you need a helmet," he says sharply.

I balk like a teenager: "I'm tough enough." I think.

"Let me tell you why," he says in a fatherly tone, motioning me to lean closer. "Scars do not look good on girls."

How can I argue with that? So I put on the helmet.

I am not a newcomer to pain, broken bones, horses or bulls. I was 14 when I began trick riding and, at 16, I was convinced I could become the first woman professional bull rider. Then a fool stunt on a horse broke my right wrist and elbow. Two years, seven pins, four screws, one plate, one wire and four arm surgeries later, I had given up those dreams.

Here I am again, though, a 32-year-old mother of two, standing on a platform, waiting for my chance to ridethis time as a reporter on assignment for the Payson newspaper. The editor hovers around me, shoving his camera in my face at every turn. Now I know what it feels like on the other side of the lens.

When the opportunity arose to cover Sankey Rodeo Schools while they held class in Payson, I jumped at the chance. I joined 14 young wannabe cowboys from as far away as Florida, who spent the last three days learning bareback, saddle-bronc and bull riding from some of rodeo's greats - Sankey, Jim Bob Custer and his brother Cody.

As the 1992 World Champion Bull Rider, Cody Custer, 32, was the big draw for the students. The fresh-off-the-farm youngsters hung on every word the quiet man spoke and followed him like puppies, just happy to be in his presence. They wanted desperately to learn the moves, the "small pretty moves," that carried Custer to the championship.

From my spot above the chute, I scan for my husband's face. No sign of him a blessing, I think. He was here earlier when 17-yearold Bryan Stark, a saddle-bronc-riding student, left the arena in an ambulance. "He was hanging upside down, hitting his head on the fence posts as he went by," Michael had told me when I joined him at the arena fence. "That better not be you," he'd added with a nervous laugh.

"It won't be," I had said in cocky conviction. Was I convincing him or me? Michael said he would try to come back to see me ride, but now I am glad he didn't make it.

Instructors and students appear preoccupied with their tasksthe older, seasoned men watching and coaching; their boy-faced charges limping and grimacing as they leave the field, none complaining. True rodeo-caliber cowboys are beginning to emerge where half-grown kids in Stetsons had once stood.

Suddenly Jim Bob sticks three fingers in my face.

"Huh?" I say.

He walks away chuckling. Oh, I get it, it's his way of telling me: two riders before me. It is time to get on my bull. I take a deep breath.

I lower my 5-foot-11-inch frame into the chute and tap the beefy flanks of Number 88 with my boots as my legs slide down over his massive body. It's a delicate form of a rodeo two-step: I let him know I am coming, he lets me get on.

I'm sitting on a bull; a moment of amazement passes quickly. I am aware of my spotter's hand near my chest. It is Nate, one of the assistant coaches. He will yank me out of the chute if the bull rearsI hope. Jim Bob helps me tighten and adjust my bull rope, already wrapped around 88's powerful chest. I warm up my glove, sliding my riding hand rhythmically down the hand-woven rope hard until the glove feels sticky. I place my gloved hand palm-side up in the handle of the bull rope, my pinky square in the middle of the bull's huge back. Jim Bob pulls the rope as tight as he can from where he stands on the gate. He hands me the tail of the rope. I carefully take the 1-inch flat rope across my palm and behind my hand, pulling it tight. I put a small twist between my thumb and fingers and lay the rope across my palm, closing my fingers. I am now tied to 1,200 pounds of angry bull. Old 88 decides to lean on the gate and my leg. "Remember your chute procedures," assistant instructor Mike coaches in my ear, while somewhere from the arena Jim Bob yells, "Get your foot in front of the rope!" "He's on my leg," I yell back. From below the gate, Cody's voice insists, "Get her foot forward." Realizing I need help, Cody and the others begin to push on the bull from outside the gate, and my right leg inches forward. Okay, now chute procedures, I remind myself, going over the points that have been drilled into our heads the past three days: free hand on the top rail, boots resting lightly on the rails, ready to step off of him should he get rowdy. I slowly slide my body up tight to the handgrip - "sneaking up on your bull," the cowboys call it. I check "base position"-my knees in front of the rope, my back straight, chin tucked. I'm ready to give the nod. My heart thumps louder and faster. I hear a voice inside me say, If I got off right now, no one here would think less of me. Instead, I give a few shakes of my head, a manic "yes" to the gate men. There's no turning back now as the gate swings open and 88 and I lunge out of the chute. The sheer power that explodes beneath me is like a freight train pushing me backward. I try to square my body with my free arm to take the hit. "Hold your hand like you're waving to the crowd," I remember Cody telling us. Suddenly that free arm flops behind me, not where it should be. But I hold the first jump; my riding arm stretched like a rubber band. My knees and thighs lose their grip as his second buck-a mighty airborne thrust-jolts me backward. My rear end meets 88's back with a thud that I feel all the way up my spine. Knocked out of control, I am spinning to the ground. I'm a rag doll as my legs are thrown into a scissors-split, my left leg pointing skyward, my right leg scuffing the ground. I open my hand to release the rope. To my relief it gives way. I hit the ground hard, dirt flies, I see nothing but a great white blur over me. I feel a hard blow to my right calf. Shoot, he stepped on me. Pure adrenaline rushes me, and I pick myself up and run for the fence, not daring to look back. Near the gate I slow up, but behind me a rough voice calls out, "The bull's comin' your way!" I frantically scramble up and over the rails, throwing myself onto the platform, where I finally feel safe enough to think about where I am hurt. Nothing seems broken. I walk around to be sure. The only damage seems to be the brand that Number 88 left, a cloven hoof-print on my right calf. After such an incredible high, I feel weak and washed out. I am shaking, probably more so because I am trying not to. I want water and air simultaneously. In a daze, I accept congratulations from coaches and onlookers. I'm sore, and I'm sure it will only get worse, but for now, in front of the other students I must "cowboy up." Now I wish my husband had shown up. Later in the afternoon, the instructors gather us in the bleachers to hand out awards. In bull riding, three students tie for first place with 34 out of 40 possible points. I scratch notes in my reporter's notebook, only beginning to notice the pain in my right wrist. When Cody calls out my score, I am pleasantly shocked. I've been awarded 32 points for my three-second thrill ride. Then, in the announcer's booth, we watch our rides on videotape. I find myself plotting my next ride, what to do differently, how to improve-I stop and correct myself. You are not riding again, I think to myself again and again. Yet, it was a kick, a rush like no other. I have tasted the addiction that plants a rider onto a bull's back rodeo after rodeo, injury after injury. But my right hand is really starting to throb now-reminding me my body isn't completely up to this anymore. "At the end of this school a lot of these guys will learn this is not the sport for them," Sankey had said. "They find out that most rough-stock riders are at the bottom of the food chain. Their entry fees pay for the champions, they are the wrecks that sell the tickets." But for those who do "grow a heart" (one of Sankey's favorite expressions) and muster the courage to keep doing it, there is no turning back. After it's all over, I give Sankey a ride back to his hotel. My wrist is swelling rapidly. It takes two hands to shift gears, and Sankey notices. "Is it this truck, or is your arm hurt that bad?" he asks. I am embarrassed to admit that, yes, my wrist hurts very much. Two days later-it takes a while to completely convince me-an X-ray confirms my right arm is broken near the wrist. A doctor in Phoenix patches me up with a blue cast, just in time for my two little girls to add stars and stripes to celebrate the Fourth of July. AHThese days Myndi Brogdon confines herself to tamer pursuits near her home in Strawberry. She's on the school board and leader of a 4-H troop bringing up eight llamas. But recently she heard that a magazine wanted a feature on women sky divers.