Anatomy of a Mechanical Bull Ride

As you might imagine, life on the road can get pretty lonely at times. So when I'm able to set up a date with a woman in Dallas, I am definitely excited. When she suggests going to Cowboys Red River, I am even more intrigued.

Cowboys Red River is an authentic Texan bar. A loud country band plays on stage while hundreds of couples two-step across a circular floor resembling a skating rink. I count somewhere between three and four hundred cowboy hats in the room at any given moment.

I am certainly out of my element, but fortunately for me, my date is not a fan of line dancing. She does, however, intimate that I should ride the mechanical bull located at the back of the bar. Knowing absolutely nothing about riding mechanical bulls, but looking to impress my date, I decide to sit back and watch a few others ride before partaking myself.

I discover most riders break down into one of three categories:

1) The City Slicker. This guy falls off of the bull within the first ten seconds, bringing shame and ridicule to his entire family.

2) The Overly Serious Cowboy. Like the bowler who brings his own ball and shoes to the lanes, this guy is always prepared with chaps, a cowboy hat, and various other bull riding accessories. To him, fake bull-riding is a life and death matter, and he's rather die than fall off that machine.

3) The Drunk Girl. This girl's only concern is that she looks sexy riding the bull. In this case, sexy generally involves dry humping the bull in a drunken stupor.

I am clearly a city slicker, but it's important that I stay on for a decent amount of time considering my date is watching. As I hop on the bull, I notice that my legs hang down all the way to the bull's horns. I'm instructed to grab a piece of rope near my crotch and lean back.

As the bull starts rocking, I start to gain confidence. I'm staying on far longer than I expected, and the only price to pay is the feeling that I'm being repeatedly punched by myself in the crotch. As the bull gets more violent, I start to slide off. My feet get caught in the horns, and I push off to get myself resituated. Apparently, this violates some sacred bull-riding rule, because a woman in the surrounding crowd starts to heckle me, telling me to "quit cheating."

Unfortunately, my long legs and the increasing movement of the bull make it impossible for me to position my feet from underneath the horns, and when the bull finally bucks me off, my foot gets tangled up in them. As the crowd looks on, I am stuck on my back with my size 16 sticking straight up in the air.

There is nothing more reassuring than being stuck on the ground with your foot caught in a mechanical bull while a crowd looks on. It is not an empowering position. After about thirty seconds, or what seems like a year, the bull operator moves the horn and sets my foot free.

With a bruised crotch, a battered shin, and a damaged ego, I stumble back to my date, who is now looking at me with an expression containing an odd mix of pity, disdain, and amusement.

There will be no second date.