“How long have you been riding broncs?” she asks. I look behind me to see if the woman sitting on the rail behind the chutes is indeed directing the question at me. With her camera in one hand and cradling the hefty zoom lens in the other, she is perched at the ready to capture the impending action when the cowgirl we both have our eyes trained on gives the nod. A chin dips, the gate swings open, and a bronc bolts from dead calm to explosive fury in the time it takes to register regret.
The camera shutters, and the crew behind the chutes hollers encouragement as the rider, a ragdoll astride a tornado, clings to the eye of the storm. Hooves pound the ground and become airborne again, dirt flies, and the horse, all sinew and flying snot, dekes into a spin, throwing his mount off balance. My whole body winces as the cowgirl succumbs to the chaos and lands in the dirt. I let out the breath I’ve been subconsciously holding in.
“About five hours,” I respond, leaving out the fact that I haven’t actually ridden one yet.
It’s the afternoon of day two of the Ladies Ranch Bronc Clinic I’m attending, and after a few gos on Murphy, the mechanical bronc, I’m still waiting my turn for the real deal. I’m unsure if watching those that go before is giving me confidence or anxiety, but I can’t not watch.
From the safety of her perch on the rail, the photographer’s follow up question goes to motivation. This one’s easy to answer.
“To scratch an itch,” I say. “I’m not getting any younger. I always figured I’d do it someday.”
“How old are you?” she asks.
“Forty-seven.” I say. I’ve stopped hesitating. It is what it is. It pleases me that her jaw hits the ground. She shares that she is in her early forties and had me pegged for late thirties. I don’t even care if she is lying.
When I arrived yesterday and appraised the company I was in, it was not hard to discern that one of these things was not like the others. Ok, maybe two. Lindsey and I gravitated toward each other, of the same vintage if not quite the same age. While many gals were here to hone their skills for the upcoming spring rodeo circuit, I was looking to indulge the nagging curiosity that had been alive and well in my psyche since my own twenties. (Lindsey? She was here on a bet).
I had, however, judging by the smooth skin and perky wrangler butts of my fellow rodeo school students, been riding horses for longer than most here had been alive. And how could that not work to my advantage, I reasoned.
Age gap notwithstanding, my lack of cowboy hat also had me feeling exposed. I mean, I brought one. But I left it in the car. It felt like false advertising, suggesting some modicum of rodeo experience that I did not in fact possess. A look I had not yet earned. But I quickly learned that the old Carhartt jacket I had pulled from my closet for the occasion was considered vintage and coveted by the cowgirls twenty years my junior. Look at me, accidentally trending.
As for the rest of my look, my 14-yr old nephew had kindly offered up his steer riding gear to outfit me for the occasion. In the fall, he had overseen my hands-on training, trying his best to bounce me off his bucking barrel one afternoon. A few springs, an empty drum, and adolescent muscle: the sum of my roughstock experience.
While I stopped short of borrowing his mouth guard (though he did walk me through the boil and bite process to christen my very own), I felt no shame showing up as a hand-me-down cowgirl. Protective vest, check. Sweet fringy chaps, check. Hockey helmet, check. And while the latter does not appear to be a popular choice in this particular crowd, I am keenly aware that I am but vintage, not immortal.
So, here I stand, one part midlife crisis, one part teenage boy. All nervous energy. But the hypothetical is about to meet the here and now, and so, I tap out a quick message to him. Two words.
“I’m nervous.”
Three dots and then:
“Don’t be, your gonna do great!!!! Ask for ‘Buttercup’… they will know.”
But it is Rodney, or Ranchey? Or Ripley? (but most certainly not Buttercup) who rattles his way into the empty chute in front of me, snorting and giving serious side-eye. I am too in my feelings for a proper face-to-face introduction, so instead, I get right down to business with his undercarriage, fishing for the far-side rigging with a glorified coat-hanger to secure the heavy rope saddle I heave onto his back.
My hands move instinctively to tighten the cinch. I grew up riding horses—around showrings, across fields galloping up hills, and perfecting something my sisters and I called the great switcheroo (which has surely prepared me for bailing off behind a pickup man).
I have also come off my fair share of horses, though it’s been a while, and I have never tried to ride one whose sole purpose is to make sure I don’t. But I’ve always been Cowgirl-curious. The itch began in my twenties when I learned that Ladies Cow Riding was an actual event. I wondered if a youth punctuated by trying to stay on ponies hell bent on pitching me off would be a transferable skill, and for as long as I can remember, I’d been telling anyone who would listen that I was ‘freakishly strong for my size.’ Every once in a while, the curiosity would resurface and I would seek out a clinic or an opportunity, but finding neither, the thought would tuck itself back into the recesses.
Unbeknownst to me, the Women’s Ranch Bronc Championships had been founded in 2016, part of a modern revival of a tradition women had been pushed out of in the 1930s. Yet by the time I saw a poster advertising a women’s ranch bronc school in 2025, I had never heard of the sport, let alone seen it. But, not particularly fond of cows and keenly aware that my roughstock-riding ‘someday’ was creeping toward the land of never, I signed up.
I hadn’t given much thought to the falling off part. But above the chute, bronc rein in hand, ready to mount up, I am now consumed by it. How far it will be to the ground. What it will feel like when I hit it from height. If I’ll dive roll the landing. Or bite it like a bag of bricks.
I step my left foot onto a rail. I lift my right foot up and over and plant it gently but firmly on the saddle to signal to Rodney (Ripley?) that I’m comin’ in. I straddle the inside of the chute and lower myself into position. He shifts almost imperceptibly. I can only assume that we are both feigning calm. I reach down to find my footing in the stirrups and hope my boots don’t fall off. Not yet, anyway. The veteran riders had insisted that I liberally fill my boots with baby powder so they would spit me out rather than hang me up in a stirrup. The chute is narrower than I expected, and I reposition to make room for my spurs, now expertly hockey-taped to my heels.
The fella standing on the arena-side of the chute, all weathered patience, adjusts the leather of my bunched up chaps through the rails. With one gloved hand he guides my leg into position, the other ready to swing open the gate.
Pearl, our cowgirl clinician, leans over the chute as I run through the checklist. I roll my weight onto my back pockets. Pull my elbows in. White-knuckle the night latch with my right hand. Ready the bronc rein in my left. Tuck my chin.
“When you’re ready, you gotta give the nod,” I hear.
I don’t move a muscle.
But it’s been a long day, so Pearl starts a countdown.
“Three… two…”
It works. I nod before she gets to one.
The gate swings open.
The ride itself is a bit of an out-of-body blur. I watch my left hand lifting and lowering as I’ve been taught. I come to the end of my rein with each buck, contemplate if I should have started with a little more slack, and make a mental note to ask for notes. The ride is both long enough to give myself a performance review in real time but short enough for my next thought to register that I’m in the dirt.
Nothing hurts.
I jump to my feet and pump my hands in the air like there’s a buckle waiting for me. I have, if we’re being honest, also just peed my pants on impact.
I jog out of the arena, tie that vintage Carhartt around my waist, and collect victory high fives all the way back to the chutes. There is a smile on my face that feels too big for it. But holy shit. That might have been the best thing ever.
On the drive home, things will start to tighten up. By the next day, my neck, left bicep, right forearm, and lower back will hold the memory more vividly than my mind will ever muster.
I will go on to watch the video of my ride one million times. Not because it’s good. It isn’t. Because the too-big smile comes back every time.
But before I even leave the arena, I send the video to my nephew.
Three dots and then:
“That wassss soooo cowgirl and awesome I’m so glad I got a super cool cowgirl bronc rider in my family!!!”
Later, he asks when I’m going to enter a rodeo.
Someday, I tell him.
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