The twitch of butterflies in my stomach reminded me I was nervous. I shifted in my saddle to ease the tension in my knees and in my gut. Reba, whose mother was named Dolly, sensed my anxiety and danced as I waited for the announcer to read my name. I patted her neck, feeling the pulse of adrenaline in her veins. Reba is the kind of horse I dreamed of when all I had was a “kid horse” named Curly, whose desire to move was no bigger than the size of his brain. Retired from ranch work, Reba is still a horse that lives to run.
I looked around at the others sweating in the hot July sun. There was laughter and camaraderie and kids and feral miniature Aussies. Who did all those expensive mongrels belong to? I took a deep breath and thought, this is my first rodeo. It’s not much – it was a junior rodeo with an 18-plus division and a passel of mini-Aussies – but it felt like a lot.
Anything more would be too much.
I’ve read that your 30s are for doing things you wanted to when you were a teenager but didn’t get to. When I was 13, I wanted to try barrels at the youth Pioneer Day rodeo after I won third place in steer riding, but I didn’t know the pattern. At 15, I dreamed about competing in the high school rodeo with my FFA friends. At 18, I watched a professional rodeo with my boyfriend and thought I should really learn to ride. I didn’t do any of those things at any of those ages. I was born to an indifferent parent who fed but never rode his horses. I also had a single experience, a core memory, if you will, of loping for the first time on my friend’s gray gelding. That feeling.
At 32, I ran the barrels, the poles and a whole myriad of other play-day events at my first rodeo – a rodeo I competed in alongside my daughters. My girls, whose father’s part-time job is managing their rodeo schedule, don’t know how good they’ve got it.
I beat my 7-year-old daughter in the keyhole and placed 10th in the flag race. I also nearly fell off Reba during pole bending and “ran” the barrels like an old woman crossing the street with her walker. I told myself I wouldn’t be embarrassed. Post-30 Erica is not going to waste energy on trivial emotions like embarrassment.
Next rodeo, I’m getting a hat that says, “This ain’t my first rodeo,” and I’ll wear it completely unironically.
