Page 169 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
He touches his chest, right over his heart, and nods to the gate operator.
My heart stops.
Those around him are double-checking things.
Then the gate swings open.
Apocalypse Now doesn’t just exit; he detonates. All four hooves leave the ground as he launches from the chute, his chunky body twisting in midair like he’s trying to turn himself inside out. Ridge moves with him, but barely, his free hand high and already fighting for balance.
One Mississippi.
The bull lands and immediately spins left, hard and violent, his body nearly horizontal with the force. Ridge’s entire body whips to the side, his legs losing their grip for a terrifying moment before he clamps back down.
Two Mississippi.
A damn monster of a buck, the kind that sends most riders flying. Apocalypse Now’s back hooves kick higher than his head, and Ridge’s body compresses and extends like he’s being worked by invisible hands. His face is pure concentration, and I can see the pain there, the strain on his hip.
“Hold on, baby,” I whisper, not even realizing I’m standing, everyone around me standing too.
Three Mississippi.
The bull changes tactics, crow-hopping in tight, vicious jumps that rattle Ridge like he’s in a paintmixer. For a second, I see his eyes, wide, determined, maybe a little terrified.
“Come on!” Cash shouts beside me.
Four Mississippi.
Apocalypse Now does something that shouldn’t be possible for an animal that size, but he drops his left shoulder while spinning right, a move designed to catch riders off guard. Ridge lists dangerously to the left, his entire body weight shifted wrong, sliding down the bull’s side. The crowd gasps as one entity.
“No!” The word tears from my throat.
But Ridge does something I’ve only seen in his old videos where he throws his weight in the opposite direction without touching anything for balance, using pure core strength and momentum to right himself. The crowd explodes with relief and amazement.
Five Mississippi.
The bull is furious now, his bucks becoming more violent, more unpredictable. I can see Ridge’s hand slipping on the rope, the wrap loosening with each jarring impact. Sweat flies from both man and beast, catching the arena lights like diamonds.
Walker chants beside me. “Come on, Ridge.”
Six Mississippi.
Apocalypse Now tries to scrape Ridge off against the fence, getting close enough that Ridge has to pull his right leg up high, tucking it against his body. For a terrifying moment, he’s riding completely sideways, allhis weight on his left leg and wrapped hand, defying physics and logic.
“I can’t watch,” Meredith says, but she’s peeking through her fingers, all of us unable to look away.
Seven Mississippi.
The bull gives everything he has, a combination of spinning, bucking, and twisting that looks like special effects. Ridge’s body is held on only by his wrapped hand and sheer determination. His legs come completely off the bull, his body flag-poling out to the side, and I know,I know, he’s going to fall.
Eight Mississippi.
He made it, held on for eight seconds. I’m so tightly wound that tears are pricking my eyes.
Ridge releases immediately and gets launched like he’s been shot from a gun. But even in flight, I can see him tucking, preparing. He hits the dirt on his right side, rolling even as Apocalypse Now’s hooves slam down where he was a heartbeat ago. The safety riders move fast, roping the bull and leading him out of the arena.
The crowd detonates with cheers and screams that ring in my ears.
Ridge springs to his feet, and he stumbles slightly, throwing both arms up in victory. His face is a mix of disbelief, pain, and pure joy. Dirt covers him from head to toe, sweat has soaked through his shirt, and there’s a cut on his cheek from something, the rope,maybe, or flying dirt.
