Page 83 of Riding the Storm
Bryce sits on the railing as Judd leads the American quarter horse into the chute. As soon as the horse makes it to the gate, Bryce hops down onto the saddle, leaning forward as it rears up, gripping the braided rope rein in one hand.
“Not too low, or he’ll pull you over the front,” I yell from my perch.
“Get your feet in the stirrups,” Judd adds. “Remember, after the first jump, mark him out by using your spurs on his shoulders. And hold it until his feet hit the ground, or you’ll be disqualified.”
Bryce’s free hand goes in the air, and he nods to Judd.
The gate slams open, and the horse explodes out of it, all power and fury, front hooves stabbing skyward, hindquarters kicking in rapid-fire.
For a split second, it looks like Bryce is flying—one with the animal, legs clamped, back arched, his hat low. The rein is stretched tight in his grip, his gloved hand locked, his free arm slicing through the air.
The bronc twists, all muscle and pent-up rage, but Bryce moves with it—hips rolling, shoulders loose. He’s not fighting the horse; he’s matching it, reading every twitch, every surge.
“That’s it, Bryce!” I scream as the fourth second ticks by.
Suddenly, the bronc arches back into a crescent and kicks all four of its legs to the side, dives, and twists midair. Bryce tries to stay centered, but the horse comes down hard, dirt flying. Bryce’s head snaps, the rein jerks, and he goes sailing off the horse, hitting the dirt hard.
He rolls to his feet in one clean motion. The bronc bolts for the catch pen as he stands there in the mud, chest heaving.
Judd jumps down and sprints to his side. “That was pretty damn good,” he says.
But Bryce shakes his head. “It wasn’t even six seconds.”
“You have to lock your posture in better. You’re not arching your back as you’re adding pressure, so your hips aren’t driving forward enough,” I say as I join them.
“The goal is to stay synchronized with the horse as he bucks, not just bearing down and holding. Unlike bull riding, almost every bronc rider can hit eight seconds. So, the judges look for balance and rhythm when scoring,” Judd says.
“Let’s go again,” I say.
Bryce’s eyes cut to me, and his lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t argue.
I run him through a few more practice rides before calling it a day. Bryce goes to the trailer to change, and I wait outside with Judd.
“He’s not comfortable in the stirrups,” Judd says.
“I know,” I say.
“Maybe you’d be better off having him go bareback?” he suggests.
I shake my head. “Thats just as dangerous as what he does now,” I say.
Judd barks out a laugh, and my eyes snap to him.
“That’s horseshit. A bull is an entirely different beast. More powerful and unpredictable. They like to turn and attack their fallen riders. You don’t hear of bronc riders getting gored. Sure, we run the risk of sprains, strains, and mild fractures, but bull riders end up with broken bones, collapsed lungs, and other organ damage.”
“And concussions,” I mutter.
“Those too.”
“He’ll get it,” I say more to myself than him. “It’s only been a month. He just needs more practice.”
“I don’t know, Charli. His heart’s not in it. He has the skill, but he’s gotta want it.”
And he doesn’t. Not the least bit.
He doesn’t say it out loud, but we both know it’s true.
Bryce emerges from the trailer, freshly showered and dressed in the same getup he wore for the photo shoot yesterday. We both thank Judd for his time and input before heading to the big arena to meet the Dry Canyon team.
