One cannot feel betrayed by the horse he draws. It’s the only horse he has for the ride. And the eight seconds are never enough at this rodeo. A flash in the eternities and it is over, the pickup rider is easing you over the rump of his appaloosa pony, and you are walking out of the arena and it is over. The only betrayal perhaps is they put you on the horse, that there was a horse there to be ridden. But, truth to tell, I do not believe I would have it any other way; bruises, bumps, scrapes, ground slams and all.
And I am not waiting for that bastard up over the chutes to blow the whistle either. When it comes I’ll ignore it, best I can.
