You Can Bump 'Em

Dirt flew across the paneled fence, splattering the faces of onlookers. Cowboy hats ducked slightly and the announcer cackled into the microphone, “That was quite the show, my friends.” Minutes later the bull trotted proudly out of the arena, after much effort of the pick-up men.
She sat on her horse in the corner outside of the arena: out of sight, out of mind. Her arms were crossed, hiding her anxiety. Barrel racing was the next event. She knew once she picked up the reins her mare would start up, like an engine of a motorcycle purring in anticipation, and she would have to contain her. The excitement, the nervousness—it never died away. Three cans were set up. The cowboys scooted them and twisted them to the perfection of a barrel racer’s pleasure. She was last hole, the bottom of the rake. Saving the best for last, she told herself. She let out a long breath. Her mare matched her with a loud blow. She patted her neck careful not to disturb the reins. That was how sensitive her mare was, how in-tune of an ensemble. Stepping off, she tightened the cinches, another indication that the race was nearing.
Anticipation.
The announcer spoke her name in a long drawling voice; she was next.
She picked up the reins, the mare started prancing and breathing quickly, pulling her head against the reins, explosive but gentle. She pointed her towards the alley, the long path to a short pattern. Instantly, the mare picked her head up, pushing against the reins, begging to be let loose. Closer they inched to the gate as the previous horse left the arena. The anticipation building as they saw the first barrel. She kept her eye on it before giving the mare the cue that it was all hers; it was the mare’s turn to take control.

Granby, CO Summer 2012

Trust.
A major part of barrel racing. Trust that as they ran full speed towards the barrel, the mare would, in her right lead, hunker down grazing my toe in a perfect semi-circle around the girth of the barrel. Trust that we would find each barrel and getting as close as possible—“You can bump ‘em, you can kick ‘em, just don’t knock em over!” the announcer cackles—we would make the pattern home, clocking our fast time.

Dreaming of the NFR

In a world where gender roles are changing, tensions arise between those that welcome the change and those that don't. A magazine article discussing the aspirations of a female roper to make the top 15 in team roping was shunned by male team ropers. In the rodeo world, men and women have the opportunity to compete side by side, yet a woman has not made it to the National Finals Rodeo in an event other than barrel racing. This fact has never been an issue until someone stated that women absolutely not make it to the NFR. Why? In my opinion, a statement like that is unnecessary. 

"Growing up, all rodeo competitors, including women, dream of making it to the NFR to compete under those Las Vegas lights and win the buckle proving they're the best."

Who's to say a woman can't?

Check out the rest of my article here. 

Tammy Meeske Fine Art
tammymeeske.com

The Lessons Rodeo Taught Me

Patience

The long, sometimes drab drives taught me the patience to sit for hours, along with the talent of entertaining myself while driving for hours.

Growing up in rodeo, a lot of people train their own horses. I learned how to barrel race and pole bend with my horse. Neither of us had any experience and we taught each other in our own way until we started winning. But that is one of the hardest parts, working with a horse. It's also the most rewarding. For some people, it comes natural, but as a little girl learning by doing is quite the process. Not only that, but a horse has so much personality. 

A horse has off days and on days just like we do. Days they don't want to work and days they have too much energy to contain. Relying on a living creature that weighs 1,000 pounds is a scary thing. Getting bucked off, trampled, and stepped on comes with the territory.

Read more here.

https://www.theodysseyonline.com/glimpse-of-the-rodeo-road

You Can Bump ‘Em

Dirt flew across the paneled fence, splattering the faces of onlookers. Cowboy hats ducked slightly and the announcer cackled into the microphone, “That was quite the show, my friends.” Minutes later the bull trotted proudly out of the arena, after much effort of the pick-up men.

She sat on her horse in the corner outside of the arena: out of sight, out of mind. Her arms were crossed, hiding her anxiety. Barrel racing was next. She knew once she picked up the reins her mare would start up, like an engine of a motorcycle purring in anticipation, and she would have to contain her. The excitement, the nervousness—it never died away. Three cans were set up. The cowboys scooted them and twisted them to the perfection of a barrel racer’s pleasure. She was last hole, the bottom of the rake. ‘Saving the best for last,’ she told herself. She let out a long breath. Her mare matched her with a loud blow. She patted her neck careful not to disturb the reins. That was how sensitive her mare was, how in-tune they were as an ensemble. Stepping off, she tightened the cinches, another indication that the race was nearing. Anticipation.

The announcer spoke her name in a long drawling voice; she was next.

She picked up the reins, the mare started prancing and breathing quickly, pulling her head against the reins, explosive but gentle. She pointed her towards the alley, the long path to a short pattern. Instantly, the mare picked her head up, pushing against the reins, begging to be let loose. Closer they inched to the gate as the previous horse left the arena. The anticipation building as they saw the first barrel. She kept her eye on it before giving the mare the cue that it was all hers; it was the mare’s turn to take control.

Trust. A major part of barrel racing. Trust that as they ran full speed towards the barrel, the mare would, in her right lead, hunker down grazing my toe in a perfect semi-circle around the girth of the barrel. Trust that we would find each barrel and getting as close as possible—“You can bump ‘em, you can kick ‘em, just don’t knock em over!”—we would make the pattern home, clocking our fast time.