About twelve years ago I was developing my outfitting business, Double Rafter Cattle Drives.  In the early years, we were rapidly purchasing horses, tack, and tents, and trying to blend them into an efficient unit.   The logistics of moving 300 momma cows and calves, chuck wagons, and 20 guest cowboys proved to be an interesting challenge.  We tried to have perfect control of what we could control because Mother Nature would provide the excitement. 

 Throughout the year, we would go to the horse sale and buy five prospects with the thought that three may work out.  It became the routine to saddle up the new ponies and put a week’s hard ride on them to see what they knew and how they would react to the unexpected.  We were slowly building an athletic horse cavy that could both perform, and baby sit.  Mounted correctly, even the most reckless guest would still be alive at the end of the week.  This business taught me patience.  

It was early May, and Druann and I had been out on a training run on our bicycles.  To lessen wind resistance, the standard attire is a spandex jersey and spandex tights.  We looked flashy and fast.  (We weren’t fast, but we looked fast.)  After a couple hours workout we returned home for breakfast.  This is where things started to fall apart.

As we rolled into the driveway, we spotted a cloud of dust drifting over the barn.  Being the patient father I am, I stepped around the corral to see four horses bolt past the open gate out into the pasture.  I calmly asked, “What in the hell is going on?” 

My two daughters, who were probably ten and twelve, were preparing to take the new horses for a work out, but were having difficulty getting them corralled.  “It’s that new bay horse Dad,” they said.  ”He spins and runs off every time we get him to the gate.” 

Although you wouldn’t know it by my calm appearance, my blood pressure pegged.  Looking towards the tack shed, I noticed they had already caught and saddled one of the new horses, and he was standing there patiently waiting.  Mumbling to myself, I reached into the shed, grabbed a lariat, and led the horse towards the pasture.  Looking back, I think I heard the horse chuckling, as he dutifully plodded along behind this funny looking cowboy Lance Armstrong.  With my flashy lime green jersey, and spandex tights, I swung to the saddle.  Nothing happened.  This was my first time on this horse, and he seemed level headed.  I trotted him off.  I spun him to the left. I spun him to the right.  I built a loop and twirled it a couple times…..nothing.  Across the pasture I went.

At a lope, I made a couple attempts to corral the four renegades, but just as my daughters had said, the bay horse would stop and spin at the gate.  My blood pressure was beyond pegged by this time.  Shaking out my lariat, I built to the bay horse.  (For those of you unfamiliar with which end of the horse the grass goes in and which end it comes out, saying I “built” to the horse meant I was riding at an ever increasing rate all the while I was twirling and enlarging my loop with which to toss around the loose horse’s neck.)

With the speed, and tension peaking, I fired my loop past my horse’s ears directly towards the running bay ahead of me……My horse came unscrewed.  Now, it would be very nice to say I rode my bucking mount through several minutes of wild-west antics, quickly quieting the scared pony, and we all lived happily ever after.  But, that would be a lie.  I was airborne the first jump. 

The exact details of the short ride are a bit foggy.  I remember, and have evidence on my butt, of passing through a Russian-Olive tree.  I’m not sure if it was during the launch or the return-to-earth phase of my ride.  I did learn that no magical combination of swear words could make spandex stick to leather or repel the attack of the aggressive Russian-Olive.  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is exactly why cowboys don’t wear spandex tights……they make you swear!