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big river ranch bull riding

I've been a bull riding fan since college. You could find me on a Sunday afternoon watching Built Ford Tough pro-bull riding tours in the dorm lounge of Concordia University Wisconsin. 
All by myself, of course. College students weren't apparently into that kind of thing.

But c'mon. How could you not be? 
When I moved to St. Louis, I found a friend or two who would watch PBR with me at the civic center downtown. Heck, last year I even won a free tour of the bull pens.
(Which I didn't realize until I was home. There was weeping and gnashing of teeth, you can be sure.)

So when I stopped by Diggity Dogs Antique Mall here in town (Where else can you thrift AND eat biscuits and gravy? C'mon now.) and saw the flyer for bull riding at Big River Ranch, I promptly put it on the calendar.
Chris had never seen bull riding before, but it didn't take him eight seconds to decide he liked it too. 
(See what I did there?)

Big River Ranch is tucked away in some glorious rolling Missouri hills. We got to watch a gorgeous sunset . . . AND men get trampled on by 2,000 pound animals. 
That's the beauty of America right there. 

Chris watched the bulls as someone who works with livestock every day, intrigued by their manner and build. 
I watched the bulls with my hands over my eyes, like I usually do, wondering what happens to a man that he one day decides to strap himself to a one-ton chunk of crazy. 
And just as I was in the midst of telling Chris about this . . . 

one of the cowboys got bucked off, flew up in the air, and landed by basically sitting down on top of the shoot. You've never seen a more surprised man in chaps in your life. 
The crowd went wild. His wallet, unfortunately, did not. 

I'm not saying everybody in the world has to love bull riding. 
I'm not saying everybody should make time to go to the Fort Worth stock show and watch rank bulls and tough cowboys and broken arms and horns. 
I'm not saying you should even have to go to Big River Ranch, sit outside with your husband, eat ice cream, watch the people, enjoy the Missouri hills and thank the good Lord that you don't have to wear a Kevlar vest to participate in your favorite hobby. 

Oh, wait. 
Well, heck. 
Yes, I am. 

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