Forget the Cowboy. Ride a bull

Bullriding was a must for this year’s resolutions. When I started putting the list together, I actually had a moment of awe. I couldn’t believe that I had never ridden a mechanical bull. All of these years, so many nights out, and not one bull ride? Nope. Not a one.

Images of the movie Urban Cowboy immediately flashed through my head: Debra Winger bringing the whole bar to a stand still with her—how do I put it—talents as she rides the bull. Flipping around in circles, moving like waves, standing up and then sitting back down. Gulp. Moment of anxiety. Clearly there would be no such expectations of me, right? I just had to stay on the bull for as long as I could. Although….(moment of wishful thinking), it would be kinda fun if I could do more than just stay on the bull.

But this was no movie, and I’m no Debra Winger. So….the primary objective would remain simple. Stay on the bull.

First, I had to strategize. Create a list of sorts.

Ingredients for success:

1. Find a bar with a mechanical bull
2. Gather a posse of friends
3. Drink enough to make myself believe I was invincible against the bull, but not so much that I would fall right off of it on the first spin
4. Meet a group of hot Australian men with sexy accents
5. Convince my posse of friends to ride the bull first
6. Ride the bull
7. Don’t get bucked off; dismount gracefully

FIND A BAR WITH A MECHANICAL BULL CHECK

This was surprising more difficult than initially anticipated. For some reason, I expected a surplus of such institutions. But only found a few within driving distance from where I lived. There was one down the road from my house (who would of thunk?)—but they only had the bull on Thursdays. I work nights, so that was a big no-can-do. Lucky for me, Hollywood had just what I was looking for (doesn’t it always?), and as such, became the chosen destination. And since anything can happen in Hollywood, this could turn out to be the best or worst decision of my life.

GATHER A POSSE OF FRIENDS CHECK

I knew I wouldn’t be able to go in the center of the bar in front of dozens of strangers and ride a mechanical bull without some friendly faces in the crowd. I needed my girlfriends there for support. You know, so I could hear them say “Girl, you sooo got this” and “That bull ain’t got nothin’ over you” and “Don’t think about Debra Winger or Urban Cowboy; I mean, really, who rides a bull like that anyway?” And so…time for a shout out to my girls: Lupe, Ariana and Amy!! Can I get a Woot Woot?!?!? You guys made the bull riding experience a million times better.

DRINK ENOUGH TO MAKE MYSELF BELIEVE I WAS INVINCIBLE AGAINST THE BULL, BUT NOT SO MUCH THAT I WOULD FALL OFF OF IT ON THE FIRST SPIN CHECK

I was nervous and out of my norm. I needed a little liquid courage to get me onto that bull. Not so much that I would turn into an irresponsible, out of control, intoxicated drunk. Just enough to loosen me up and help me shake away some inhibitions. Time for another shout-out to my beautiful friends. They definitely helped me get there. A designated driver, 2 shots and a giant margarita (that I initially thought was a pitcher we’d all be sharing) later, I was ready to ride. Not intoxicated, not wasted—a little unsteady maybe—but still clear headed. And ready.

MEET A GROUP OF HOT AUSTRALIAN MEN WITH SEXY ACCENTS CHECK

Okay, admittedly this is not an actual requirement to riding a bull. BUT, it was one of the perks of this particular resolution—and so it had to be thrown into the checklist. Nothing more to add other than it was done. Hot. Check. Australian. Check. Sexy accents. Check. Moving on…

CONVINCE MY POSSE OF FRIENDS TO RIDE THE BULL FIRST FAIL

That was the most unsuccessful point of the night. It wasn’t just fail--more like EPIC FAIL. Man, I couldn’t get them to ride that bull. Not first, middle or last. Stubborn bunch of ladies, I tell ya. And I tried every trick I could think of. But no budging. I would be alone on this for the night. But it wouldn’t stop me. COULDN’T stop me. Afterall, it was my resolution to complete not theirs. I had no way out really.

RIDE THE BULL BIG CHECK

Ahh. And so came the moment when the bull and I would finally meet. Such build up to our first encounter—in one corner, the mechanical bull that would try and try again to throw me off its back; and in the other corner, me who would be holding onto it with all of the strength one woman can muster. Except we weren’t really in different corners. I was waiting in line and it was busy evacuating seated passengers one after the other. I was getting more nervous. My turn was getting close. It was too late to change my mind. I was there. In Hollywood. In a bull-riding bar. In line. Darn it. I needed more liquid courage, but it was too late.

“You’re up,” the bull’s conductor said to me.

Oh boy. The door to the fence surrounding the bull opened. Off came the heels (it would be a really bad idea to punch a hole in the padding/air mattress that would cushion my fall). In I walked, the crowd growing around me as more people arrived at the bar. The lights were dimmed (had been for a while, but I only noticed it then), the masses cheered me on, my nemesis waited. The conductor helped me onto the bull. I slipped my right hand through the rope that lay across the bull’s neck and held tight; pressed my thighs firm around its torso;

lifted my left hand high; posed for a picture; and then nodded. I was ready to go. And even if I wasn’t, the bull had started to move. Gently at first. And then faster with interesting gyrating motions. I could hear my friends cheer. I held on tighter. I would not fall. Heck, maybe I would pull out some Debra Winger moves. Bring it, bull. Around and around we spun.

DON’T GET BUCKED OFF; DISMOUNT GRACEFULLY SORTA CHECK

I think I stayed on for a lot longer than I thought I would have. And then I finally let go. It wasn’t the spinning or the fear of being thrown across the room that made me do it. My wrist had seriously started to hurt holding onto that rope. All of the twisting and turning while my hand was stuck was making me sore. And so I let go and when I did, the bull enacted its revenge. I flew up and then down onto the ground. I certainly did not gracefully dismount. But still, I like to think that it was my choice and not the bull’s to end the ride.

Overall, a great experience. The actual bull riding played a small role that night. But it allowed me to have SUCH a fun night out with some beautiful friends and helped me make some new ones. I accomplished a resolution, which is always a great feeling. Who knows? Maybe I’ll go again. Maybe the more I do it, the more my wrist will adapt to the awkward positioning. Maybe if I keep practicing, I can learn all of Debra Winger’s bull-riding skills. And if not, then this one will go down as one of my most unique and most fun nights out. Ever.

Thanks for stopping by. And as always, please be sure to follow.

Up in the Air

Immediately after arriving in Hannibal via the Cessna, I began strategizing ways I could get out of the “Fly a Plane” resolution. It was easily justifiable. The point of that resolution was to face a fear head-on. And I had done that. I flew in an eight-passenger plane. Sans resolution, in any other normal circumstance, I would drive or take a train rather than subject myself to the terror of a tiny airplane. The point of the blog is to face my fears. So, I felt validated to skip this one. I shouldn’t have to go through it a second time.

I decided I would just be honest with all of you and explain that it was too scary to put myself through it again,and that the only thing I’d write in this entry was a quirky or smart-ass comment that would serve as a link to “Getting to Hannibal”. Something like, “If you think I’m crazy enough to try my luck and do that all over again, just re-read how scared I was the first time!” or “If it feels like you’ve read this somewhere before, that’s because you have; I’ve already sort-of completed this resolution.”

Or maybe I would just buy a toy plane, review the package insert and directions (thereby “taking a lesson”) and then fly it; maybe even capture it on film as proof. After all, I had never specified the type of plane. It wouldn’t be cheating. Real planes aren’t the only things flown.

But as the days went by, guilt consumed me. “Getting to Hannibal” wasn’t me actually flying the plane; and, let’s face it, neither was learning to fly a toy plane. I knew what I meant by that resolution, and it most certainly wasn’t a toy plane. Who was I really cheating here? Only myself.

So the decision was made. I would take a real lesson. One with a real plane, a real instructor, and real airtime.

I called and scheduled a day and time to fly. They gave me the Sunset Lesson. We’d be up in the air when the sun started to go down, which would allow for “beautiful pictures and a sense of romanticism.” Um, first, the last thing that would be on my mind would be how pretty my pictures turned out; I would be more focused on the butterflies fluttering through my insides making me want to pee in my pants. Second, I was going to be in the sky with a stranger teaching me to do the one thing I feared most; trust me, I would not be feeling romantic in the slightest. But I’ll go with it, I thought. Maybe a beautiful sunset above the Pacific would be enough to calm me.

Twenty minutes before we were supposed to have the lesson, I arrived at the flight school. I settled in and waited for my instructor. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel as nervous as I thought I would. Maybe it was the comfortable leather chairs, or the sound of a trickling waterfall at the entry, or the basket of cookies by the desk, or even the miniature deodorant and mouthwash bottles in the Lady’s room (don’t ask me why they had any of these at a flight school, but hey, who am I to judge? I actually thought them quite nice amenities. At least we would all smell fresh up in the air.)

The backdoor opened, and in walked a tall man somewhere in his early fifties with ruffled blonde hair and blue eyes. He sported a T-shirt with the flight school’s logo and carried a packet under his arm. He looks capable, I thought. And he gives me good juju vibes. Hope he’s my teacher.

He smiled and extended his hand, introduced himself, and asked me to follow him into the conference room where we would start with a basic one-on-one flying tutorial. Yes! He was my instructor. I already felt comfortable with him, with the school and their mini deodorant, and with the whole feel of what I was about to do. Eh, maybe flying wasn’t too bad.

He pulled out papers from the packet and told me a little about himself. He was originally from Germany where he had been a pilot. One day he “decided to have a life” (his words, not mine) and no longer felt the tug to fly all around the world.

“It’s a difficult lifestyle being a commercial pilot,” he said. “The sky becomes your home; you live in a different city every few days. And there comes a point when you have to decide if that’s enough. For me, it wasn’t. I wanted a home on the ground. With a family.” He grinned.

“That must have been a hard decision to make,” I said. “Especially if you love to fly.”

“Nah,” he answered. “It’s not a hard decision when you love someone else more.”

Aww, how sweet. What did I tell ya? Good juju vibes, all around. I could tell right from the start that I was going to like this guy.

“But of course I still wanted to fly,” he continued. “So now I teach and I’ve been doing that for fourteen years. But enough about me. Tell me about you.”

I confessed my fear of flying and explained that that was the reason I was there. I intended to battle my demon, to fight an epic battle between the iron dragon and me—one I intended to win. Well maybe I didn’t use those words or create such a dramatic depiction, but he got the picture.

He nodded and said, “You're not the first person I've taught who felt that way. It's very common actually." He smiled. "Let’s get started then.” He stood up and held the door open for me, leading me out to the airplane.

We walked over to a parking lot of sorts with rows of carports; only, instead of cars, there were planes. He pointed at the different makes and models and taught me about the different engines and styles. All I heard was “little plane and big plane.” No idea what all of the rest of it meant. He explained that celebrities kept planes there, pointing to one as we walked past. They would call, request one, and it would be waiting to take them to their desired destination. And yes, I glanced around, wondering if Brad Pitt or George Clooney would suddenly walk out onto the tarmac. And no. They didn’t.

“So what kind of plane are we flying?” I asked.

“A Cessna Skyhawk,” he said. Great. Here we go again. Another Cessna. “Four seater.” Wonderful. I went from an eight passenger plane with space for two pilots to a four-seater.

“At least I get to fly shot gun and I don’t have to sit in the back,” I said, chuckling.

“Shotgun?” he replied. “That’s what I’m flying. You’re the driver.”

I’m sorry, come again? I was going to do the actual flying? This wasn’t one of those lessons where he would show me a few things (you know, like the basics? The on and off switch and engine light for example), and then fly us into the air where maybe, just maybe, he would gently allow me to take control of the plane (for like three minutes at a comfortable cruising altitude) and then immediately resume control and bring us safely back down to the ground? I was going to fly the plane? Me? The person who was terrified of flying? The one person in the plane with no flying experience what so ever? I mean, really, was that sensible? All of a sudden good juju man looked a little wacky to me.

He must have seen the terror shoot right out of my eyes. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I can assume control of the plane at anytime. I’ll be right there.”

Damn straight you’ll be right there, I thought.

“And there she is.” He pointed at our plane.

I looked at her tiny little figure. White body, white wings, small glass windows, maroon writing with the word “Skyhawk” on the tail. Looks more like a giant dragonfly than a hawk if you ask me, I thought; I was going to pilot a dragonfly. Awesome. I couldn’t help but laugh. I had wanted to conquer the dragon. Here she was. Only in fly form.

We walked around the plane as my instructor taught me about her.

“Every good pilot does his or her own thorough inspection of the plane before flight,” he said. “We never rely on others or what the computer says inside of the plane. We inspect it—front to back, top to bottom—ourselves.”

We looked at the wings, the tires, the windows, the front, the back, the top, the bottom. We checked for any cracks or oil leaks, any loose gadgets and widgets. I climbed onto the top of the plane and checked the amount of gas in the tank, making sure that the quantity in the tank matched the quantity on the computer. We looked at the oil level and confirmed that it was adequate. Then we untied the rope that was anchoring the plane to its parking spot, pushed her out to the runway (literally pushed the plane to the runway), and finally climbed inside where we inspected all the internal parts. I quickly noticed that all of the components that move the airplane were on both my side and his.

Thank God, I thought. It’s like driver’s ed—he can stop, start, and turn, controlling the plane the entire time.

Even though I logically knew that he’d have that capability, seeing it was more comforting than you can imagine.

The instructor showed me all of the buttons, explaining what each was and what we checked with it. He pointed at the pedals and explained that I’d press down on the top of the pedals to break, and at the bottom of the pedals to move the plane while on the ground.

“Press on the right one to turn the plane right, the left one to turn her left,” he said. “To go straight, you dance, pressing right then left then right then left.” He jiggled in his seat as he said it.

Then he twisted the key in the ignition and turned the plane on. “Let’s drive her to where we’re going to take off.”

Okay then. Pedal time. I pressed right then left then right then left.

“I look like a drunk driver,” I said as the plane swayed around the runway.

“Yeah, you do.” He laughed. “But don’t worry, you’ll get it with time. Just keep trying.”

There was one plane ahead of us. Once it took off, my instructor turned on the weather channel to confirm good visibility and favorable winds. Then he called into the radio tower and asked for permission to take off.

“Alright, let’s do it,” he said. “Pull this out all of the way.” He pointed at a knob in the center of the control panel.

As I tugged, the airplane accelerated forward.

“Okay now pull the yoke,” he said pointing to the ‘steering wheel.’

My little dragonfly floated into the air.

“Keep pulling,” he said. “Harder.”

The more I yanked, the higher we soared into the sky. Once we were high enough, he taught me to level out the plane. We moved in the direction of the sun, flying over mountains toward the Pacific Ocean.

He continued to teach me while we were in the sky, explaining all of the things I needed to look out for. He pointed at planes beneath us—most of which I hadn’t seen until he called attention to them. We practiced turns, leaning right and then left as I steered simultaneously with the yoke and the pedals. He took pictures of me in the plane, assumed control of the plane (which I secretly knew he always had anyway) so that I could snap pictures, and then told me to turn around and head back to the airport.

We floated in the sky for a bit. Then as the sun started her descent, so did we. My instructor assumed full control over the landing and gently brought us down to the ground again. I got to drive my dragonfly across the runway once more. And no, I didn’t look any more coordinated the second time. We climbed out and pushed her back to her parking spot, and then tied her in place with the rope.

The instructor walked me back to the building and we said our goodbyes before he went into his office and I went to my car.

It was a great lesson with a fabulous instructor (the good juju vibes were dead-on). Am I less afraid of flying? Maybe a little, but not much. I think, though, I’d have to take a lot of lessons before I lose the fear completely. Was it worth taking the lesson? ABSOLUTELY. It was an experience that I’ve never had before (and in all honesty, will unlikely ever have again), and one that I wouldn’t give back for anything. Not a thing. Not even for all of the free miniature deodorant and mouthwash in the world.

Thanks for stopping by. And as always, please be sure to follow.