Travolta Made it Look Easy

I’m sore pretty much all over my body. My back is in knots from contortions. My wrists and forearms ache. My thighs burn from gripping and chafing. I rode a mechanical bull last night. I’m in Nashville.

I went with my brother and my sister-in-law to The Trap, a country and western club within shouting distance of the Titans’ stadium. Live music. Bovine cyborg.

You give five dollars to the man with the joystick. Then you read the liability waiver. Then you sign it and date it. Then you thumbprint it.

Then you vault onto the bull, which features a fake head with fake horns. Get a good grip, underhanded, then nod to the fellow at the joystick. If you are a man, he spins you around fairly gently until he tires of you, then makes the bull throw you violently. If you are a woman, he swings you around gently, then jiggles the bull so that your breasts jiggle, then throws you violently.

If you are lucky, you are thrown clear. More likely the bull swings about and hits you on your way down, so that you carom. If you are a woman, the fake head will nudge you in the arse as you try to get up on the soft but unsteady air pad that surrounds the bull. It’s hard being a cowgirl in this town.

I found, after I was thrown, that I had been clenching the leather strap so tightly that it was hard to unclench my hand. My arm was aching within five minutes, and the bull-burn on my thighs flared up within ten.

But damn, it’s fun. I rode four times, two rides per fiver. If anyone knows of a mecha-bull bar in the D.C. area, please let me know.