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The Rodeo  cont...

Each time they miracuously rise, while the pick-up men catch the bronco and release it from the cinch.
    Apparently all bronco horses are unridable and would be 'dog meat' if they weren't spending their spare time at rodeos dismounting anyone crazy enough to want to ride them. This seems to me a very good deal for the horse, as in between those eight second bursts of fury they are left to graze in fields. I am beginning to revise my pre-conceived ideas that these events are not kind to animals. I am beginning to think they are not kind to humans.
    There's more though. The bronco horses are being replaced by bronco bulls . These are so big they hardly fit into the holding pens. They have horns, they are bellowing very loudly. They remind me of beasts in Greek myths. I turn to George,
    "Is someone going to ride these creatures?"
    He grins and nods.
    If the bronco horse riding is dangerous, this is downright suicidal. In fact there would be deaths if it weren't for the 'bull fighter' or clown, whom George points out to me. He is a small, slight man dressed in very baggy knee-length trousers with lots of brightly coloured strips of material tied to his belt. George explains that this brave man, who has no protection beyond his speed and agility, must distract the bull away from the rider when he falls off but also when the bull is charging out of control, for example, into the bars around the edge of the arena. I am about to see a demonstration of how this man will save a rider from being gored by an enraged bull.
    It's the third rider out who gets thrown off very quickly, tossed like a leaf in a storm. In a blurr of speed, the rider rolls in the dust. Then the bull starts to charge at him and the bull-fighter leaps between the man and bull, distracting him away from the rider still on the ground. This all happens so quickly that we hardly realise what the bull-fighter has done until the rider manages to get to the edge of the arena, where he's helped over the railings by the handlers. Meanwhile, the bull-fighter is being pursued and scales the metal rails with amazing adrenaline -fuelled speed. Now the pick-up men move in and try and get near enough to the bull to release the cinch. This they do, manoeuvering and controlling their horses so that they can lean over the bull as it runs and bucks all round the ring. Then the bull calms down a little, cantering around the ring as if taking a lap of honour, until he sees the gate open through which he obediently runs.
    The excitement of watching this bull-riding in merciless heat is a thirsty business and I think about going off to find the refreshments tent. Trouble is, everyone else has the same idea, so I sit still and watch what's going on. And there's George , three rows below me heading towards an old lady in trousers and checked shirt. She sees him and stands up as he kisses her on each cheek and then takes her arm, so she can sit down again. He is sitting close to her and looks into her face as she speaks, to the exclusion of everything and everybody around them. He nods and listens and smiles and occasionally puts his arm around her. The way he attends to her with such tenderness almost makes me cry. He is giving her something precious, it's as if she's a young and beautiful girl again. George is a tough cowboy who runs his ranch almost single-handed and here he is, a quiet unsung hero making an old lady feel special. And I think, in the end it's these small gestures of love which save us all from the fear of death.
    The chilled iced tea tasted about as good as Champagne in this heat. Wanting to take a look at the livestock, I find my way to the pen where a dozen or more bulls  are restlessly milling around.
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