Greenhorn
Clay Hurtubise, R.Ph.
During my freshman year at the University of Wyoming,I attended several rodeos. Even though they were competitors, the cowboys acted like an extended family.Much like the bakers on The Great British Baking Show.
One Saturday afternoon duringspring semestersophomore year,I found myself driving aimlessly on the outskirts of Laramie, Wyoming.
With no formal plan, I stopped in front of a small ranch. At the front door, I knocked. A lovely, tall lady answered the door and asked if she could help me.
“Hi, I’m ClayHurtubise from Portland,Maine,and I’d like to learn how to bronco ride. I was wondering if you could offer some advice on how to get started.”I don’t think she could have been more surprised if I was a green alien.
“Well, my sons are out working on the ranch but come on in and I’ll cook you a steak.”
After finishing the steak, she went to geta small notepad. As she was writing,she explained that she was putting her name and phone number on the top.Under her name she made a list of ten cowboys. “Nowtake this to the OK Corral Sunday morning, and ask for one of these cowboys. Tell them I sent you and I expect you to get your first lesson.”
Laramie is about 7,200feetabove sea level with vibrant blue skies and puffy white clouds. The sun was intense that morning.
Walking into the dimly lit bar, it took my eyes a few minutes to adjust, giving the patrons plenty of time to check me over, an obvious greenhorn.
Atall cowboy stood by himself atthe end of the bar, so I approached him.He could clearlysee the open note in my hand.
I said,“Excuse me, but Mrs. X said that one of these men might be here this morning.”Starting with number one, I asked if he knew him.
It went this way all the way down to number ten. “Do you know him?”
If memory serves me right, he was Dan Dailey, reigningchampion and a legend. After explaining my situation, hesaid, with a sly smile, allhe had ready was bareback horses, was thatokay? It felt like a double dog dare, or even the infamous triple dog dare. Ididn’t think it would matter, as I had no experience with either. “Sure,” I replied.
He then raised hisarm, pulled his shirt away fromthe watch, looked at it solemnly,and said, “I’ll have you on in fifteen minutes, and I’ll have you off in fifteen minutes and four seconds.”
You don’t mess with a cowboy’s gear. Mr. Daileyasked one of the cowboys to loan me his spurs and glove. Immediately a couple of cowboys fittedthe spurs onto my boots and had me try on the glove. Then they led me into the corral part of the building. Word spread quickly; this was the pre-cell phone era. The corral fence had a line of cowboys sitting on the top rail.
After they taught some basics—hold on tight!—theycarefully got me into position.The gate opened and the horse wasted no time in starting to buck.
You wouldn’t think four seconds could last so long. The horse threw me so high up I thought I’d see God, or at least hit the rafters.
With a heavy whoomph, I landed on my back. In quick succession, the horse’s rear hooves came crashing down beside my head.
Inthe lineup of cowboys, the first one looked like an old wrinkled Native American right out of a movie; he was wearing an eye patch. The young cowboy next to him had an arm in a sling, the next cowboy wore a foot cast, and the fourth, with his shirt open, was sporting a compression bandage around his ribs. It was then that I thought, Chris, this might not be a wise sport to pursue while you’re attending pharmacy school.
Two cowboys rushed out,congratulated me, and helped me to my feet, while a third cowboy went over to control the horse.
Mr. Dailey was smiling from ear to ear. “I called it—four seconds!” If only I could have held on for one more second! He then congratulated me on my first ride and said that if I ever saw his truck out front it 7 meant hewas teaching a class,and I was welcome to drop in.
It was obvious that my friend at the fraternity house doubted my story. A couple of weeks later that friend and I were driving out past the OK Corral. “Pull in!” I shouted. “That’s his truck!”
We walked into the training area together. My friend’s jaw dropped as Mr. Dailey announced, “Class, this is the guy from Maine I was telling you about.”
He had me climb onto the mechanical bull, which he started out slowly, then in a few more seconds had me flying off onto the soft mats. I thanked himandintroduced my friendtoMr. Dailey,whosaid it was nice to meet me again,and that I was welcome anytime.
Back at the frat house, during dinner, my friend tapped his glass with his fork. He then announced to 8 all:“Because of this guy,” he began, pointing at me, “I met Mr. Dailey today. It happened like this…”