It comes bursting out of the bucking chute, 1800 pounds of flesh and sinew rippling as the bull bucks and kicks and jumps. Rodeo clowns scramble to remove themselves from its path, unpredictable as that may be. The eight second timer has begun, a conflict between man and beast as old as time itself, retold again and again in mere moments at the rodeo. Surge of excitement roars through the crowd, one bleacher to the next. They look on with drunken fervour, an ancient bloodlust stirring. Piercing ring of metal-on-metal echoes above the crowd as the gate clangs against the railing behind the bull. A creature bred specifically for aggression, for the purpose of throwing off its rider, its would-be conqueror. Charging forward, out into the dusty pen, it jumps high onto its forequarters, muscular tissue undulating under the utter force of the movement. Muzzle to the dirt, its hindquarters kick upwards, a cloud of dry earth exploding behind it. They reach for the sky, the beast’s ribcage arching in what seems like an agonising stretch. Unfortunately, this tactic doesn’t work, and the rider is ready for this. Left hand held proudly above his head, the cowboy sits tall in the saddle, covered head-to-toe in appropriate armour for the potentially fatal exercise he undertakes. Behind him, the sun reflects brightly off of a sea of white cowboy hats. A posse of stockmen stare sternly, protected from harm, behind the comforting safety of industrially manufactured fences, trusting their rider will hold his own. The bull bucks harder, unrelenting, endeavouring a similar exchange a second time, transferring its momentous weight from its forelegs to its rear, and then back again, hoping to loosen its opponent from its waist. The rider lurches sidewards, gripping desperately at the flank strap that clutches tightly around the bull’s midriff, successfully maintaining his composure and balance, yet further enraging the beast.

On this occasion, it jumps, twisting midair, a feat of agility which catches the crowd offguard. They await, with bated breath, as the rider is tossed like a ragdoll in the saddle, thrust skyward into the powder blue as the bull appears to take flight. For a moment, a deafening silence. Drinks forgotten, conversations dropped. Nothing matters but the two in the arena. United. Tied together, both physically and metaphorically, they soar above the raw earth beneath them, gracefully walking atop a cloud of dust and grit. Tassels flick chaotically as energy is transferred upward. A red cowbell, hanging around the chest of the bull rings silently amidst the thunder of the crowd, beating against the torso of the frenzied animal. Gravity regains control, bull stretching forelegs out, rider leaning back in the saddle, both bracing for impending impact. Hooves and dirt collide, a fresh eruption of soil sprayed into the air. The pulsating wave of flesh and fabric as the impact is transferred through bull to its passenger, vertebrae colliding in an organised stack beneath the rider’s denim shirt. He surges forward as the bull’s front legs buckle under its own weight and vivaciousness, the shock appearing to momentarily overwhelm him. Wrist muscles tighten under a gloved hand, a dominant right arm reacting without thinking to the movement of the shuddering animal beneath. Yet sheer dumb luck saves the rider from a premature demise. The bull, its temperament not getting any better the longer it undergoes this strenuous ordeal, leaps again. Backwards, this time. And twisting again, to the right, continuing its clockwise trajectory. This sudden sharp movement halts the frontward momentum of the rider, and his body is jerked backwards and around once more as the chaotic dance between the two continues. A swift, sprightly movement from the bull, keeping much lower to the ground on this occasion. Its own centre of gravity tilts, destabilising the unsuspecting rider above, who in turn, continues to become unstuck. Leaning heavily to the right, body beginning to contort. A flash of silver light as the right ankle twists outwards, the fine tip of a boot pointed away from the cattle as the stainless-steel spur digs ruthlessly into the bull’s thick hide. Despite such violent and rigorous movements, the rider, somehow, maintains his balance whilst keeping his left arm stretched ambitiously in the air.

This entire interaction seems to frustrate the bull even more, who, for the first time since it exploded from the gate, lands on all fours for the shortest instant. Its sturdy neck holding its horns high to the sky, tail flicking antagonistically against its hindquarters, a moment of defiance. Despite its preceding seemingly futile efforts, the beast appears confident that it has time to kill. The rodeo clock shows the seconds and milliseconds racing upward, edging closer and closer to the eight second mark. Yet the bull regains composure, whilst the rider is clearly perturbed. Body hunched forward from the hips, left hand no longer held high above his head but hanging somewhat limp at shoulder level. The intensity of the constant and taxing jostling has clearly begun to have an effect on his ability to balance, and somehow, the beast knows this. It pitches itself skyward once more, pushing off all four legs at once, leaping for its freedom, for victory. The rider, unable to stay sitting upright, is yanked backwards by the force, still atop the beast, yet now sitting almost horizontally, legs kicked forward towards the creature’s head, lying flat at the hips, lower back striking against the bull’s loin. As he hangs there, suspended precariously, the bull pushes its forequarters back towards the earth, twisting at its hips, thrusting its back right leg out into the air. Powerless against the speed and brute force of the animal, the rider’s final moments in the saddle begin. His left leg loses all purchase on the bull’s lower back and is flung over the top of the bull as it continues bucking, back legs returning to the ground as the front legs begin to leave it once more. Completely abandoning the left arm now, the rider begins evasive manoeuvres. With an enormous final heave, the bull hurls its passenger from its back into the sunburnt land below, remaining unconquered. The rodeo clock reads six seconds and forty-two milliseconds, confirming the champion. Free now, it continues dancing around the arena to the wild hollering of spectators, revelling in another well-fought battle between man and beast.