Saddle up, go buck-wild on L.A.’s favorite bull
By Daily Bruin Staff
Feb. 6, 2002 9:00 p.m.
 Eli Karon Ogres are like onions. E-mail
comments to: [email protected]
Ow, my balls!!! I think I popped a testicle!”
Nathan Pollack, a first-year classics and economics student at
UCLA, had just ridden the mechanical bull at the Saddle Ranch Chop
House on the Sunset Strip.
Doubled over in pain, Pollack’s high-pitched squeals of
anguish were particularly worrisome for me. I was next. Uh-oh.
In the arena of life known as mechanical bull riding, you want
to make friends with people like Jason Winwood. Winwood is a
27-year-old from Boulder, Colo. whose job as mechanical bull
operator is the envy of every male to ever enter the Saddle
Ranch.
You can go into the bar in almost any attire imaginable. I
opted for the cowboy garb, including hat and belt buckle, figuring
it could only help with my bull-riding skills.
“You get people that come in dressed as cowboys, wearing
their gear and stuff,” Winwood said. “For the most part
it’s just hip L.A., but it’s the kind of place where
you can come in sweats and a T-shirt or a suit and tie.”
Unfortunately for me, the clothes don’t make the rider. If
you surf in cold water conditions, a good wetsuit will keep you
warm; if you play basketball, a good pair of shoes can prevent
sprained ankles; in football, you are pretty much screwed without
pads and a helmet.
But in mechanical bull riding, it’s not the size of the
… belt buckle that matters, if you get my drift.
Jason has been ejecting bodies from the bull for the past six
months, and is so adept at what he does that he can manipulate the
removal of cowboy hats, tube-tops and pride from those who dare
climb aboard.
If you tip him well enough, he’ll even make you look like
you know what you’re doing, catering the bull’s
movement to your balance or lack thereof.
As long as you are mounting his bull, he controls your life. The
bull bucks back and forth in uniform intervals, but Jason controls
speed and lateral movement.
 KEITH ENRIQUEZ/Daily Bruin City slicker Eli
Karon experienced just how it feels to ride the mechanical
bull at the Saddle Ranch Chop House on Sunset Strip. For a few
nights a week, Jason Winwood plays God.
“I see boobs pop out all the time,” Winwood said.
“That happens at least once or twice a week. Girls wearing
G-strings, their skirts wind up around their waists.”
Luckily for myself and other riders, Jason offers sound advice
on how to minimize embarrassment.
“Hold on with your weak hand, lean way back, and use your
dominant hand for balance,” he explains. “You want to
roll your hips like you’re dancing or having sex.”
Riiiight.
Little did he know this would prove to increase my
embarrassment.
At any rate, I realized I needed to increase two things before I
would climb aboard the bucking hunk of metal and gears:
self-confidence and my blood-alcohol level.
Once both factors had reached acceptable levels, I climbed
aboard.
The bull has a wide range of speeds, from 1-12. Like most
beginning riders, I was started off on a speed of 6. Let’s
just say it was no National Finals Rodeo.
Then Winwood decided he hated my guts, and bumped the speed up
to level 10.
It was as if someone had unleashed a million fire ants, all
armed with blow torches and meat tenderizers, on my inner
thighs.
Should you ever have the chance ride the bull, let me recommend
something: don’t order a meal first. They come in huge
portions and taste like something out of The Iron Chef’s Old
West Cook-off.
Washing down your meal with a Long Island iced tea can be an
athletic endeavor in and of itself. The drinks come in
cowboy-sized decanters, and according to Winwood, they can help
your chances on the bull.
“I think (alcohol) helps,” Winwood
said. “I mean, you don’t want to be completely
wasted.”
Oh, yes I do.
When I peeled myself off the air-filled mat below the bull, my
brother informed me I had ridden for three seconds. My biceps
throbbed, my forearm cramped, and my ego was bruised.
But my self-esteem was restored when Winwood informed me that
even riders with rodeo experience are not that good on the
mechanical bull.
Riding the mechanical bull comes with a certain
risk. Winwood has seen a girl mount the bull with no serious
medical problems and leave in an ambulance, the victim of a broken
wrist.
“She got off and her wrist looked like a kitchen sink
pipe,” Winwood said. “It was the most disgusting
thing I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t even look at
it.”
While I was there I witnessed a bloody lip, a 6-foot, five-inch
drunk guy trying to show me his bruised member, three broken nails
and of course, there was Pollack’s ruptured testicle. I
myself suffered only minor injuries, proving that this sport is far
less brutal than the running of the squirrels.
Don’t want to ride the bull? Winwood will hunt you down
and either convince you to give it a shot or listen to your
pathetic excuses. Bad backs are a common excuse, as are
pregnancies.
According to Winwood, the excuses he hears are like rear-ends:
everybody has them and they all stink.
“Nobody really has a good excuse,” Winwood said.
People of all ages use excuses to not ride the bull, though the
only valid one is being under 18. A 92-year-old man gets the
nod for the Senior Bull Rider Tour MVP. Talk about an all-world
athlete.
“He did it and when he got off all he wanted was a shot of
scotch,” Winwood said.
People from all walks of life, including movie stars and
athletes, world-class fiddlers and lowly Daily Bruin reporters can
be seen on any given night. So slip on your boots, polish your
buckle, strap on a pair and cowboy up.
