Illustration by Cody Angell & Arnulfo Bermudez

Deafening silence. The whole world around you is screaming. Fans yelling, friends barking instructions, chute bosses harping on you to hurry up. But in the end all you know is the voice in your head. A coarse rope abrasive in your gloved hand sticky with rosin. Two thousand pounds of pissed-off fury clenched between your legs. The greatest adrenaline surge imaginable pulsing through your veins when you nod your head and someone opens the chute. Pure unfiltered intensity.

This is what it feels like to ride a bull.

The history of Tucson's 78-year-old La Fiesta de los Vaqueros dates back to the time of prohibition when the city was still a rambunctious, rowdy frontier town. The Tucson Rodeo was meant as a forum to romanticize the city's Wild West reputation while giving cowboys a chance to blow off steam and exhibit skills honed through work on the range.

In February 1925, the celebration included a dance the night before the rodeo and a parade early the next morning featuring, among others, Blackfeet Indian artist Lone Wolf, who appeared decked out in full native regalia and a stunning headdress. This was the relatively humble beginning to the current eight-day celebration the city has come to know and love. The Tucson Rodeo is now one of the premiere events on the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association tour.

Rewind to a younger, dumber version of your fearless opinion columnist.

I was raised on the mean streets of Cut Bank, Montana, a small shit-kickin' hick town on this side of nowhere. My parents' farm was located only six miles away on the Blackfeet Indian Reservation.

Going to rodeos and riding horses was not merely a once-a-year celebration, but a way of life. Most of my friends and relatives are cowboys in some way, shape or form.

They all encouraged me to rodeo, except I was always more interested in reading books and writing stories than roping steers and riding animals that wanted to maim me for life. Then one day this reticent little bookworm was touched with a stroke of brilliance.

I wanted to be a bull rider.

Plenty of people get the wrong ideas about rodeo and the treatment of animals. Let me reiterate a short story that may shed light on how these animal-athletes get treated.

One time after a bull stretched me out, hooked me with his horns and kicked me in the chest, I happened to look over as I was getting carted off into an ambulance while the same bull was chilling out in a pen, eating dinner and getting ready to spend an evening with some fine-ass cows after about eight seconds worth of work. Meanwhile, I spent a night in the hospital, was not allowed to have food, my drunken friends came in to harass me at three in the morning and the girls I was supposed to party with that night stopped by to say a quick hello the next day when I was discharged in a wheelchair. Talk about cruel and unusual punishment.

No activist protested on my behalf, that's for sure.

Most people think bull riders are crazy. Well, they pretty much are.

In other sports if you get hurt, contracts are guaranteed, so you can go on injured reserve, heal up and collect paychecks. Not rodeo. You get hurt and don't compete, you don't get paid ÷ it is as simple as that.

My career reads like a hospital report. Dislocated shoulder. Torn ACL. Concussions. A cowboy's idea of doing physical therapy is to: "Get up, rub a little dirt on it, and walk it off."

Old-school style.

Rodeo was a wonderful, fun experience for me. I met many life long friends and have grown an appreciation for the underrated athletes that will be coming to Tucson this upcoming week.

As for why I no longer ride animals that have a penchant for the sight of my blood? One day this wild crazy bull rider was touched by a stroke of brilliance.

I decided reading books and writing stories wasn't such a bad idea after all.