by Tumbleweed_Tex » Wed Jun 30, 2010 8:02 am
DEMONS AND TWO-LEGGED PONIES
Every aspiring cowboy has a trusty steed.
Mine was not a thoroughbred stallion, she was a mustang pony. Put together lovingly from discarded parts salvaged from the county dump, the only thing symmetrical about the entire contraption was the fact that the tires and wheels were the same size. Devoid of front or rear fenders, and completely lacking any sort of kickstand, I was the only cowboy in town who laid his steed on her side under the hitching post. And as a result of often hasty dismounts, the handle bars were never quite straight, and the front wheel had an ever-so-slight warped wobble. Still, I loved that pony. I called her Belle.
Fido was old man Merryweather's big red demon-dog...who not only hated little cowboys, but despised bicycle ponies to boot...especially those ponies rigged with a playing card rattling against the spokes for the primary purpose of pissing him off.
Fido lived at the top of The Hill...the longest, steepest incline in three counties. For a miniature cowboy who had yet to fill out enough to keep his jeans up without a belt, riding Belle up The Hill was impossible. Better to walk her up, get as close to the Merryweather place as possible before being spotted, then whirl Belle around, do a galloping mount just like Roy Rogers, and ride the brake on the long descent, leaving Fido to eat the dusty trail.
And so it was that we find our hero, young Mini-Tex, dismounted…cautiously creeping to the very summit of the mountain... ever vigilant, eyes focused on yon horizon. Suddenly, bursting from the dark shadows under the porch, comes the demon outlaw...teeth bared, ears flattened in pursuit.
The young cowboy hastily spins his trusty mount, heads her downhill, takes a few running steps, places his foot in the stirrup, and smoothly swings himself into the saddle. Together as one, they gather speed quickly, and a fleeting glance over his shoulder confirms the villain is steadily losing ground, and is no longer a threat. Galloping...faster and faster towards the safety of the prairie.
Life teaches lessons on a variety of subjects, and that day, life’s topic of discussion was a cross between mechanical engineering and physics. Namely, bicycle brakes are rendered useless when the drive chain comes off the sprockets during the mount...and gravity causes an ever-increasing velocity upon all objects, including miniature cowboys and two-legged Mustang ponies.
At about 35 miles per hour, I thought I could handle her...at 47, I wasn't so sure. At 56, the front wheel began to wobble and vibrate. At 63, the handlebars became impossible to hold. Somewhere between 67 and 71, Belle and I left the highway and took to the ditch, marveling that the tender young ragweeds, barely knee-high, felt like rifle bullets against my shins.
I remember seeing the old tire, but I honestly don't remember hitting it. I remember looking down at the ground from a really cool vantage point I had never before experienced. I remember the smell of the thick branches of the cedar tree, but I don't remember the details of how I ended up back on the ground. And I vividly remember the face of the demon-dog above mine, and how, unable to move, I succumbed to the violent, slobbering tongue-bath, his wagging tail pounding mercilessly against my bruised legs.
A week later, I had to put Belle down...both of her legs were broken. A quiet, heartfelt goodbye...a single bullet...and a tearful tumble back onto the scrapheap.
Fido and I hung out together a lot after that...after all...every famous cowboy has a dog.
Tex