Hold My Drink, I’m Riding the Bull

How I accidentally became a Rodeo Queen and rocked the mechanical bull!

Tennessee wasn’t supposed to be an adrenaline trip—but the universe clearly had other plans. It all started, like most of my dares do, with a simple yes.

My first night there, my mom and I ran into a group of East Coasters who invited us out to a club. Normally, I’d hesitate. I was tired, skeptical, and trying to avoid any night that might end with regret. But something in me said, 'You're in Tennessee, so say yes.'  And we did.

One “yes” turned into new faces, laughter, and that contagious feeling that maybe you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. Somewhere between the music and conversation, two guys we met started talking about how they wanted to ride a mechanical bull. I laughed and said it was on my bucket list too, because of course it was. Within minutes, they found a bar with one, and suddenly, we were on a spontaneous mission to make it happen.

When we walked into the place, it wasn’t at all what I imagined. It was calm, almost sleepy. A handful of people sat at the bar, the smell of beer and old wood mixing with the faint sweetness of barbecue sauce. A man stood on a tiny stage, passionately (and badly) singing karaoke—his version of a Michael Jackson song so off-key it was almost endearing. It wasn’t the wild country scene I had pictured, but somehow that made it better. It felt like the kind of place where anything could happen.

Then I saw it. THE BULL, the dare that could buck back.

It sat there in the middle of the room like a challenge waiting for me, quietly mocking anyone brave or dumb enough to try. My new friends didn’t hesitate. “You go first!” they said, and before I could think, I was climbing on.

The guy running the controls told me, “You just gotta last forty seconds.” That sounded manageable. The bull started slowly, rocking side to side like a lazy wave. Then suddenly, it came alive. It twisted, bucked, and spun like it had something to prove. My body snapped back, my thighs burned, my hand tightened around the rope until my knuckles went white. The rope rubbed roughly against my palm, and I could already feel calluses forming. I gritted my teeth, holding my breath.

I kept thinking, just hold on a little longer. My thighs were shaking, my arms screaming, but I refused to give up. I wasn’t going to fall off. Not in front of a bar full of strangers, not tonight.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I gave up, tired, hopped off laughing, sweaty, dizzy, breathless. Everyone cheered like I’d just won a rodeo championship. That’s when my mom told me, “You were on there for two minutes!” And she had the video proof!

Two. Whole. Minutes.

The guy controlling the bull had just let me keep going, curious how long I’d last. My legs felt like jelly, my lungs were on fire, but my heart was racing in the best way. I’d done it. I’d said yes, I’d pushed through, and I’d held on long past the limit.

That’s the thing about these moments—they never show up when you plan them. They happen when you stop saying no, when you stop letting fear dictate your night. Sometimes adventure finds you in the loud chaos of sixteen dodgeball courts—and sometimes it finds you in a quiet Tennessee bar with bad karaoke and a mechanical bull.

Either way, the rule stays the same: say yes, hold on tight, and ride it out. You might just surprise yourself with how long you can stay in the saddle.