They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?

They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? – Racing Cars

Watch the German report right here.

‘Now I do believe that’s an insult, see.’ Had we been anywhere else in the world, I would have figured the man across from me at the local bar was joking – but we’re in Arvada, Wyoming and this guy is dead serious.

Wyoming, of course, is the manliest of manly states. Notorious for its abrupt changes in weather – hot and sunny one moment, heavy rain and hail storms the next – I had expected many a rainbow. But Wyoming doesn’t do rainbows. Rainbows are gay. Soccer is gay, too, as are Democrats; and vegetables are extremely gay, unless you call them crop. Wyoming is for Marlboro Men only. People here ride horse, rope cattle and then they go back to the ranch to throw slabs of home slaughtered Angus beef on their George Foremans. They say things like ‘I wursh my clurthes in the turlet’.
To give you an idea of where I am: the plane that flies you from Denver, CO to the airport of Sheridan, WY (an hour and a half outside Arvada), is so tiny that it barely fits the entire Arvada population of 25. It is, in fact, so small that the steward/copilot states, as we all try not to bump our heads working our way down the aisle, ‘Don’t settle down just yet, folks, we might need to do some shiftin’, see.’ By which he means he must evenly distribute our combined weight over both sides of the plane so as not to topple it over in mid flight. I am in Arvada, middle of nowhere, USA.



At the local Arvada bar, just now, I good-naturedly compared cowboys to ballerinas, and find myself being stared down by a 250-pounder by the name of Bubba, who is unmistakably not amused. The hat, the chaps, the spurs, the moustache, the smoke and the cheap beer; they’re all there. Unless Bubba used to be one of the Village People, I am looking at a cowboy – the real deal. I’m sure the moustache in particular would fare well in certain New York City scenes. But as I said, we’re not in New York anymore – and I do believe I might be in trouble.

How did I end up in this tight spot? My memory flashes back to the past three days. My German friend Silke, camera man André and I have been introduced to the cowboy way of life at Arvada’s Powder River Ranch Cowboy School, to shoot one of Silke’s American culture reports for RTL Television. Silke and André are actually working; I am happy to tag along as the story’s sidekick, riding horseback and roping longhorns. How hard can it be, really?

So far, Cowboy Bob and his wife Betty have shown tremendous patience and restraint trying to show us how to work with the horses and navigate them. It’s definitely harder than watching Cowboy Bob do it. ‘It ain’t about shouting, see, or whipping a horse into doing what you want; you want to make him want to work with you. You have to establish a relationship with the horse, see – draw him in.’ Bob is the Obi-Wan Kenobi of horsemanship. ‘You have to read the horse to understand the horse, and when you understand the horse you can communicate with him. Use your body language. If you do it right, riding a horse is like a dance, see, it’s about being in sync – if you know how to lead, the two of you can dance across the land together in the same rhythm.’
Bob speaks horse fluently; his body language and minute gestures make the animals respond immediately to whatever he wants them to do. ‘You have to be clear in your intentions, see. If you give off mixed signals, the horse will not know what to do, and that makes him nervous. Give the horse the singular energy of what you wish for him to do, and he’ll do it alright.’ May the Horse be with you.



Silke quickly picks up the general idea. Of course, she’s a pretty commanding presence to begin with; not only does she know what she wants, she usually gets it, too. In no time at all, she’s steering Ring, her horse, all over the round-pen. ‘Und Links! Rechts! Gerade aus! Good boy!’ she goes – camera in one hand, German black-yellow-red vuvuzela in the other – and off he trots, only to immediately stop and walk over to her obediently when she steps back and beckons him like Bob showed us.

I am slightly less imposing, I guess. I tend to not know what I want a lot. I mean, I like a lot of different things. Not much of a one-track mind. Ever ambiguous. I’m a philosopher, you know! Unfortunately, in horse language my paper hat qualifications translate to complete and utter confusion. On the first day of Cowboy School, I am mixed signaling my horse Uno all over the place, and as a result, it decides to do call it quits and follow its instinct rather than my half-baked orders.
‘See, the horse likes you, but he doesn’t respect you,’ Betty sympathizes. The horse likes me, alright. For the past half hour I’ve been trying to navigate it, from the ground on the other end of a leash; I want it to turn right and run a lap inside the round pen, but so far all I got it to do is trot straight for me, and come to a halt only to affectionately smother its nose in my bra. Uno seems pretty happy with the way things are going, gently leaning its 1,300 pounds of horse meat attached to the soft muzzle into my boobs.
(Admittedly, things are improving. This morning, the horse did not care for me at all. Cowboy Bob’s final comment on my laborious ground work was a heartfelt: ‘At this moment, see, the horse has more interest in the flies on his back than he does in you.’)

I really do not mind this state of affairs either, you should know. I’d rather be liked and ignored by an insolent horse than thrown off by an obedient one in a respectful gallop.
I’m actually pretty impressed with myself. I think it’s pretty considerable to pose such little personal threat to such a notoriously jittery herd animal that it doesn’t even realize I’m there. So what if I’m not cut out to be the next Buffalo Bill; I bet I’d make for a pretty nifty prairie wolf. Smiling Coyote Decimates Unsuspecting Herd, I imagine the Arvada Daily headlines. See how you like me then!

On the second day of Cowboy School we ride out to find the 800 head herd of long-horn cows that roam the ranch’s endless acres of land. We find a fragment of the herd, and the plan is to drive them to a nearby pond. By the time we find the small group of cattle Uno is in a jolly good mood; he has burst into a spontaneous run about a million times. I have gained fear blisters on my white-strained knuckles from clutching the leather strap attached to the saddle; my thighs are raw and throbbing. ‘It’s kind of ironic, see,’ Cowboy Betty observes. ‘Humans intuitively tense up when they sense danger. It’s the adrenaline kicking in, see. But the only way to bring your horse to a halt is to completely relax. Every time you press your thighs and toes into his side and grab the strap, see, Uno thinks you are actually asking him to go faster.’ Nice. The one time I manage to send out an unambiguous signal it results in the exact opposite of what I mean. I force myself to relax my muscles next time Uno gets the jitters. Uttering a rather uninspired ‘Whooooaaa’ as I let go of the leather strap and gently pull the reins works like a charm – the horse doesn’t seem to mind, but even though it feels awkward and fake to make the cowboy sound out loud, it has quite a soothing effect on me.

As soon as we get upwind of the long-horns, they prick up their ears and start shifting wearily from one leg to another in the long grass. They don’t look at us directly, but make sure to keep one eye on us at all times as we slowly approach. The bulls position themselves between us and the cows and calves. They don’t trust us one bit. ‘We don’t want to scare the herd, see,’ says Cowboy Bob (although when he says it, it sounds a bit like scurr the hurrd). ‘We just want to get them to water.’ So we need to be very slow and careful in our movements and not make too much noise. I can totally do that – I’m pretty sure slow and careful and quiet is exactly how I feel. I don’t need for these cows to respect me; I just need them like me enough to not want to stampede all over my pointy little head.



I am pondering all of this later that night as we walk into the Arvada bar – André holding the camera, Silke clutching her vuvuzela and me donning what I hope is a reassuring smile. As we open the door, the seven locals inside immediately prick up their ears. ‘Hi! We’re from German television! This town is sooooo nice!’ Silke tries to break the ice to smithereens as we barge in – strangely enough to no avail. The men start shuffling ever more wearily on their chairs, not looking at us directly, but keeping one eye at us at all times. The woman to the right repositions herself so as to almost disappear behind one of the local men’s broad backs. The bar lady decides to mediate. Why does anyone go to a bar? To drink, she figures. Even foreigners. And so we drink.

Over the next hour or so I find myself trying to wean six wary cowboys and one cautious woman off their conviction that we are here to bring their country lives to ruin with our big city frivolities. ‘What are you doing here? And you’d better tell me the truth,’ the cowboy to the right says by way of introduction. I explain how I jumped at the occasion to catch a glimpse of a part of America I’ve only ever seen in the movies. I’ve never been in a town this small, or countryside this big. Where I come from, pretty much everything is small, the big cities as well as the outdoors. My mom grew up on a farm, I say, suddenly inspired. When I was little my uncle would let me stir the fresh blood pouring into a barrel as he slaughtered pigs in the barn. To keep it from clotting. ‘What kind of hog?’ he grumbles, and, ‘Sounds like the tiniest damn farm I’ve ever hurrd of.’ But I think the pig blood story mollifies him a bit – as it should! Either way, it’s the only anecdote I’ve got that any cowboy might relate to.
It doesn’t hurt that the woman, who turns out to be his wife, attempts a crooked little smile at my ill aimed stabs at conversation. She slowly emerges from behind her husband’s back to show me pictures of her first grandchild.

We smoke cigarettes inside, and spit on the government (although when he says it, it sounds more like garment) for decreeing that people can’t decide for themselves if and where they want to smoke or not. At some point, the man admits that he’s not a real local. ‘I’m a transplant, see. Grew up in O-hi-o.’ He’s been in Arvada for 35 years now. A foreigner, like me. ‘We ain’t got nuthin’ to hide here, see, but that don’t mean y’all can just come runnin’ in here and film us with them purdy cameras,’ he grumbles.
- ‘Don’t be an asshole, asshole – he’s just being a dick,’ the cowboy across the bar confirms the happy shift in mood matter-of-factly. ‘And you’d just lurve to get yur urgly mug on TV, wouldn’t cher, asshole?’ He tips his hat, and introduces himself as Big Bubba (not to be confused with Tiny Bubba, a droopy and very drunk looking ranch hand sitting quietly off his left). ‘I’m a roper ‘round herr,’ says Bubba. ‘So y’all been hangin’ out with them folks at the cowboy school, eh? Now might I ask, what did you little ladies lurn about cowboys so far?’

My first mistake is that I choose to ignore the positively sarcastic undertone clinging to the moustache. I can handle this, I think. All I need to do is answer truthfully. In my head, all the things I experienced in the past few days are coming together: Cowboy Bob’s revelations about how riding is like dancing; Betty’s remarks on muscle control to direct the horse’s speed; the muscles in my own thighs, sore in places I’ve never even heard of. You know how sometimes bits and pieces of a bigger picture suddenly click into place, like a seat belt? I have that moment right now. That feeling of high speed security. I point at my bent, sore-legged posture, and stretch my arms in front of my chest, fingers touching, in what I am sure is a universally witty fusion of a bow legged stance and a plié, and say: ‘I’ve learned that being a cowboy is a lot like being a ballerina. See, even the way you stand is exactly the same!’



You know how sometimes the way things that make solid sense in your head have a way of falling to bits and pieces the second you voice them? I have that moment right now. That feeling of total loss in progress. Everybody in the bar falls silent. I can practically see the men’s stubborn hair jump straight up in their knotty red necks. The woman shudders and ducks behind a back. After an eternity, Bubba slowly locks his gaze onto mine, and says: ‘Now I do believe that’s an insult, see.’ All eyes are on me now.

So here I am, at the Arvada bar in Wyoming, with an imminent stampede on my hands. I start noticing the innumerable animal heads hanging off the wall of this bar, much in the way city bars are proud to exhibit pictures of visiting celebrities, shot with steady cameras, and mounted on the wall. The Arvada bar displays specimens of all wildlife and cattle that ever visited the area – shot with a sawed off, and mounted on the wall. Prairie dog, coyote, big horn, mountain lion, long horn, deer, elk, buffalo, bear – each looking down at me with the infinitely sad wisdom of those who have experienced the Cowboy Wrath firsthand. Time for me to be scurred – be very scurred. Only one thing I can do.

‘Whooaa,’ I say. ‘Let me explain.’ Bubba’s pupils get narrower and narrower as I stumble through a fuzzy rendition of Cowboy Bob’s beautiful horseman philosophy. Bubba’s moustache trembles a little as he finally clears his throat. ‘Well, I happen to rodeo ride wild Colts and I can tell you for a fact that it ain’t nuthin’ like no goddamn sissy dance. You can’t talk to no horse. Them horses don’t listen to no goddamn communication. You have to shut them motherfuckers down before they buck you right off. You have to control ‘em, let ‘em know who’s boss. You...’
- ‘Hmm, I guess you’re right. That doesn’t’ sound like a dance at all. It sounds more like a marriage.’ I can’t help myself; I am on full blast collision course. Everybody’s dead quiet as Bubba half-raises from his bar stool, his open mouth still pondering over the little round ‘o’ of his interrupted speech. Does he have one hand on his holster? Smartass Foreigner Decimated By Angry Mob, I imagine the Arvada Daily headlines.

Then the bar lady’s face splits into a wide grin; she gives a little chortle at first but soon she explodes with laughter. ‘Did you hurr that? That’s the furniest thing I’ve ever hurd! Did you hurr that, Bubba?’ She raises her hand to give me a high five; with the other she wipes a tear from her eye. ‘Like a murriage! You crack me up!’ I look around, flustered, fear blisters throbbing. Everybody’s grinning – for now, anyway. We order another drink. I don’t care if you respect me, see; I just want you to like me.