On Thursday, I saw a young man fly.

It happened in the first heat of the Indian Relays at the Pendleton Roundup.  (No, they do not call them the “Native American Relay Races” so neither will I.) If you’ve never watched an Indian Relay, it works basically like a regular relay race, except instead of four runners passing a baton from one to another, a single rider passes from horse to horse to horse – jumping off one (going about 30 miles an hour) onto another.  No saddles, no stirrups.  Just rider on horse.  The racers make it look easy.  It isn’t.

I wish I had taken better notes – I wish I could tell you his name.  Or even the name of the horse he landed on.  I just know that on the second transfer in the first heat of the Indian Relay at the Pendleton Roundup in Oregon last Thursday afternoon, a young man flew.

From one horse to another.

Poetry..

Beauty makes me misty.  So when that young man landed his seat and took out for his victory lap, I’ll admit, I teared up some.  I mean, really, who wouldn’t?

But surprisingly, it wasn’t the Indian Relay that broke me.  It was the Barrel Racing.

Barrel racing is a rodeo event in which a horse and rider attempt to complete a clover-leaf pattern around preset barrels in the fastest time. (Thank you, Wikipedia.)  I’ve never competed in a real rodeo, or even raced anywhere beyond my own back-forty, but barrel racing is about as close to nirvana as I have ever been.  It’s been nearly 30 years since I’ve rounded that third barrel, and still, when those racers hit the line on Thursday afternoon, I felt it all – the lean, the wind, the turn, and then… full-throttle, open up – amazing grace.

That tear was halfway down my right cheek before I even knew it was there.
.