Nancy Bo Flood

The bleachers are packed full. Everyone’s watching. What if I fall? What if my time is too slow? One more rider, then me. "Next rider up!" I click my tongue, push my boots hard in the stirrups, heels down. My hands are sweaty, but I hold the reins right. Ready, girl. Ride! I bust through the gate, spin round the first barrel, shoot to the second and circle around tight, leaning so hard, my stirrup kicks dirt. Streak to the last barrel— spin, fly, race down the middle. Home!