The proving grounds: Bulls and the bold battle in Bakersfield

Feb. 6—A bull named Ghost of Oscar, from Nipomo, Calif., just ejected a professional rider named Aaron Williams, who landed boots-over-buckle on his back and rolled into a quick, but dizzying, sprint to the cage entrance.

"It was just another day on the job," Williams said. "Another good day of riding bulls."

He lasted nearly four seconds atop Ghost of Oscar on Saturday night during the Professional Bull Riders tour's stop at the Mechanics Bank Arena in Bakersfield. And though he lost that round — you need to stay on for eight seconds to score — he won the night, with a prior ride score of 87.5.

Few sports on earth pack as much into eight seconds as bull riding. Williams' win Saturday night — his first ever on tour — earned him more than $6,000. That is a pay rate of more than $2.7 million an hour, if you win.

The job description is simple: ride a 1,500-pound steer for an hour. Riders must stay astride those eight seconds to be eligible to be scored on the quality of their ride.

The money is good, at least if you win. But most do not even score. Six of the 35 riders from the night lasted the needed eight seconds.

'Before we're bull riders, we're cowboys'

Edgardo Figueroa, a fellow California rider and traveling companion to Williams, last rode on Jan. 14 at an event in Spokane, Wash., under eight seconds, earned nothing and was left to hope, and wait, for better results here in Bakersfield.

Figueroa, 23, is from Van Nuys, Calif. He has a brown hat, a soft-spoken vernacular and a crooked nose under the right amount of light. He's scored several times in his two years as a professional. He and Williams share a utility space in the locker room, away from the other riders.

The two are in the Velocity Tour league, not the lowest level but still the proverbial proving grounds for riders who want to make it big and compete on the premier level.

The tour travels to 25 cities not included on the premier level, featuring smaller cowboys in smaller cities. Even the bulls are smaller than their Champion-class counterparts. It starts in January and ends in November with their championship in Corpus Christi, Texas. The top five of the finals earn a slot on the premier tour.

"It's the highest level in bull riding," Williams said. "It's what all of us here are striving to get to."

The previous night, Williams placed 12th in the Unleash the Beast Tour, which precedes the premier league, in Sacramento. More recently, he has become a fan favorite, and a contender to move up.

"It's my job," Williams said. "I just gotta do what I'm supposed to do, just like any other professional sport. You have to work your way up the ranks and stay there as long as you possibly can."

The organization has such a network of leagues and tournaments that somewhere in America, just about every week of the year, professional bull riders climb aboard the backs of 1,500-pound steers. Many at the lower level are otherwise nameless and expendable fodder for the near-sellout crowd's amusement.

Almost anywhere, this would be called carnage, and a cry would be raised. But in the bull ring, it is dressed up with pyrotechnics, booming music and tremendous macho.

At this level, none of them are household names, or even well-known within the riding community. They're the thrill-seekers, the walk-ons often with dirty, unstarched jeans who carpool like cover bands. Some smoke grass before their rides. Despite the obvious danger, they pay $100 to enter as old as 38, and younger than 18.

"We have to pay our own way up here, but the only way we can make more money is riding more bulls," Figueroa said.

Few riders at this level know how much money they've made.

"I pay my bills," Figueroa said. "I'm not in a mansion either; I didn't come in a Ferrari."

Although just 26 years old from Pismo Beach, Calif., Williams is a veteran among the group and speaks with a jadedness. He adds a confidence to the room that his fellow riders gravitate around.

"It's not the years; it's the miles," he said.

Since the sport largely accepts riders under 18, he's been riding bulls since he was 15. In those eight years, Williams spent most of his time on the velocity circuit. This is his first year doing it full time.

Figueroa said he's making his way to that point; a lack of work or wins means construction jobs to keep him going. "When things are going good, it's full time," he said. "But thank God it's been going good for me right now on the tour."

Due to anti-riding laws in several California cities and a lack of a California PBR team, the two, along with a couple of other riders, run a small plot in Kern County where they practice once a week.

"For us, the closest place to get on bulls is up here," Williams said. "That's a three-hour drive one way — 120 bucks a week."

"It's definitely a sacrifice for us," Figueroa added. ""But it's something we have to make because we love it, but also how else can we train?"

Roughly 30 minutes before Saturday's showtime, Williams is still getting dressed. He stops several of the newer riders who rush to the cages with their gear in hand.

"I'm just letting you know, you ain't running late, you got time," Williams said to one rider outside the changing room.

"You can always tell they're new," Williams added later.

The perennial mismatch

It is a perennial mismatch that arguably emboldens the riders, a losing battle between an unpredictable animal and (mostly) men with an underdog complex. Hooked on danger and suspicious of new equipment and techniques, riders wear protective vests, jerseys and helmets, each of which are adorned with patches and stickers of their corporate sponsors.

Every rider has in them a little fear, and don't trust anyone who says they're not even a little scared. Many riders lament the death of Lane Frost, whose broken ribs pierced his heart and lungs at a ride in Wyoming in 1989.

Williams himself has fractured countless ribs and broken his arm three times, with the last two happening within a couple of days of one another.

"It was when I was a kid and I went back to the same office from the first and my doctor didn't work there anymore," Williams said. "We came in, and he looked at my dad and said, 'we have to re-break his arm.' So they grabbed me, held me down and the doctor broke my arm with his bare hands, right there."

The re-break offset the bone in his wrist, permanently. "So I tape it to keep it all together," Williams said.

The bull is unforgiving of error and a moment's carelessness can mean failure or injury.

Even if riders festoon themselves with every safety gadget, they're not riding the cables on space mountain.

More recently, Amadeu Campos Silva, a 22-year-old Brazilian rider, died after being stomped by a bull at a 2021 show in Fresno.

With concussions, broken ribs and nerve damage, the average bull rider generally lasts seven to nine years in the sport. In between matches, while most train, not everyone does it the same way. Some lift weights to bulk up. Both at or under 150 pounds, Williams and Figueroa work out but don't put much emphasis on it.

"It doesn't matter how big you are," Figueroa said. "You're not going to out-muscle a bull."

Instead, the two are a bit more classical in their preparation. Both ride horses regularly, something that many on the tour cannot relate to, despite the company's best attempts at branding.

"For me and Eddie, before we're bull riders, we're cowboys," Williams said.

Come show time Saturday night, Williams was in second corral and Figueroa in seventh.

As the second corral began, Figueroa was soon up in rotation. He said he spent the past 24 hours getting his mind right.

"It's better to just keep our mind clear of that," Figueroa said. "Because we could get caught up in it and overthink real easy... at the end of the day our job is to get on these animal athletes and ride them. Opportunities will come."

When it was time to ride, he climbed aboard. He tightly wound his rope, freshly stickied, around his right glove. Over the pounding music, the announcer bellowed his name, and his face appeared on the screen overhead. Then the gate opened.

He hit the dirt at 4.26 seconds, his spine whipping at the ground like a fishing rod.

Figueroa gathered his rope and walked silently through the gate and down the corridor toward the changing room. At his back, the music blared once again, and the crowd cheered someone else.