Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, January 5, 1992 TAG: 9201050209
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: B1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: By NEAL THOMPSON STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
RODEO RIDERS LOVE THE RUSH
Rodeo clown John Gilstrap mingled with his rodeo family - talking dirty, smoking a cigarette and slogging through horse and cow dung with his mule in tow outside the Salem Civic Center.As opening ceremonies began inside, Gilstrap was set to evoke giggles from kids in Saturday's crowd, with his baggy pants, painted face and wig.
"Hey, Tex, how you doin', baby?" Gilstrap asked Tex Kidd as she waited to ride into the arena with others to kick off the day's Budweiser Stampede Rodeo.
"All right, John. How's Tennessee?" she asked, referring to his home state.
"Just like me - long and lean," he said with a cackle.
But as "The Star Spangled Banner" blared inside, he became serious, taking off his huge, silly foam hat and holding it over his heart.
The rodeo circuit: true Americana.
To look behind the scenes - away from the hubbub and among the clustered horse trailers and muddy pickups - is to glimpse the lives of a rare breed of folk who feel they keep alive a basic, home-grown all-American tradition.
"It's man against beast," said internationally ranked steer wrestler Jesse Guillory of Oklahoma City.
"There's something about going 40 miles an hour and jumping on a steer with long horns and throwing it to the ground. Now that's a rush. It's traditional. It's American. It's wholesome."
And it's all over in about four seconds.
Then it's back on the road to the next stop.
But Guillory and others say the hundreds of thousands of miles they travel each year are worth those four seconds of glory . . . or defeat.
Guillory couldn't flip his steer Saturday. This time, it was beast over man.
"It's a wild life," Guillory said earlier, before sauntering off, confident and bowlegged.
As fans watched two calf-roping, bull-riding hours of rodeo, the subculture to which Guillory belongs seethed outside the glare of spotlights.
It's a nomadic clique of cowboys and cowgirls. Grim-faced bull riders help each other stretch. Male and female riders help each other tighten worn leather straps on their horses and on the fancy outfits some of them wear.
They stand around animal pens sipping coffee, swapping candies and joking.
"It's like a big family," said Kidd, a North Carolina barrel rider. And her lifestyle: "It's like an addiction."
Everyone hails everyone else with a wave or a slap on the back with a callused hand. They're all friendly - with each other and strangers. A stranger certainly couldn't walk into the lives of New York City stockbrokers and be welcomed as readily and happily as with rodeo riders.
It's a life of extreme highs and lows.
The lows come during the 20-hour, all-night rides to the next stop. "You get tired of being away from home all the time," said Tom Bourne, 21.
And rodeo people never stay in any one place for more than a few hours, said Jimmy Mills, a 24-year-old hot shot from Alabama.
"Your back hurts," he said. And then you have to throw steers around to win the prize money that pays for the gas to get you to the next rodeo.
"I'd do it forever if I could," Bourne said. "If my body will let me."
Mills and Bourne have each traveled the rodeo circuit for four years, and both have been ranked among the world's best. Their aspiration is to be like rodeo circuit legend Jack Wiseman.
Wiseman is 48 and still one of the best. He's been in the national rodeo finals in Oklahoma City for 22 straight years and is headed there again in two weeks.
Gruff-looking but soft-spoken, Wiseman learned to ride on his father's south Texas ranch, where he worked as a ranch hand. He joined the rodeo circuit in 1968.
Never left. "It's about all I do," he said, standing beside his horse, Scotty.
Until 1979, Wiseman rode bulls. He rode them well, winning four world championships in that time. He's since switched to bulldogging - steer wrestling - and tacked another four world championships onto his record in that event.
Part of his success comes from knowing when to quit, he said. If a bull ride was going sour, he'd jump. Crazy guys nowadays stay with a ride till they're hanging under the bull. "It's not worth it to take the chance," he said, though he did once get kicked in the face and lost nine teeth.
Wiseman hopes to keep going until age 50, which would make him the Nolan Ryan of rodeo. To last that long playing with angry, 1,000-pound, sharp-horned animals is impressive.
"But it seems like when I'm sore now it takes a lot longer to get unsore,." he said.
Last year, he rode in 148 rodeos, sometimes two in one day and 100 miles apart.
Like most riders, Wiseman said he believes he's keeping an American tradition alive. He's reared his sons to do the same.
Dirt-filled civic arenas like Salem's have helped the sport since the 1970s, allowing rodeos to function indoors during winter. Nonetheless, Wiseman never gets - but longs for - a Washington Redskins-size crowd.
"It's just a shame you can't get the recognition like football," he said.
In fact, Salem Civic Center was less than half-full Saturday.
That won't stop Wiseman and his rodeo friends and relatives from driving to the next small town in search of prize money that will get them to still another small town after that.