At first it sounded like a great idea. Doyle Williams, a good friend who owned the Skyline Ranch in South Phoenix, AZ., was planning a 60-mile trail ride from his ranch to Chandler, AZ. to participate in a rodeo parade.
He told me that he and his son, Eddie, a Brahma Bull rider, were leading the group and that there would be about 30 riders.
'If you want to go with us, I have a horse for you,' he said.
I jumped at the idea.
Doyle's plans were to leave his ranch around 7 a.m. Friday, ride until night, camp out on the trail, and then leave early the next morning so we could make the 11 a.m. rodeo parade through downtown Chandler. I had a poker game scheduled at the American Legion Post in Phoenix where I was a member scheduled for Saturday evening.
'No problem,' he said. 'I'll have my car down in Chandler and I'll drive you back in time to make your game.'
The horse he picked out for me was a red roan. I had ridden it before and liked its gait, but I have never ridden a horse more than 10 miles in my life. I wondered if my body could handle it.
Because of the news value in a 60-mile ride, a television station from Phoenix was there with its camera crew to film us starting off. We got off to a great beginning. One of the riders, an overweight woman whose husband owned a nearby bar, was pitched off her horse into a saguaro cactus plant. The TV crew ate that one up.
Doyle had mapped out our route, skirting the back desert country. As the morning sun rose over South Mountain, we avoided irrigation ditches and spurred our horses to keep up with the rest.
I was fine at first. But around noon, I started to feel the pain.
My saddle had suddenly became very hard. No matter which way I twisted, I was hurting. Doyle rode back to me, smiling.
'How ya doing, cowboy?,' he said. 'Still glad you're making this journey with us?'
I grimaced. 'Sure. I think.'
As the afternoon wore on, I grew more and more uncomfortable. We had gone 15 miles and a couple of riders had dropped out, using their cell phones to call for relatives to pick them up.
Around 6 p.m., I was desperate for a nice soft leather chair to sit down on. But, no, we had to keep on, like 'The Wild Bunch' or 'The Dirty Dozen.'
We rode and we rode. I had loved the western films of my youth, the ones starring Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy and Lash LaRue. But I found myself hating them and wishing I had never seen the backside of a horse.
Somehow I stayed aboard the roan until we reached our camping place. By Doyle's calculations, we had ridden an unbelievable 35 miles.
'We're camping here for the night,' he sang out cheerfully. Doyle is a real cowboy. He swung lightly out of the saddle. I tried to follow him -- and couldn't lift my leg over the saddle horn.
Determined not to ask anyone for help, I struggled and finally got my leg untangled. I tumbled unceremoniously onto the ground.
Eddie Williams, Doyle's son, tried to conceal his smile. 'Need help?',' he said, sitting on his horse.
I shook my head vigorously and staggered to my feet.
A cook had prepared a steak dinner for all of us. We had lost about seven riders. I tried to ignore the pain in my legs and back and finished the steak and the cowboy coffee. Then I climbed into my sleeping bag near the cook wagon and closed my eyes, desperate for some sleep.
A large drop of rain hit my nose. Then another. Then drops of rain began falling. It was downpour. A cloudburst in Arizona. And I had been asleep less than an hour.
The rain fell like there was no stopping it, soaking everything.
'Everybody up,' Doyle shouted. 'If we're gonna drown, we may as well do it on the trail.'
The other riders struggled out of their sleeping bags. Half of them apologized to Doyle, but they quit riding on the spot. I was one of them.
I got a ride back to Phoenix in a station wagon owned by one of the riders. They dropped me off at my house. I fell into a deep painful sleep and awoke around 6 p.m., barely able to get out of bed.
That night I arrived at the poker game about an hour late. I limped through the door of the American Legion and painfully took my seat.
'Where have you been?,' one of the players wondered. 'We were about ready to give your seat to somebody else.'
'Shut up and deal,' I said.
Author: Geno Lawrenzi Jr.
(Geno Lawrenzi Jr. is an international journalist, magazine author and ghostwriter and poker player who lives in Phoenx, AZ. He has published 2,000 articles in 50 magazines and 125 newspapers. If you want to share a gambling story or book idea with him, send an email to glawrenzi@gmail.com ).
