It's No Bull; These Cowboys Get Rodeo Training In Maine

SCARBOROUGH, Maine - Rodeo is a state of mind, regardless of what state you're in.

So says Kenny Churchill, and he should know. After all, he grew up in Brookline, Mass., a suburb of Boston where "Mr. Ed" reruns are the closest most folk will get to a corral. And yet, he went on to become a bullriding champion.

Churchill spent his youth traveling the rodeo circuit with his dad, Ken, a champion himself. Between high-school classes and highway truck stops, young Churchill earned the reputation of a gutsy kid from a greenhorn state.

In 1982, this quintessential out-of-towner won the coveted Professional Rodeo Cowboy Association rookie champion title.

"We were the ugly ducklings," recalled Churchill, 36, chisel-faced, fit and wiry. "We were the only bullriders from Boston in those days."

There still aren't many bullriders from Churchill's neck of the woods. The ex-champ aims to change that.

Last year, he opened the Churchill Bullriding School in southern Maine, hoping to teach a new generation of Yankee cowboys.

Hopefuls, some from Ohio and Pennsylvania, have spent nearly $200 each to attend one of the monthly weekend clinics.

The school rents space at local stables, converting an equestrian barn into a makeshift rodeo ring. Portable metal gates separate spectators from a herd of 20 bulls on loan from a South Carolina ranch.

One recent weekend, a dozen students between ages 15 and 45, traveled - mostly by pickup trucks blaring country music - to Scarborough for what would turn out to be a tough clinic.

Thomas Dorsey of Enfield, Conn., arrived with a score to settle.

Dorsey was determined to "cover" - or spend eight seconds atop - Smut, a sandy-haired behemoth with no horns but a heckuva disposition.

It was the second battle between the 160-pound man and the 2,000-pound bull. The first came three months earlier when Smut bucked Dorsey face-first into a pile of dirt and manure and stomped on his right leg, cracking the tibia.

Living by the cowboy code, Dorsey didn't complain.

Instead, he pulled himself to his feet, limped out of the ring and drove nearly five hours home. Once there, he was pulled out of his car and taken to a hospital.

But now the 28-year-old truck driver was back to show Smut who was boss. As Smut bucked and twisted in a metal pen, Dorsey, pale and grim, took some last-minute coaching from Churchill.

Reminding Dorsey to "sit up. Keep your hand up, and back," he slapped him on the shoulder for confidence.

"I'm doing this," Dorsey assured his teacher. "No pain. No fear. It's all in your head."

Tightening his legs around Smut's midsection, Dorsey yanked his riding rope tight with a gloved hand and braced himself for the opening of the gate.

The bull rocketed out of the pen, kicking and bucking like a dervish. Dorsey bounced about like a marionette. Then, once again, Smut mercilessly tossed him to the ground - but not before the all-important eight-second buzzer. Dorsey had won this round.

By early afternoon, Dorsey and the others were exhausted.

That morning they had gathered in a motel room to screen videos of champion bullriders like Tuff Hedeman and Cody Hart atop bulls with names like Locomotion, Gusto and Shotgun Red.

"Watch these guys here," Churchill instructed, pointing to the screen. "You got to put your heart into it. You got to move with the bull, not against him."

As the weekend clinic continues, Kevin Eagan, 45, a firefighter from Waltham, Mass., is getting ready for his next ride. A self-described "armchair cowboy," he wears boot-cut Wrangler jeans, spurs and a thick Kevlar vest.

Although he has only a few months' experience, Eagan's first two rides have gone well.

His compact body assumes a solid position on a mean-looking bull named Whitey and his free arm - waving rhythmically for balance - keeps him on top for a solid eight seconds both times.

But on his third ride, Eagan grows careless. Tired, his concentration gone, Eagan flies face first into the dirt after riding just five seconds.

The blow opens a cut on the bridge of his nose and an even bigger wound to his ego.

Blood streaming down his face, Eagan and the others take a friendly tongue-lashing from Churchill.

"I'm here to make bullriders out of you," hollers Churchill. "You have to have it in here," he says, thumping his own chest, "It takes heart."

The students nod, tip their hats, and head back to the ring.