A Reno Weekend, Part II: Bulls
After the camel races on Saturday, we were relieved to head back to civilization—which in this case is a dubious term, seeing that we were headed to Reno. But being eight-plus-months pregnant makes me a bit wary of being in the middle of nowhere for any real length of time; at least in Reno we’d be able to find a hospital should little Whittemora (her in-utero name) decide to make an early debut. In any case, along the way we stopped at a dramatic overlook, where we could see mile after mile of absolutely nothing, with a tiny Reno in the distance.
Our home for the weekend was the Grand Sierra Resort, a large hotel and casino containing several restaurants, shops, and other amenities for those inclined to stay inside the resort for days at a time, where we’d gotten a room for $70. We were given a room Andrew deemed unsatisfactory, and were then inexplicably upgraded to a Deluxe Suite, which we estimated was three times the size of Andrew’s studio in NYC. There was a dining area, a living room area, a bar, and a bed. Easily the biggest room we’ve ever stayed in.
But we didn’t have much time to kill there before we had to get to our next event, the definitive “low” portion of our highbrow/lowbrow Reno weekend: The PBR. That is, the Professional Bull Riders Invitational.
Have you ever been to a bull-riding event? Neither had I, and it’s everything you would expect: cowboys trying their best to stay on a huge, enraged, bucking animal without being thrown violently off while being cheered on by many would-be cowboys in sand-colored cowboy hats and a lot of women in shockingly low-cut shirts, indecently short denim cutoffs, and cowboy boots. There was some sort of scoring system in place, but we couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Some cowboys stayed on, some fell off, some got high scores, some got low. There was an MC-type person in the middle of the arena, occasionally breaking out into dances and delivering various jokes and announcements. When I looked at him through my binoculars (we keep them in the car at all times—you never know when you’ll need them out here), I saw that his face was painted like a clown. Andrew educated me on his position—rodeo clown. Of course.
We staged these pictures, but they’re pretty accurate representations of our general reaction to the whole thing:
It’s safe to say that we were the only people there in a spirit of voyeuristic irony. It’s also safe to say that if you name your offspring Cody you’re going to wind up with a professional bull rider for a son. Finally, it’s probably safe to say that someone, somewhere, will be extremely jealous that I got my picture taken with cowboy Wiley Peterson as Andrew and I milled around with the devoted fans after the competition, pretending like we belonged there:
It was all very strange, very Reno. And so our Reno exploration continues.
Our home for the weekend was the Grand Sierra Resort, a large hotel and casino containing several restaurants, shops, and other amenities for those inclined to stay inside the resort for days at a time, where we’d gotten a room for $70. We were given a room Andrew deemed unsatisfactory, and were then inexplicably upgraded to a Deluxe Suite, which we estimated was three times the size of Andrew’s studio in NYC. There was a dining area, a living room area, a bar, and a bed. Easily the biggest room we’ve ever stayed in.
But we didn’t have much time to kill there before we had to get to our next event, the definitive “low” portion of our highbrow/lowbrow Reno weekend: The PBR. That is, the Professional Bull Riders Invitational.
Have you ever been to a bull-riding event? Neither had I, and it’s everything you would expect: cowboys trying their best to stay on a huge, enraged, bucking animal without being thrown violently off while being cheered on by many would-be cowboys in sand-colored cowboy hats and a lot of women in shockingly low-cut shirts, indecently short denim cutoffs, and cowboy boots. There was some sort of scoring system in place, but we couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Some cowboys stayed on, some fell off, some got high scores, some got low. There was an MC-type person in the middle of the arena, occasionally breaking out into dances and delivering various jokes and announcements. When I looked at him through my binoculars (we keep them in the car at all times—you never know when you’ll need them out here), I saw that his face was painted like a clown. Andrew educated me on his position—rodeo clown. Of course.
We staged these pictures, but they’re pretty accurate representations of our general reaction to the whole thing:
It’s safe to say that we were the only people there in a spirit of voyeuristic irony. It’s also safe to say that if you name your offspring Cody you’re going to wind up with a professional bull rider for a son. Finally, it’s probably safe to say that someone, somewhere, will be extremely jealous that I got my picture taken with cowboy Wiley Peterson as Andrew and I milled around with the devoted fans after the competition, pretending like we belonged there:
It was all very strange, very Reno. And so our Reno exploration continues.
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