A marshy floor without a dedicated footpath seems an unlikely road to travel before swinging atop the unforgiving metal hide of a bar bull. Just as your legs adapt the appropriate gait with which you navigate the air-filled tarmac en route to your chariot, all energy is diverted up, up, up to untrained thighs asked to perform a task for which they, and you, know they are not equipped. But you all do it, working in concert to achieve the best grip for the unfamiliar task, asking again an impossible favor of your lower back, your stomach, your arms as they move to catch and reassemble themselves in this coordinated twist of torso.
When it's over, the fall is flat and limp, the world rushing to meet you is not the exciting energy-infused event you thought it might me, and the awareness of your own mortality in the face of challenge is brought painfully to bare. You will not miss the patch of skin shorn away from your arm, but the sting feels like regret given form, failure laid bare in screaming pink and red.
The machine turns away, returning to its former stoicism and day job as joker-sentinel.
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