Back when I was running the roads to avoid honest labor, me'n Sody
Fleming had made nine rodeos in six days and damn near killed
ourselves in the process.  The cowboying was easy, but the various
chemicals we ran through our bodies in order to make the long hauls
between rodeos was stupefying.  Literally.

Since I weighed about 165 at the time, I had finagled a legitimate script for
amphetamines from a friendly rodeo fan/doctor on account of I was about
five pounds overweight for a rough stock rider.  Or, so I said.

I wasn't fooling nobody, we both figured a bit of CNS stimulation was a
better alternative to fatigue than hitting the ditch with a truck,
trailer, two horses and camper full of cowboys.  The only other
alternative was letting one of the bullriders drive and I'd sooner have
tried to convince Slim I caught a social disease off a toilet seat.

Out in California, the hippies were saying stuff like, "Speed Kills".  We
knew that was bullshit; hell, we'd been taking snappers for years and
none of us had ever even got the habit, much less croaked.

Anyway, we were about 15 miles from Ada and vibrating, so we thought
we'd stop at a little bar in Stratford for a cold one to knock the edge
off.  That lasted five or six hours.  Sody was coming down faster than
Good Gulf went up and was resting his head on the bar between sips.

Enter a rather rotund Native American lady.  About 50, or so.  Vocally
horny.  Ugly as homemade shit.  Drunker than us.  Hell, drunker than I can
get.  She tried everybody in the house and finally got to Sody.

He was resting his head peacefully on the bar as only someone who's
been up for several days and finally found a soft spot can rest.  He
was snoring softly, not bothering nobody.

The nice lady took his failure to discourage her preliminary groping as
mild acquiesce, so she grabbed him by the collar, snatched his head off
the bar and said, "Hey cowboy, where you been all my life?"

Sody  managed to get an eye opened, quickly closed it like it hurt,
and said politely, "Ma'am, most of it I wasn't even born!"

They were still laughing inside when we pulled out.

[Sody Fleming passed away in 2003.  He was a helluva bullrider, later an
Oklahoma brand inspector, and as good a traveling partner as a man
could want.  Requiescat in pace.]