In the spring of 2007, I found myself sitting on the side of a homemade racing stall, being encouraged to jump down onto the back of an ostrich. It was just another day on the job.
Three times a day for a month, I rode on the back of an ostrich, under the guise of a race, to entertain the crowds that gathered at various festivals and fairs. The ostrich races were a big draw, and I understood why. Who wouldn’t want to see a bunch of crazy people in racing silks, falling off the backs of terrifying, flightless birds?
Before my first race, I had never touched an ostrich. Though I spent a few formative years living on the family farm, I’ve never been much of an animal person. Outside of dogs, large animals make me nervous. Birds the size of small tractors seemed prehistoric and alien to me.
I got my ostrich-racing job by looking through the want ads in the local newspaper where my parents live. After a failed attempt to move to New York from Wichita, Kansas, I found myself living back with my folks. My pride was badly bruised, and I was interested in doing anything I could to raise money to go back to the Big Apple, where I was sure everything I ever wanted was waiting for me. Leafing through the paper, the following ad jumped out at me:
“WANTED: a few good men/women to travel with ostrich racing team. Weekly pay, plus room/board. Must be over 18. Must be able to travel for 4-6 weeks.”
As any normal person would, I laughed at the ad, and then called the number. A few days later, I was on my way to the desert in a caravan of strange animals, and even stranger people, excited and nervous about my debut as a jockey who rode large birds.
Most people have never heard of ostrich racing, let alone seen a race in person, so allow me to explain the mechanics. First, there are the riders. In our particular set-up, there were three of us, plus a few substitutes waiting in the wings in case of an injury. I thought of those lucky bastards as “ostrich understudies”. To ride an ostrich, a person must weigh under 150 lbs. There is no height requirement, but I was the only female jockey, and at 5′6, I was the tallest of the bunch. The two other riders, Timmy and Brandon, stood no taller than 5′2. Our uniforms were red, white, and blue silk shirts, and matching hats with fluffy balls on the top. For the bottom, we wore blue jeans and sneakers.
At the beginning of each race, the national anthem was sung by a local girl on horseback. Everyone would stand and take off their hats, and I would always use this time to think about the different ways I might die in the imminent race. When due respects were paid, we three jockeys would run to the announcer’s stand so that he could introduce us. Joe, the announcer, reminded me of an auctioneer in both voice and fashion. He wore a white cowboy hat, a tight leather vest, a shirt with fancy embroidery around the lapel, and a bolo tie.
After being introduced to the crowd, we would wave and smile before running to the starting gates. Inside each stall was a handler and an excited ostrich. While the MC educated the crowd on how dangerous ostriches are (they are the fastest two-legged animal, and speaking of legs, a kick from an ostrich can have enough force to kick a car door off its hinges), the handler would push the bird close enough for the rider to jump down onto its back.
When each jockey seemed to be situated on their bird, the signal was given to the announcer that we were ready. At this point, the race began. When the gates flew open, the ostriches sped out of them, running straight until they were forced, by the outside walls, to turn. They continued to run the semi-circle of the track. At the end, reaching another wall, they stopped.
There are no saddles in ostrich racing. It is, as far as I know, always a bareback sport. To get a grip, the rider holds on to the loop of a harness. The harnesses were homemade out of what looked to be car seat-belts and snapped in place under the belly. Some riders held on with one hand or another, grasping the loop tightly, but I favored using both hands. I learned early in my time spent as an ostrich jockey that the trick to staying on an ostrich lies in balance. The shape of the bird’s body most closely resembles a football, so you have to keep your back straight, and lean backward and forward as the bird runs.
Though I knew what the trick was, I was usually too paralyzed with fear to use it. Riding an ostrich is a bizarre experience. You’re perched atop a confused, strong animal, whose kick might possibly rip out your guts. Falling the wrong way could put you in a wheelchair for life. Of the ninety races I participated in over the course of a month, I only made it to the finish line fourteen times. The other seventy-six races ended, for me, somewhere along the track, lying on the hard, dusty ground, wondering if I were alive or dead. The races I finished, and the few I won, seemed to be flukes.
I wasn’t a natural in regard to the racing, but the crowds always loved me. Anyone going to see a person ride on the back of an ostrich would be lying if they said they didn’t expect to witness a few accidents. In this way, my being repeatedly thrown from the back of a wild bird to writhe in pain before lifting myself up like a good sport, was giving the audience what they wanted. That I was a twenty-year old girl and not a toothless, hardened carnie was likely part of my appeal. Though the crowds couldn’t have known, I do not fit the profile of someone who would choose to ride an ostrich several times a day, if such a profile exists. My friends would say that I am much more likely to read a book about an ostrich jockey than to become one.
My ostrich-racing career ended at the 2007 Ostrich Festival in Chandler, Arizona, hometown of rapper/actor Ice-T. Early in the last century, ostrich farming had been huge in Chandler. Farmers raised them for their feathers, skin, and lean meat. The farms eventually disappeared, but the people of Chandler put on the festival every year to celebrate their roots. The ostrich races were the centerpiece of the commemoration, and at every show, the grandstands were filled to capacity.
The festival was over in a day, and we were leaving for Kansas the next morning. It was to be my last ostrich ride ever, as I was planning on hopping a plane to New York as soon as I got back, having made enough hard-earned money to survive. Over the month, I had become accustomed to having a man named Aaron in my stall before each race, helping me onto the bird, and attempting to calm my nerves. I had a pre-race ritual, which consisted of holding up my shaking hands for him to see and then saying, “I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I am going to die. Oh my god, I am going to die. I can’t do this”. Each time, he would pump me up by telling me that not only was I going to stay on the bird, but that I was going to win the race. He was a good cheerleader. For my last race, though, he wasn’t there, and the gates opened before I was ready. I held on until right before my bird rounded the corner, where I was thrown off. I had come to expect this, as part of the job, but this time was different. My right hand was caught in the harness loop, and in attempting to free it, I fell hard. Unlike the countless other times I had slammed to the ground, this time I heard two different cracking sounds. I stood and tried to wave, but instead fell back down to the ground, pain shooting up and down my left arm, and blacked out.
A few days later, I was home again. My face was freckled and unnaturally tan from working outside in the sun. I had fractured my arm and cracked my elbow, and the full-arm cast attracted a lot of attention. When wearing a cast, strangers often ask questions. I learned quickly that instead of saying, “I was riding an ostrich, and I fell off,” it’s easier to tell them that you had an accident at work.
Originally published in May 2009 in glassses glasses’ Part & Parcel edition.
