the distance of the turn around the barrel. Running dead center into a fifty gallon drum at twenty miles an hour will water your eyes slightly. Now, I stood at the top of rodeo's Mt. Everest. I looked around as my senses started to clear and absorbed the sights and sounds of rodeo. This was the love of my life and I had attained the thing I desired most. The chutes stood out boldly, spangled in their brash colors and the arena dirt was dark and damp from the hours of sprinkling and spring-toothing. For some reason, moist earth smells excitingly better. The too-sentimental western music rolling melodically from the loudspeaker would actually prickle my skin with anticipation. Last year's champion walked toward me and presented the elusive shimmering, gold trophy. I was blind, deaf, and breathless amid the flashing light bulbs and applause. Medical research would be interested to know how well all my senses were resurrected during the night as I awakened to the clatter of dishes and loud talk in the kitchen the next morning. The rays of sunlight were entwining themselves among the mesh of my bedroom curtains. I wondered if the newly crowned champion would be served a five course breakfast in bed. I think champions, all sizes and shapes, must surely deserve breakfast in bed. After sufficient time had elapsed, it began to dawn on me, perhaps I was not to be served in my boudoir, and besides I was too ravenous to wait. I hopped out of bed, pulled on some dangerously thin, faded levis, donned a three-year-old cotton blouse, and ran a comb through my hair. Walking by the mirror, I stopped to wipe the stale mascara from under my eyes. I picked up my trophy. The glossy gold figurine felt cool to my touch. I stopped by the now-deserted kitchen and caught sight of a lone piece of toast amid the array of dirty coffee cups and crumbs. I ate the cold toast as I started for the stable and chores. The tack room lock yielded willingly to the key and I placed the State Championship Trophy at the head of the row. Looking at the others, it became immediately apparent they needed dusting and the fly specks wiped off. This done, I proceeded to muck Joe's stall. For a winner, he seemed to eliminate an awful lot. Strange, but the ammonia still burned my eyes and the flies, with their infernal buzzing and swarming, still drove me to distraction. No one at the stable had any eloquent speeches prepared for me; in fact not a soul acknowledged it. Although it crossed my mind, I refrained from saying, "Hey, don't you know what I've done?" 34 After smoothing the virgin straw, I led my champion barrel horse to the tack room to saddle. No one offered to saddle for me. Reaching past my symbol of triumph for a saddle blanket, I spied a fly speck on the golden neck of the new trophy horse. I lifted the still-too-heavy saddle up and prepared to mount. The sun was the kind that makes a lizard hunt for the shaded side of a rock and the dust was thick and sticky. As I headed for the pattern, it became evident to me that cheers are not the champion. Tears, blood, and sweat are the champion. This game of competition is the same for either sex. Winning is only the beginning. I gave my red racer his head and we lunged for the first barrel. The last win is only the beginning of the next race. 35