I rolled up to the Saddle Ranch Chop House around 9PM last night, once again finding myself a guest of Bethesda Softworks, The Saddle Ranch is Western-themed restaurant and bar that touts down-home cooking and a friendly atmosphere, with one corner of the dining area taken up by the most menacing looking mechanical bull I have ever seen. Under bright lights it sits, waiting for the unsuspecting drunk member of the press to be lured by its deceptive protective padding. There is no way I am getting anywhere near that thing.

Seven Drinks Later

They make me sign a waiver in case I accidentally die on the mechanical bull, but I sign it with all the bravado alcohol brings. Even if my choice of drinks this night has been the subject of much ridicule (I honestly didn't know a Cosmo was that girly), belly full of hearty cowboy cooking steels my resolve. Well, most cowboys probably didn't eat fried chicken fingers, potato skins and dainty little hamburgers on the open range, but I would like to think that somewhere there is a special range, just for those cowboys that do.

I am humming the Mario Bros. theme as I hand my waiver to the scrappy-looking tattooed bull operator, courtesy of the roving violinist who played an excellent version of said theme by special request earlier in the evening. He played it quite well, suggesting that underneath his gruff, ACDC song-playing exterior there was a gamer trying to get out. His music joins with the food, drink, and the egging on of my fellow members of the press, creating a cacophony of influence that makes my date with the bull an inevitability.

Michael Fahey's Midnight Ride

I struggle long and hard with the beast, but after almost twenty seconds I am triumphant, finally getting my leg up and over the mechanical monstrosity. Maybe six seconds later I am kissing the padded floor. Oh no, that just won't due. Filled with bravado and just a little shame I leap atop the bull again, gripping tight with my thighs and my left hand. I focus my concentration on the rhythm of the creature, centering myself. I breathe. Five seconds later I breathe floor padding.

Mechanical bulls are not to be trifled with, and unless you are a professional bull rider, no one's advice can save you. Leaning back when the bull dips down will make you fall. Gripping with your thighs will make you fall, with the added bonus of making your thighs hurt. I suspect that the trick might lay in actively attempting to fall, but I have neither the time nor the feeling in my legs to try again. This time the bull has won.

In Summation

Bethesda throws a damn fine party. The food was very filling, perfect for a gaggle of starving industry professionals. The drinks were excellent despite being a little girly, and the company was excellent, plus watching countless members of the press being thrown from a robot cow was cathartic for everyone involved on so many levels. Now if you'll excuse me I am off to ice up my thighs.