These Thighs O' Mine

So, 29 is fast approaching, and it occurs to me that my bucket list is getting less and less time to reach completion.  For example, what's haunting me most recently is that I have yet to ride a mechanical bull.  How does that even happen?
Are there mechanical bulls to be found in the Bay Area?  Knowing SF, I would assume that there are at least 2 bars offering such a luxury.  Truthfully, I think I'd be pretty good at it.

I grew up around horses.  Even went so far as to be a member of Pony Club, which basically consisted of learning all the parts of the hoof and then jumping over a few cross rails, and bam!  Pony Club!  Mostly all I learned there was who was sleeping with who's tennis pro.

My first horse was named Ralph.  Technically, he was a pony, but he had the full attitude of a larger animal.  He had limited patience, but behaved well enough to give rides at my birthday parties, so long as my mum was there to guide him.  Also, and my favorite, we had a cart and harness to attach to him and my mum would take me for rides around the neighborhood.  Had I been older, I would have happily pretended to be the heroine in a Bronte sister novel.  Especially considering the frequency with which my grandmother dressed me in hand-made lace dresses.
Nirvana would have shriveled up in agony with just one glance at me in those moments.

My next horse was named Dusty.  He was a love of my life.  He was, first off, the most beautiful pony I had ever laid my eyes on.  Also, by far he was the smartest.  He was the one that taught me about mind games, acting all obedient for an entire lesson and then galloping for the barn at the very end, with me strapped to the saddle.  Later, as I outgrew him, he taught me about bucking and rearing and the utter terror that comes with those actions.  Do you, dear reader, know how much it hurts when a horse steps on you?  Can you first picture being thrown off the horse before being trampled upon?
Did you know your typical pony weighs around 700 pounds, and bears his weight down upon you the harder you try to push him off?  Gog....it hurts.

Long story short, Dusty taught me to hold the fuck on.  To dig my heels towards the floor, tighten my stomach, and squeeze my thighs until they go near numb.  I credit him to this day for the god-like strength of my legs.  Seriously.  It's ridiculous.  I'm like a Bond villain.

In short, if you see me in some seedy western bar atop a mechanical bull, put your money on me.  These ridiculous thighs of mine will bring some game.