I had visions of me hurtling through the air in unknown directions . . . . I was really scared. I’ve never been on this horse before but by the size of him, I knew he could throw me right in that river. “Point him at the Bridge son!” I hear behind me. Well, whatever was going to happen was definitely imminent and I can damn sure tell you I was not in the habit of arguing with my dad. So I pointed ol’ Sorry at the bridge . . . screwed up my thirteen year old courage and hung on for dear life. The next thing I knew, I heard that stick come in contact with that big red backside and felt the horse under me coil for an explosion. When the explosion came, it came in the form of the two of us blasting across that bridge at what seemed like a very high rate of speed. I’m not sure we even touched the bridge! As ol’ Sorry and I went around the next corner, I’m still gripping the saddle like my life depended on it, I glanced over my shoulder to see the cowboy standing at the edge of the bridge grinning from ear to ear and ol’ Sorry and I rode into Briggs family history. A thirteen year old cowboy, especially one who started out at age five, needs a lot of horse. I quickly learned that Sorry had more fire than I could handle at times. He and I hit it off really well. We covered a lot of miles and made a lot of wet saddle blankets together. It is said that a good horse will make a cowboy out of a boy. There is no doubt that Sorry did a lot of tutoring in those first two years. We gathered and trailed cattle, we doctored sick calves, we trailed cattle home from the summer range in thirty below temperatures. I forgot to mention the big red horse was fast . . . . really fast.