A FEW MONTHS AGO, their composure wouldn't have astounded me. But that was before I went to clown school and got stared down, chased, and very nearly impaled by slobbering-mad bulls.

At the time, Lyle Sankey's rodeo school seemed like a powerful remedy for the creeping sissification of middle age. No experience was necessary, and the three-day program was the largest (35 clowning/bullfighting courses annually) and oldest (founded in 1975) of the handful of schools scattered across cowboy country. Giddyup!

Or not. My enthusiasm began to wane as soon as I arrived at Sankey's "campus." Located in the dusty prison town of Penrose, Colorado, it occupied a dilapidated arena on the back forty of some guy's lot, beside a jigsaw of pens filled with emus and peacocks and other sad-looking exotica.

At the check-in, a picnic table, I presented the required emergency contacts, proof of medical insurance, and a notarized (notarized!) liability release. A dozen teenagers in chaps—all guys except for one shy girl—had signed up for the bull-riding class, but my only classmate was a big-boned 32-year-old firefighter from Phoenix named Judd.

Without ceremony, our wiry and battered instructor, a 44-year-old part-time pro named Bennie Bob, started running us through the clowning basics. One of his first lessons concerned style, and his opinions were unequivocal. "For eyeliner, you want quality," he said. "Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen is the best. Buy it at Walmart."

Protecting the cowboys is a two-step process, Bennie Bob explained. First, you get the bull's attention. Shout. Grab a horn. Wave your arms. (Bulls respond to motion, not color.) Second, flee at an angle. In a straight line, bulls are faster than Usain Bolt, but they're not especially nimble, so when you run away, try to veer off to the side.

And that was it. Seriously. Protect the rider by endangering yourself.

We practiced for an hour in the gravel parking lot. Bennie Bob charged, pushing a wheelbarrow with horns; Judd and I ran away. That part seemed simple enough, but then we got a glimpse of our living, breathing foes as they were offloaded into the corral.

The biggest bulls had horns as wide as my arm span. The fact that their lances were "tipped" to blunt points the size of silver dollars brought little comfort. They thrashed around like water dropped on a hot frying pan, and I knew things would only get worse.

We stepped into the ring while the stock manager lashed a strap around the first bull's flanks (not its balls, thank God). After the bull, a runt whose back came no higher than my chest, galloped out of the chute carrying a 'tweener cowboy, I cowered near the fence, repeating my new Buddhist mantra: "Stand your ground, don't poop your pants, stand your ground, don't..."

By the afternoon of day two, we had moved up to the big boys. When Bodybag, a schizo, 1,500-pound riderless bull, was 15 feet away, he stutter-stepped. I assumed this meant he was planning to sprint to the left, as I'd seen him do before, so I ran to the right. But instead he pounced—like a cat!—with his front legs extended, diving at my shins. I backpedaled, one hand low on his forehead. It felt oddly warm. I looked left: horn. Right: horn. He pounced again. And again, steering me in an S as I swerved and stumbled backwards. Then he knocked me on my ass.

By all rights, he should have skewered me like a kebab, but for some reason he lost interest. I scampered away in a cloud of dust.

That was enough for me. With another day and a half to go, I quit. Who the hell wants to face that? Lyle's answer: "Wingnuts."