I rode a mechanical bull after age 60. Why? It's good to do things that scare you.

The mechanical bull was bigger than I thought it would be — so tall that I, a 5-foot, 0-inch woman, had to step on the bent knee of the operator to climb onto it. As I did so, a thought crept into my brain: “Are you out of your mind?”

But ever since Debra Winger wooed John Travolta on a mechanical bull in the 1980 flick “Urban Cowboy,” I’ve wondered if I could stay on that rocking contraption. Winger seductively rolled forward and back on the bull, her hair grazing her shoulders from beneath a cowboy hat, and her mind focused on, well, I could only imagine. It seemed so exotic, and, frankly, erotic.

I was 21 when the movie came out — full of fire and imagination, but not full of drive to find me a mechanical bull. And as someone who lived in suburban New York where mechanical bulls are as rare as cowboy boots and Stetsons, the opportunity just never presented itself.

But last summer, on a visit to my 30-year-old daughter, Sophie, in Los Angeles, we moseyed into the Saddle Ranch Chop House, a restaurant I’d noticed on several previous trips, which happened to be right across the street from our hotel. I had googled it and discovered that while the food was OK, what drew people to the place was the chance to ride the bull.

“Really?” my husband said, raising one of his bushy gray eyebrows in disbelief. “You want to ride the bull?”

“C’mon! Remember ‘Urban Cowboy’? It’ll be fun.”

Sophie was game, and there is strength in numbers. We all agreed to give it a try.

My enthusiasm for this endeavor morphed into unease once I realized how big the mechanical bull actually was and then also understood that there’d be an audience for my ride. The restaurant was packed with diners — most of whom weren’t even born when “Urban Cowboy” hit the theaters. In fact, their parents might have been toddlers back then.

And we arrived at a moment when not a lot of riders were coming forward, meaning that we would surely draw everyone’s attention. I suspect many of the other patrons were downing some liquid courage before taking on the bull.

We sat down in a booth that faced the ring where the bull stood idle, waiting for its first customers of the night. I chewed my food very slowly, knowing that I’d gotten us into this so there was no backing out now. As the waiter cleared away the last of our dinner, we looked at each other.

“I guess it’s time,” I said.

We signed waivers agreeing not to sue the place for any bodily harm that might befall us, and then the three of us approached the ring together. David, sensing my trepidation, went first, heeding the advice of Nate, the very young, very good-looking guy who was assisting bull riders: Lean back when the bull goes forward and forward when the bull goes back. David lasted almost the whole 30-second ride but toppled backward onto the cushiony floor just before it ended. Maybe because he was the first one of the night, the crowd reaction was muted.

Sophie then leapt up onto the bull, looking very sure of herself as the audience offered her whoops and cheers. Now they were paying attention. She too made it just about to the end.

As I watched my husband and daughter take their bumps and lumps on the bull, I found myself feeling philosophical: It’s good to do things that scare you, I thought. Often, they are the very things we need to do. Not that I’d been contemplating a mechanical bull ride for 40-plus years, but when faced with it, I pushed aside my fears and, um, grabbed it by the horns. Suddenly, I didn’t feel 65; I felt in touch with that young woman who still lives inside me — the one who finds life more fun when you take some chances, scare yourself a little and realize you’ll be OK.

Still, as I walked into the ring, I felt compelled to announce myself. “I’m 65, you know,” I said nervously to Nate, who gallantly knelt on the floor and offered his knee for me to climb on.

“I got you,” he reassured me. “Just put your right hand here” — he motioned toward the saddle horn — “and keep your left hand up in the air to help push you back. And use your inner thighs to grip the bull.” As he walked away from me, the crowd started to cheer, and my heart started to pound. Would I be flying home from this vacation in a full body cast?

I squeezed my legs together hard against the saddle and kept my hand high in the air. The bull pitched forward and back, which was fairly easy to take thanks to the earlier instructions, but when it whipped around in a different direction, I screamed. After a few seconds, though, I started really having fun, not to mention a new respect for Debra Winger. I found the rhythm and enjoyed the ride. I’m proud to say when the bull came to a stop, I was still sitting in the saddle.

I can also say that I was not thinking the thoughts that I had always imagined for Winger. Far from it. I was thinking, “Just hold on.” And when it ended seconds later, I was thinking, “Wow! I did that!”

I suddenly felt newly connected to my body which, while challenged by the bull, was able to bend and not break. And isn’t that just so important to know? We’re tested every day — maybe not by a bull, but by so many things: disease, finances, loss of loved ones. Sometimes even deciding what ice cream to choose at the grocery store can leave you feeling as if you’re just hanging on.

But if you lean forward when you’re going backward, and lean back when you’re going forward, you’ll regain your balance, and you just might hold on long enough to enjoy the ride.