I didn’t know Ashford well at first.

We crossed paths here and there on the circuit, mostly nods and polite hellos behind chutes or at the pre-ride check-ins. But people always spoke about him the same way: “Solid rider. Better person.” You’d hear stories—how he stayed late after an event to help a stranger fix a busted trailer hitch, or how he once gave up a big win to call out a scoring mistake that helped another cowboy take the prize. Not many would do that.

I got to know him better during the spring run through Oklahoma. We both placed in Guthrie and ended up bunking in the same cheap roadside motel outside of town.

Shared breakfast at 6 a.m., cheap coffee in Styrofoam cups, and long talks in between rides. That’s when I learned that Ashford didn’t just ride for himself—he rode for his little brother, Beau, who had a disability and couldn’t travel. Ashford would send videos home, write letters, and call after every event. That boy was his world.

“He always wanted to be the one in the chute,” Ashford told me once, looking down at his boots. “So I figured, I’ll ride for both of us.”

He had this quiet way about him—never the loudest in the room, but always the one everyone gravitated toward. Not because he demanded attention, but because he listened. Really listened. That’s rare in this sport, or in any.

The day of the accident is still a blur.

It was a sunny Saturday in Abilene. A packed crowd. Flags waving. Ashford drew a bull named Red Thunder—one of the meaner ones. None of us were thrilled when we saw the pairing, but Ashford? He just gave that little nod of his and said, “Well, let’s dance.”

He held for six full seconds. But on the seventh, the bull bucked sideways, hard. Ashford fell awkward, head first, no time to react. The arena went still in an instant. I’ve never heard a crowd go that silent, that fast.

The medics were fast, but it wasn’t enough.

I sat with his family that night, at the hospital. His mom clutched the hat he’d worn just hours earlier. His dad didn’t speak much—just kept patting my back, over and over. Like maybe if he did it long enough, one of us would wake up from the nightmare.

It’s been weeks now, but I still see his name on the sign-in sheets, hear his laugh backstage, expect his knock on my motel door at 5:58 a.m.

But the world keeps moving.

So does the circuit.

The first event after his passing, nobody wanted to ride. There was a heaviness in the air you could touch. Then someone—can’t even remember who—said, “Ashford wouldn’t have wanted silence. He’d have wanted noise. Dust. Boots hitting the dirt.”

So we rode. For him.

I wore his number that day. So did a dozen others.

After the event, Ashford’s family stepped onto the arena floor. His little brother Beau, dressed in Ashford’s old vest, stood in the center as we removed our hats and the announcer read a tribute.

Beau didn’t cry. He stood tall. At the end, he raised a hand and said, “Ride like Ashford.”

That line stuck.

We printed it on t-shirts. We wrote it on the back of our gloves. Every time I cinch up now, I whisper it to myself. Ride like Ashford.

But something else happened too.

At the next competition, I noticed something. Riders who never said much to each other before were helping one another out more. We were cheering louder for everyone, not just our favorites. People were showing up earlier. Staying later. Being better.

Ashford didn’t just leave behind stories. He left behind a standard.

I called Beau last week. Told him I missed his brother. He said, “Me too. But you know what? You all are keeping him alive. Every time someone helps out a new kid. Every time someone rides with heart, not ego. That’s him. That’s Ash.”

He’s right.

Ashford may be gone from the chutes, but his spirit’s still riding.

If you’ve made it this far, here’s what I want you to remember:

It’s not about how long you ride. It’s about how you make others feel while you’re riding.

Ashford reminded us that kindness, humility, and grit never go out of style. That being good matters more than being famous. That you don’t need to wear a crown to leave a legacy—you just need to leave the world a little better than you found it.

So wherever you are—on a horse, in an office, raising kids, chasing dreams—ride like Ashford.

And if this story moved you, please share it. Someone out there needs to remember that being kind is just as important as being strong.

🤠💔 #RideLikeAshford