Just Go For The Ride

By Liz J. Andersen

 

 

            "Wait until you're ten." That's what my parents said when I begged for a horse.

            But even riding lessons were a desperate dream for a ridiculously horse-crazy girl. And I could wish upon the first star from my bedroom window each night, but by the time I woke up ten years old, I knew I couldn't hope to find even a small pony waiting for me in my tiny suburban backyard. I peeked anyway. It wasn't there. I couldn't help feeling disappointed.

            So in my teens I felt excited when my family planned to move to horse country. Our new home had a glorious view of a horse pasture to the left, and a big white horse barn to the right, where, even if I couldn't afford a horse of my own, I might get some riding lessons. But by the time our house was built and ready for us, Westwind Barn stood empty and cobwebbed, closed for business.

            That may be the only reason I ever got to know Becky. Becky's family lived next door, and their horses lived in the pasture across the street. Becky and I were both tall, thin, oldest daughters—Becky blond and I a strawberry blond—but we probably had little else in common except our parents knew each other.

            I was a shy, awkward, tense teenager, working hard to make straight A's in advanced high school courses where I met most of my friends, and prepared for a highly competitive college prevet program. The only B I ever made in high school was in P.E. Whereas Becky was a consummate athlete on King, her nearly draft-horse-sized bay gelding.

            Becky hung out with a different crowd, and maybe enjoyed our teen years more than I did. We rarely saw each other in high school, and we never shared the same classes.

            So I didn't know what Becky first thought of me, besides being a source of a little extra pocket change, when our parents arranged for Becky to give me weekly riding lessons. Did I seem bookish or even snobby, as shyness often appears? Growing up playing with model horses, reading Marguerite Henry and Walter Farley horse stories late into the night, and sitting mesmerized by TV Westerns had hardly prepared me for the real thing.

            I was a complete equestrian klutz. But I did possess two advantages which must have helped—I was very stubborn, and I respected teachers.

            Becky must have cringed frequently during my first lessons. I knew absolutely nothing about safety, much less how to handle a horse. Becky loaned me real horse books, and she made me learn all about horse care, not just riding. So I had to master grooming Lee, Becky's younger sister's horse, and how to saddle and bridle him, before I ever learned how to mount him.

            And to do even that much, I had to learn how to stand and move safely around a horse—either very closely, with full body contact, or by staying well out of kicking range. Becky lived and breathed horses, but she was not careless or sentimental.

            The one time Lee kicked me; Becky caught him at it and hollered at him, even though thanks to her coaching, it just felt like he'd gently shoved me out of his way. And I got hollered at for Lee's sake when I pulled the dangerous TV cowboy stunt of tying Lee up by a rein.

            Becky also taught me to use quick-release knots, to never risk wrapping a lead rope around my hand, and to keep my heels down so a stirrup couldn't snag my boot and drag me if I fell.

            I wanted to learn Western riding, but Becky insisted on starting me on English. Becky loaned me an old pair of tall English riding boots and extra wool socks so my feet wouldn't swim in them. Then Becky put me on a skimpy English forward seat saddle so I could really get the feel of a horse under me.

            When double reins proved too much for me, Lee ended up on a lunge line, so I could learn simple balance without the distraction of reins. Becky threatened me with her long whip whenever I grabbed hold of the pommel or Lee's red mane, and sometimes Becky even stole the saddle out from under me.

            It was a painfully slow process, but I never fell, and I ate up every moment of it. Before each weekly lesson I wrapped my bony knees in Ace bandages under my pants, to keep from rubbing my skin raw when I hugged the horse with my knees. And I ended up each lesson smelling like a horse, until I soaked my new angry muscles in a hot bath. But we all stuck with it. And after many lessons, Becky eventually asked me if I would like to borrow Lee and enter a horse show.

            I felt very honored and flattered by Becky's generous offer, but I wasn't interested in competition. I got more than enough of that in school.

            What I loved best was to go on trail rides astride Lee, with Becky on King, out among golden California hills and dusty oak woods. It was a complete escape from the rest of the world, in kinship with our mounts.

            When we finally returned, hot, tired, and dirty, we watered the horses, and then slipped inside Becky's cool house for tall iced lemonade. We'd return to curry and brush down Lee and King, feed them oats, pick up their feet to pick their hooves, paint their dry hooves with pungent Hooflex, and then walk them back to the pasture at sunset.

            One evening we lazily rode the horses bareback, with halters and lead ropes, to the pasture gate at one end. Becky dismounted to open it. But then Lee spotted the hay truck arriving at the other far end of the pasture, just as I rode through the gate.

            By now I considered Lee a handsome chestnut friend, but I suspected he merely tolerated my amateur performances, and I was certainly not his master. He perked his ears, whinnied loudly, and took off at a run with me.

            So this was no controlled canter on a lunge line, or a short gallop on a smooth stretch of well-worn trail. Nor was Lee a small horse, even if King dwarfed him. Suddenly Lee's churning hooves seemed an awful long way down, and the wind was actually whistling in my ears.

            I tried to pull back on the lead rope and order "Ho!" but it was clearly useless. Lee was intent on that hay at the other end, and running faster than he'd ever let on that he could. I grabbed his red mane and clamped my thighs against his broad chest to hang on.

            No. This wasn't going to work. I was so tense I wasn't moving with Lee, and soon I would surely bounce right off of him, and maybe end up under his pounding hooves. I had to admit I had no control, force myself to relax, and just go for the ride. I kept my fingers in his mane, but I loosened up my body, and I finally began to flow with my mount.

            It was one of the shortest but finest and wildest rides of my life. We careened downhill to the dry stream bed that creased the pasture, and then flew up the long slope to the fence. I didn't even fall when Lee slammed to a halt at the hay, and obliviously munched away while I limply slid off his back and shakily removed his halter. Becky caught up with us and asked "Are you okay?" I told her. "Yeah. That was my best ride ever!"

            Becky said "Don't make a habit of it." And we laughed.