I have waited all my life to own a horse. I made my parents miserable most of my childhood begging for one. I grew up in Fairfield, Connecticut, and unless you had money and lived on Greenfield Hill you did not live in an area zoned for horses. We did not. So, instead, I made friends with everyone who did. I had some fun times and some harrowing ones riding back then. I loved to go to school in jeans that smelled of horse sweat. That is still one of my favorite aromas, and if I am ever famous and have a brand, I will debut a perfume of horse sweat and a bit of linament, as it is simply heavenly. But anyhow, at one point I was lucky not to get killed, riding a horse on the grass alongside the Merritt Parkway with the traffic just a few feet away. The silly guy grabbed the bit, ducked his head and galloped into the trees, hoping to sweep me off. That didn't work; I hung on with one hand and one foot and brought him to a halt. Then I got off and gave him a lecture. Then I got back on and walked him to the barn. And only then did I start to shake with fear of what could have happened. But anyhow, I continued my basically white-knuckle Western riding for many years, off and on. Ironically, my Father was a cowboy transplanted from South Dakota who grew up on a farm and used horses to herd the cattle. He ridiculed the thought of anyone needing lessons to ride.
But the dream of learning to ride correctly would not let go of me, and so a few years ago, I happened to get involved with a therapeutic horse group and lo and behold, found myself on the back of a beautiful red Morgan named Misko on the evening of volunteer training. I was hooked. I began to take Western lessons and after a few months realized that my Father had not been entirely wrong; there is not all that much to riding Western (maybe not riding with finesse, but simply moving the horse where you want it to go and the gait you want. I loved Western, but had a yearning to learn another equitation. A wonderful woman on the board of this therapeutic group had a stable of Saddlebreds owned by family members. I decided to start over with them. I began to feel a better sense of direction. Unfortunately, by now I had learned the loose neckreigning of Western equitation, and had to start from scratch to learn direct reining. In moments of undertainty, such as when my wonderful lesson horse/show horse took off on me, I resorted to neck reining, which only encouraged him to go faster. But at this stable I faced a formidable adversary in the instructor, who didn't seem to appreciate my desire to fulfill a childhood dream. One lesson (it was the last) while she cracked her whip at the horse and me (and every time she did this the horse went up) yelling that we needed to be trotting 5 miles an hour. I called out to her that I thought my saddle was loose. She yelled, "You probably just made that up," and kept us going. In the cooldown lap the horse hung his head. He knew something was wrong, as did I. When I dismounted, she checked the girth and tack for the next rider and held up a broken girth strap. "Looks like I owe you an apology," she said. "I think I'll take a break from lessons, was my reply as I walked away.
So, utter discouragement set in, and I figured I was just destined not to be a great rider. Too much time had passed, it was too late. Some months later, during a training class with the therapeutic group, the instructor mentioned the fact that I needed to become a good rider if I was ever going to become a therapeutic instructor. I hung my head and told my sad story. "You want Dressage," she said. I thought she must be joking. These were the people with the immaculate white breeches and incomparable posture who got their horses to do the most amazing things. There was absolutely nothing I could relate to. I thought I was going to cry. Another student said, "Here, try this instructer. My daughter uses her. She's really good." I took the name, email address and phone number and looked at it for a month. I sent out a couple of testing emails and found that she was on vacation in Florida. Good, I thought. It's not meant to be. But gradually I gathered up what little was left of my courage and called her. We set up a lesson.
Now I was at a competitive Dressage barn. This instructor had a large board with lessons and rides for the horses she trained. It was impressive. She was quite young, but I have no issue with age; young people are brilliant. I found myself on a wonderful lesson horse, a big paint, who not only did what you asked but had a wonderful personality. I heaved a sigh of relief. I felt I had come home. All of my wishing for something more had names in Dressage. And so I continued for almost a year. This horse was already half-leased, or I would have been honored to ask to lease him. So I watched in joy and amazement as his owner and the woman who leased him rode him in different shows. Most of the horses available for lease at this barn were too small for me, so I felt a sense of discouragement as I wanted to move forward. But then, ironically, a horse became available for me to ride in my lessons if I wished. He was big; 16 hands. He was up for sale. The minute I climbed onto him I had a feeling that something unusual was taking place. He was a dark bay with a star on his forehead, and wise brown eyes that looked quizzically at me. This was Miles (my nickname for him, because of my love of the music of Miles Davis, also very smooth and satiny). But Miles was not a lesson horse; he was trained to the Second Level of Dressage and had a mind of his own. As we lurched around the arena, which had windows into the tacking area and the lunchroom, I quickly began to realize that we were creating just a bit of a commotion. Before long other horse owners started dropping polite hints that he was 'too much horse for me.' They also just bore into me with their eyes as they passed us, usually close enough for me to feel their horse's breath on my arm. "What is your instructor teaching you?" another owner asked me with a fake smile. At first, I didn't know what she meant. Then I realized that my wonderful lesson horse had been doing all the work for me; Miles made me work for everything. This was a devastating realization. So I went to the instructor and asked her if Miles was too much horse for me. "I think he is the perfect horse for you," she replied without missing a beat, and with a smile as big as the Grand Canyon. Delighted, I thought no further than that this was the horse I wanted to own. So I leased him for two months. (to be continued.)
