Dreamer and I ambled along the trail together, slowly, gingerly. – until he spotted a downed tree. His ears went up. Neck arched. Tail flipped up. The small hop made him happy for the rest of the day. An old thoroughbred with a big past, he was easy to please.
I was in my forties, and I had not ridden much in years. I had been leasing the 20-year-old Dreamer for months, and I started taking lessons for the first time since I was a teenager. I wanted to remember.
In the ring, he was less happy than out on the trails. Used part-time as a lesson horse, he got tired of the circles. He got impatient with me – with the ring – with being inside when he wanted to be outside looking for logs to hop. He forgot where he was. Who he was. In a full canter, too fast for the indoor arena, the thoroughbred’s racing instinct spurred him to speed up even more on the straight away. My blood quickened with his, and for a moment, we moved in unison, his body under me, powerful and graceful, and I could see the racehorse he once was. I felt right there on the edge of control, a shadowy reminder of the big black horse. I felt that dark fear. I tensed. To ease into the turn, I tried to rein him in.
Suddenly, I was not looking at his ears anymore but the dirt as he stumbled. I lunged forward in the saddle, head thrown with enough force to cause lights to fleck across my path. My shift of weight put the horse further off balance, and we hovered on the edge of a fall. I grabbed his mane in a last ditch effort to stay on, my legs squeezing his sides as he scrambled for better footing. I threw my weight the other way, and we were balanced again, moving as one. My daughter cheered from the side of the ring, and I remembered I was setting an example for her. Did I want her to see all this fear? I started to pull him in again, but stopped.
As we reentered the straight away, I dropped the reins, extended my arms, and turned palms up to the sky. I held him straight with my legs alone, and he responded, trusting me as I trusted him. He was beautiful, and riding him, I was beautiful, too.
But it didn’t last.
A few weeks later, I was taking a lesson on one side of the indoor ring. My five-year-old daughter was riding on the other side – just off the lunge line and allowed to walk on her own. Her laugh floated up into the vaulted ceiling like soap bubbles as she bounced along.
Dreamer was having trouble. He wouldn’t stay in a canter. My legs were exhausted from pushing him forward. Dust filled my nose and mouth and all I could taste was grit. My riding instructor stalked to the tack room, came back with a crop, and she handed it to me. It felt cold and long and lean in my hand. Dreamer caught a look at it, and, suddenly, it was 18 years ago and he was a two-year-old on the track, about to get beaten. He took off like the starting gate bell had rung and the doors had flown open wide and he had all the track in the world in front of him.
As this horse sped across the arena at full racing speed, I saw my small daughter on her little Arab, right in my path. Oh, my god don’t bolt, please please please little Arab, don’t bolt. I pulled all my weight to one side as we ran past them, keeping the big horse away from the small one. Bless her, the little Arab stood her ground , keeping my daughter safe.
But we ran out of room and came straight to the wall. Dreamer spun around, making a turn too sharp for any horse. I felt him begin to fall. And I started falling, too. I pushed hard on his withers, up and away, so my leg wouldn’t get caught under him. He bashed the ground as I rolled away, pain shooting through my side. I would find later that beyond the visible bruises and limp, I had injured my spleen and pancreas, and I would spend three weeks on bed rest. Dreamer limped out of the arena, shoulder and leg damaged beyond repair. Dreamer soon retired to an old thoroughbred horse farm in Aiken. I didn’t ride him anymore. As far as I know, no one ever does.
I know it wasn’t my fault. But you can’t tell my guilt that. I sat around doing nothing for weeks except thinking about it, trapped on bed rest. I began to feel responsible for Dreamer’s career-ending injury. If I had only done more. If I had only done better. If I had only taken care of him. I doubted myself as a rider. In the ancient myths, the unicorn only comes to the pure maiden who waits for him in the woods. Pegasus only obeys the hero who has proven himself. I once felt that kind of connections with my horses. I was once that kind of rider, but now felt that I had fallen from grace. Dreamer no longer came to me.
Fear of the out of control moments terrorized me. Look what happens. Horses fall. You get hurt. Your child could be hurt.
If only … if only … if only….
I eventually rode again, here and there, but not regularly. I saved my lesson money for my daughter. I figured I would become a great barn mom, and that would be that, and I would enjoy riding through her. I hovered on the edges of barn life, feeling unworthy of a horse.
I was in my forties, and I had not ridden much in years. I had been leasing the 20-year-old Dreamer for months, and I started taking lessons for the first time since I was a teenager. I wanted to remember.
In the ring, he was less happy than out on the trails. Used part-time as a lesson horse, he got tired of the circles. He got impatient with me – with the ring – with being inside when he wanted to be outside looking for logs to hop. He forgot where he was. Who he was. In a full canter, too fast for the indoor arena, the thoroughbred’s racing instinct spurred him to speed up even more on the straight away. My blood quickened with his, and for a moment, we moved in unison, his body under me, powerful and graceful, and I could see the racehorse he once was. I felt right there on the edge of control, a shadowy reminder of the big black horse. I felt that dark fear. I tensed. To ease into the turn, I tried to rein him in.
Suddenly, I was not looking at his ears anymore but the dirt as he stumbled. I lunged forward in the saddle, head thrown with enough force to cause lights to fleck across my path. My shift of weight put the horse further off balance, and we hovered on the edge of a fall. I grabbed his mane in a last ditch effort to stay on, my legs squeezing his sides as he scrambled for better footing. I threw my weight the other way, and we were balanced again, moving as one. My daughter cheered from the side of the ring, and I remembered I was setting an example for her. Did I want her to see all this fear? I started to pull him in again, but stopped.
As we reentered the straight away, I dropped the reins, extended my arms, and turned palms up to the sky. I held him straight with my legs alone, and he responded, trusting me as I trusted him. He was beautiful, and riding him, I was beautiful, too.
But it didn’t last.
A few weeks later, I was taking a lesson on one side of the indoor ring. My five-year-old daughter was riding on the other side – just off the lunge line and allowed to walk on her own. Her laugh floated up into the vaulted ceiling like soap bubbles as she bounced along.
Dreamer was having trouble. He wouldn’t stay in a canter. My legs were exhausted from pushing him forward. Dust filled my nose and mouth and all I could taste was grit. My riding instructor stalked to the tack room, came back with a crop, and she handed it to me. It felt cold and long and lean in my hand. Dreamer caught a look at it, and, suddenly, it was 18 years ago and he was a two-year-old on the track, about to get beaten. He took off like the starting gate bell had rung and the doors had flown open wide and he had all the track in the world in front of him.
As this horse sped across the arena at full racing speed, I saw my small daughter on her little Arab, right in my path. Oh, my god don’t bolt, please please please little Arab, don’t bolt. I pulled all my weight to one side as we ran past them, keeping the big horse away from the small one. Bless her, the little Arab stood her ground , keeping my daughter safe.
But we ran out of room and came straight to the wall. Dreamer spun around, making a turn too sharp for any horse. I felt him begin to fall. And I started falling, too. I pushed hard on his withers, up and away, so my leg wouldn’t get caught under him. He bashed the ground as I rolled away, pain shooting through my side. I would find later that beyond the visible bruises and limp, I had injured my spleen and pancreas, and I would spend three weeks on bed rest. Dreamer limped out of the arena, shoulder and leg damaged beyond repair. Dreamer soon retired to an old thoroughbred horse farm in Aiken. I didn’t ride him anymore. As far as I know, no one ever does.
I know it wasn’t my fault. But you can’t tell my guilt that. I sat around doing nothing for weeks except thinking about it, trapped on bed rest. I began to feel responsible for Dreamer’s career-ending injury. If I had only done more. If I had only done better. If I had only taken care of him. I doubted myself as a rider. In the ancient myths, the unicorn only comes to the pure maiden who waits for him in the woods. Pegasus only obeys the hero who has proven himself. I once felt that kind of connections with my horses. I was once that kind of rider, but now felt that I had fallen from grace. Dreamer no longer came to me.
Fear of the out of control moments terrorized me. Look what happens. Horses fall. You get hurt. Your child could be hurt.
If only … if only … if only….
I eventually rode again, here and there, but not regularly. I saved my lesson money for my daughter. I figured I would become a great barn mom, and that would be that, and I would enjoy riding through her. I hovered on the edges of barn life, feeling unworthy of a horse.
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