The Last Hoorah

Now, traverse 10 years and that optimist in me is still alive and kicking. I am now just getting back to sitting on a horse; half-assed as it may be, it still feels great. Can I ride anything? No, I can’t. I shouldn’t be on anything other than the horse that sits outside the market begging for coins. If a horse spooks I’m screwed; if a horse bucks I’m screwed, if they bite at a fly I’m screwed. Every second I am mounted it feels like I am free-falling through space and my brain is screaming at me that I am falling. I fight the logic my brain is throwing at me but the truth is if I were actually falling I would also be telling my brain that it was lying to me, thus becoming an issue of safety. Do I care? Not really. Do I scare the hell out of everyone who loves me? You bet, but my goal is to get back into the show pen.

In May of this year, my husband passed away suddenly and once again I found myself facing seemingly insurmountable struggles. And it has been a struggle, but if not for the support of friends and family I would have drowned in a sea of despair. The reality of life and death visited my doorstep. I was desperate now to reach my one untouched goal. Life is indeed too short to let your fears stand in the way of triumph.

Keeping plans of such a ridiculous idea to myself, I evaluate horses within my group as to who seems to be the safest prospect for me. I pick out the horse and speak to the owner. The decision is made to ride in the last show of the season. I feel all is right with the world when the owner shows that weekend. Suddenly pigeons fly up from the arena floor hitting the mare and she stumbles and goes down. I have a split second reality check of the dangers for me and quickly dismiss them. I know not showing isn’t an option. My heart is filled with the need to do this one thing and the time is now.

With a total of 40 minutes ride time on the Top Sail Whiz mare and knowing that I have held onto the saddle horn in every stop to prevent a fall, I walk freely and without a second thought to the centre of the pen. Acknowledging that I may be holding the horn in the stops, I tell myself that it’s not about how good the ride is, it’s about taking back control of my life. Knowing that sitting in the centre of the pen would probably be my best manoeuvre I become immersed in the experience. I begin the pattern and am amazed when things click and all the intensity of focus I once had is still alive. It feels like old times, except for where I almost fall off in the left rollback causing the crowd to catch their breath. Ooops, I guess there are still some major balance issues. As I ride around the end of the pen I laughingly say to my friends on the rail, whose faces are filled with horror, ‘It’s a good thing that I had you tighten the cinch!’

As I head to my last stop I am overwhelmed with emotions and the crowd cheers as I complete the pattern. Do I win? No, of course not. But I do mark a 68 by taking the risk of not holding onto the horn in my stops. Not too bad for an old broad that has had four strokes and not sat a horse or shown in 10 years.

Now that I know I still have ‘it’ and control of my life is truly in my hands, will I keep riding? No. It is not worth the risk. I am on blood thinners and riding could easily become a death sentence. I will continue to train and coach from the ground and maybe once in a while mount up to fix something but to ride on a regular basis, no. I have a new way to find joy and live a safe life with horses.