In 1996 I was boarding Rillo at an under-supervised eventing barn/riding school filled with horse-crazy teenagers running completely wild. We had spent the previous summer there from dawn to dusk, dumped off by our parents who all commuted "down the road" to D.C., some to perform important government functions and some to sell things to the government.
A long-haired Jesus look-alike named Edgar took care of the horses. He welcomed our presence in the summers - we did all the morning chores and he slept in. I'm not sure what the agreement was - our parents were all paying for full board - but as soon as we got to the barn, we started bringing in horses, dumping feed, and filling watering buckets. Edgar, in exchange, kept the radio on DC101 and educated us about alternative music and the Grateful Dead. Coming from Florida, which was still stuck on grunge and where the Dead were unheard of, I found this useful information.
Up until this point, Rillo and I had been doing dressage, with the occasional fence thrown in, but I had not had any formal jumping training with him. I feverishly rushed my mother to Maryland Saddlery, where we selected a deep-seated all purpose saddle that I jump in to this day. I love that saddle. You can call in no-purpose if you like, and it absolutely puts my lower-leg too far forward, but for Rillo and I, this position suited me admirably.
Why? Because we settled right into a weekly riding lesson with my "advanced" friends. . . and began jumping completely on talent and without any preparation. To the very last fence we took together, this gap in his education would show. Rillo took every fence headlong, with passionate abandon and fierce concentration, but without any recognition of the fence to follow. The gridwork and poles that might have taught him to keep his head up and his velocity down were skipped over in favor of fun and excitement.
In my defense, I was fifteen and had a crowd of like-minded friends for the first time in my life. I had to keep up with them. And the two years of dressage meant that I could bring him back to me and that I did indeed learn to shorten and lengthen him - but he would never do it without being told to.
So we galloped cross-country, we crashed through jumper shows, collecting ribbons, we practiced "puissance" in the indoor arena, inadvertently jumping six feet after someone swore that the standards were only five foot, and we prepped for the first event of the season: Red Hills Pony Club. April 26. Some days you do not forget.
4 comments:
Great writing, keep it coming, please.
Thank you! Update tomorrow.. it is impossible to write with Spongebob in the background. At least, for me, it is.
I love the comment about practicing the "puissance"! Very similar to your upbringing, at that same age, my friends and I would do things that we couldn't even imagine doing now! I remember very well going to a local grand prix and becoming very inspired during the drive home. So as soon as we got back to the barn, we set up jumps and begin making them bigger and wider. My ex-racehorse and I won that day with a 4 foot by 4 foot oxer jumped from a trot. That horse was a saint to tolerate such shenanigans. Oh the ignorance of youth, nowadays I look at a jump that looks "really big" and find its only 2 foot. I guess that's what 15 more years will do to a person! Happy riding everyone...
I miss the insanity of youth. I really do.
It amazes me to look back at ribbons and count the years back to them. 1996 was 13 years ago. I was that brave ... 13 years ago.
Our horses may have been saints, but face it ... they loved it, too. Thoroughbreds are free-wheelin' fun-lovin' teenagers at heart - all that matters is moving quickly and defying death.
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