I have been in and out of the saddle, sometimes with large gaps in between, for over four decades.
My first time riding, I was four years old. My dad took me to the zoo, where they had hand-led pony rides for small children. It was bliss. I immediately started working out a plan to get my parents to buy me a pony. I had it all sorted out. We would make him a home in the basement, he could graze in our small garden, and I would take him for walks on the busy streets of our capital city, all the way to the park, where we would run around and cause mischief and enjoy ourselves.
They didn’t go for it.
They offered me the next best thing instead: proper lessons as soon as I turn six.
I couldn’t wait. My next birthday was a mere half point, a milestone of sorts, a stepping stone toward the big one.
By the time I reached my designated riding age, I was obsessed. By then, I had gone to the hand held pony rides a few more times, a treat that only made my obsession flourish.
The riding lessons were to take place at the same stable where my parents learned to ride when they were teenagers. My dad was an experienced cross country rider, and my mom, a trophy holding show jumper. I still have one of her pins from the 1960’s.
The day came, we packed some carrots and sugar cubes, and off we went.
Imagine my surprise when I realized the stable was on a military base and there were no ponies anywhere in sight. It was the oldest, most well known arena in the city and it loomed large in front of me, all the horses great, big giants (though… not really… the one I took most of my lessons on was a 14 hand Arabian, but to me, he looked like a dapple grey Clydesdale).
I was introduced to my mount, then the instructor bored me to death with details about brushing and tack, safety, and other things I don’t remember. Yes, yes, let’s go already!
Finally, we walked out to the arena, where I could see riders warming up or jumping obstacles. I must have stopped to take it all in, as I recall my dad nudging me forward. We walked to one end of the olympic sized arena, and, as we moved along, I realized there was no saddle on my school horse. Or reins. Just a pad with two plastic handles. Nothing else.
The instructor stopped. Without a word, he turned around, picked me up and plopped me on top of the bareback pad. “Hold on to the handles until I say otherwise” he said, then walked away holding on to the lunge rope. “Walk”, he said, and the horse started walking in a large circle. All I could focus on was the distance to the ground and the fact that my legs didn’t wrap around him the way they did on a pony. Everything felt loose and weird, scary, and out of my control, yet thrilling and wonderful at the same time.
I completed one full circle, then heard the instructor say “Hold on to the handles, relax your legs, chin up, we’re going to trot.”
Wait, what?
When the horse heard the last word of that sentence, he picked up a trot.
Bounce, bounce, bounce, “ok, you’re doing great, now let go of one of the handles and hold your arm out”.
What? What? This is progressing way too fast! Fear started to overshadow the thrill and bliss from moments ago. Bounce, bounce, bounce. “Let go with one hand!” Bounce, bounce, bounce. Nope. Not happening. Bounce, bounce. “Relax your legs! You’re too tense, that’s why you’re bouncing!” Nope, I don’t care, not letting go. “And, walk…”
And so it went for the remainder of the hour.
Fast forward a few months and I’m trotting on a bareback pad without handles, my arms out, then break into a canter. I’m thrilled.
Then, life happened, my parents had me take a break from lessons and would only let me go on trail rides once in a while, at a place just outside the city limits. The next time I would have formal instruction, I was 16 years old. By then, I had been riding on and off without training, and, typical teenager, I thought I knew a thing or two about it.
I was wrong.
My step-dad decided I needed proper instruction if I was going to keep going on rides. I disagreed. In the end, he won because he was the one paying.
So, off I went, to Grenoble Stables. My know-it-all attitude, swiftly dissipated, as my instructor brought me down to size with her teachings and fantastic ring-side manner. She changed my entire view of horses, the relationships we have with them and she quickly, and methodically, obliterated the bad habits I picked up while riding on my own. I owe her a world of gratitude for opening me up to proper horsemanship and paving the way for all my future relationships with horses.
Fast forward through a number of stables, horses under my care, and ensuing adventures, to today, as I am back at it after a 15 year hiatus. It’s been a long time. Too long. And I am happy to be back.
My husband and I recently adopted a 13 year old appendix mare. We are getting to know each other as we progress through ground work and connection training. She will never again know the discomfort of the bit, crop and spur, or the stress of being re-homed. She is here to stay, through thick and thin, and she is loved.