When I first arrived at the first stable I would ever ride
at as a shy and scared fifth-grade girl I was entirely overwhelmed by the ten
thousand things that seemed to all be occurring at once. There were owners riding their horses in the
covered arena, older girls leading sweating lesson-ponies towards the main barn,
cars pulling in and out of the gravel lot, and stable hands with wheelbarrows
and pitchforks running in every direction.
The trainer was much more intimidating: perhaps it was the fact that she
was wearing cut-off shorts that left little to the imagination, a sports bra,
and no shoes, or maybe it was the way she appraised me like a horse on the
block at an auction, but I was very intimidated.
I followed my trainer back to
the stable, watching the other riders around me, attempting to get a feel for the
barn etiquette. I watched closely as she
tacked up Remi, the brown horse I would be riding. I was allowed to walk by his head into the
arena, and was carefully given a boost into the worn leather saddle. The first day was little more than learning
to find my balance in the saddle, and Remi and I made countless loops around
the outside of the ring, meandering slowly while my friend who had been riding
for six years jumped over cross-rails set up in the sand. After dismounting I was given a step-by-step walk-through of how to untack my horse, groom him properly, and then put away
his equipment in the tack room. I left
the stable that night sweaty, exhausted, and smelling distinctly of barn.
Over the next few months I
progressed dramatically. I was no longer
too horribly intimidated by the trainer – although I still avoided eye contact
and attempted to speak with her as little as possible, – I could tack Remi up
and be in the arena ready to ride in under ten minutes, and I had quickly moved
on from wandering aimlessly around the ring at a walk. By the time I was three months in I had the
posting and sitting trot down to a science, and my seat was beginning to
resemble the other girls. Instead of
being stiff as a board in the saddle, with my back arched and my entire body
tensed I sat deep in the saddle with all my weight in my heels and my toes,
knees, hips, and shoulders in alignment.
I was taught how to preform routines, simple ones, but routines
nonetheless. I relished trotting around
the arena in the careful movements of an equitation figure eight or a
serpentine, leaving hoof prints that marked mine and Remi’s trail. After leaping down from my perch on the
chestnut horse’s back I would run my stirrups up and loosen my girth, feeling
very much like the stable hands who lived the dream I wanted to when I got
older. Back in the barn I was
responsible for more. I would spray my
horse down in the wash stall in the summer, or blanket him in the winter,
before putting Rem back in his stall for the evening.
By the time I was entering the
seventh grade I was riding a different horse, a dun Tennessee Walker mix named
Blaze. Due to my desire to jump and
Rem’s continuing health problems it had become difficult for him to school
students, and he had never been a jumper.
I had ridden for two years, and was one of the more advanced students of
the stable by that point in my training as a horseback rider. As a jumper my confidence soared, in all
aspects of my life. There was something
about the freedom of flying through the air over a fence below you that made
you feel powerful and strong. I was no
longer afraid of my trainer, and was willing to make bold requests as to what
horse I wanted to try out. There was
progression in jumping too, I did not start off jumping over 2 feet high oxers
(jumps with both height and width) in six jump courses, which required lead
changes (when the horse switches what foot is in front while cantering),
turn-backs, and exceptional timing. I
began with six-inch cross rails, half of which Blaze and I knocked down. But as my skill and technique improved I got
to move forward. It became second-nature
for me to slip into a two-point (only the rider’s feet are in contact with the
saddle) the stride before a jump, raising my chin and looking between my horses
ears towards the next jump in the line.
The most exciting day of
jumping for me was when I entered the arena to find a triple set up at eighteen
inches, two feet, and two and a half feet tall.
A triple is a jump combination that the horse goes through in which when
the horses back legs land from the first jump his front legs are already going
over the second one, and when his back legs land from the second jump his front
legs are halfway over the third. When I
found out it had been set up for me I was so thrilled I didn’t give myself time
to be scared, instead I mounted up, cantered
my horse towards the jump, and went for it. I know for a fact that I was not graceful
going over that jump, on the other hand I was thrown forward in the saddle and
made the last two jumps leaning precariously on my horse’s neck, but I still
hold the satisfaction that I jumped a triple.
With the improvement in my
skills as a rider came a change in my reputation around the barn as a
whole. I was no longer the kid who some
older student had to watch while I tacked up to make sure I didn't get the bit
chain too tight or accidentally walk behind the horse and get myself killed. Instead I was the student who was doing that
for the new kids, sure I was a glorified babysitter but it felt good to know
that my trainer trusted me. I had more
privileges around the barn: I could make requests of which horse I wanted to
ride, my trainer looked the other way when I talked owners into letting me
watch them work with their horses, and I occasionally was allowed to stick
around when the vet or farrier came so I could see them interact with the
horses. With more privileges also came
more responsibility, I was expected to know what was going on with my horse at
all times, and could no longer rely on my trainer to be watching for the little
things when I was mounted up, I was often an extra set of hands when a pony
acted up or a horse got loose, and it was expected that the older and more
experienced riders would stay after their lesson until all of the tack was
properly replaced, the horses were groomed to the trainer’s standard, and they
had made it back to their stall for the evening.
Now I'm older, and I haven’t
ridden in several years. After a falling
out with my trainer over the way she treated her horses I was unable to find
another barn anywhere even vaguely close to me, that’s what happens when you
live in suburbia. I still have my
passion for horses, and I think that they made a large impact on my life, and changed
it or the better.
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