I started horseback riding when I was nine years old, at a rundown barn, with entirely unqualified horses and not enough green space to take care of them. The trainer was abusive towards both her animals and her students, didn't know the first thing about teaching, and generally didn't know what she was talking about when it came to riding. Still, I enjoyed the sport and I loved the horses and the time I got to spend around the barn, so I kept arriving every week in my ripped jeans and hiking boots. After one summer of baking in the sun my parents were convinced I was not going to quit riding like I had quit every other sport I had ever tried I got my first pair of real leather paddock boots and riding boots. I advanced quickly from trotting on the longe line to cantering around the covered arena on my lesson horse, sitting deep in my saddle to offset the jolt from Remi's bad hip joints not moving in cohesion with each other. After eighteen months I switched horses from my old and ailing Quarter to an obstinate Tennessee Walker by the name of Blaze, owned by a friend of my dad. When prodded enough he and I finally took our first jump, a measly six inch cross-pole, which became an oxer-gymnastic that we soared over gracefully like we were ready for the World Equestrian Games. Sure Blaze and I had our, very literal, ups and downs, but we were a team. So when both he and I ended up lying in the dirt after I missed a cue and he tripped over a jump it wasn't Blaze's fault. It was mine, and when we got ourselves up and brushed ourselves off we were even stronger.
Eventually I left my old barn due to a falling out with the trainer. Falling out may be an understatement. Storming out and never looking back except to worry about Blaze is a more accurate representation of what went down. The trainer was had always treated her horses terribly but in my third year of riding for her barn the abuse to my lesson horse got much, much worse. She would frequently grab Blaze's reins right under his curb chain, yank his head down, and then bring her foot up to kick him in the stomach over and over before releasing him, wild and terrified. The day I left he had refused a vertical three times, and the last times I had nearly gone over his head, thinking he was following through. I was pulled down from my horse, informed to "watch and learn," before the trainer mounted and began to beat him mercilessly with her whip, screaming at him to go, all while pulling back on his mouth so hard I thought for she would break her reins. That was the first and I ever cried at the barn, ruining my "tough as nails" persona I had kept up which was necessary to run with the older kids. One negative comment towards the tears that were running down my face was all it took for me snap. And shout. And finally give my big and scary trainer a piece of my mind about what she was doing to the animals people trusted her with. That day I cooled down my horse, fed him an obscene amount of carrots, and told him goodbye. Then I left. That afternoon combined with the death of my beloved Remi was enough to ruin that barn for me.
Not riding, though. Although I haven't been to a stable in four years I still love horses and the atmosphere of the barn more than anything else. I occasionally head to my aunt's farm and hang out with her horses, ride around the empty paddocks and just love on the horses, but I haven't trained in a long time. But unlike sports like soccer and dancing horseback riding isn't a sport that ends when you leave high school or college, in fact many people don't get into horseback riding until they're much older. I knew a rider who was still riding at the age of eighty five (he died because his horse threw him and killed him but that's beside the point.) Horseback riding is something you can participate in and love for your entire life, and with so many different disciplines that no matter whether you want to soar over jumps, race around barrels, or just wander through fields, horseback riding can be the sport for you.
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