Horsekeeping (23 page)

“Bandi, you naughty boy! You're taking advantage of your mother,” Bobbi scolded.

I thought so too, and grew frustrated. But I am wary of blaming my horse. A few weeks earlier, Bobbi told me about a student who always blamed her horse. “It's almost always the rider's fault,” she emphasized.

“Let me straighten him out,” Bobbi said.

Ha, ha, Bandi, you're in trouble now,
I thought.

I slipped down and gave her a leg up. She trotted a perfect oval and eased into a lovely, controlled canter, steering perfectly with little apparent effort. All “seat.”

“See. He can do it.”

“Yes, I see,” I mumbled. “Does he realize he can get away with more with me, or is it truly that my commands are so bad?”

“It's a combination. Your aids are a little confusing sometimes, and he is still getting to know you. But he's also smart and pretends to be confused when he really isn't.”

I didn't like my options—bad rider or push-over.

“It's the same with the reins. Whenever you find your reins too long, it's because Bandi takes them little by little through your hands, so gentlemanly that you don't even notice until you go to canter and they're looping and he strings out long and unbalanced on his forehand.”

“But I want to give him some room for forward motion and not be too strong on his mouth.” I had heard about riders who yank and rest hard on the reins. Attached to a metal bar or “bit” in a gap between teeth, such rein action not only hardens horses' mouths making them resistant to any commands, but can also injure or turn them just plain nasty.

“You're not too strong with your hands. Bandi always looks happy,
and his ears are never pinned back when you're riding. He likes you, but he's testing you,” Bobbi said.

“Great. Just what I need, one more child testing me,” I sighed heavily.

“Give more with your arm at the elbow, but don't let him steal length of rein through your fingers. Think ‘elastic,' but keep a connection.”

Every skill is qualified with a “but, do this, this and this, too.” I rubberized my arms and resigned to keep trying—but maybe tomorrow, I'm shot today. I have some strengths, like decent balance, a strong, postured back (thank you, yoga), and soft, giving hands. But my legs are weak and asymmetrical: the right one creeps too far forward of the girth and the left too far back. It is fascinating to Bobbi that Elliot's legs twist exactly the same.

“Do you feel your left leg behind the girth and the other forward?” Bobbi asked, and I said yes, even though I couldn't tell at all, by touch anyway, where that girth was. The girth is a five-inch-wide strip of leather that snugly runs under the horse's undercarriage to secure the saddle from slipping side to side. It was difficult enough to see past my saddle, spread legs and stirrups; but feel it? My lower leg was encased in thick socks, “full seat” riding pants (which have suede on the butt and down the inside of the legs), ankle boots and then half-chaps (suede and leather armor that zips on over everything else), all in the interest of getting a better grip. I took a guess and slightly shifted each leg.

“Now you're even,” Bobbi said.

Feeling so totally
un
even I wondered if my back, injured and operated on in the past, is so corkscrewed that my legs are permanently askew.

My ankles also present a problem, particularly my left. The challenge here is to push my heels down angling my toes upward. This one is all about safety—if I fall off, my feet will slip more easily out of the stirrups, decreasing my chance of entangling in the leathers to get dragged or stepped on by a bolting, panicked horse—a gruesome image I wish I could edit from my mind's eye. Horses don't want to step on you, and are pretty nimble, but they can't fly; if you land beneath one you're in
trouble. Being dragged seems even worse than a clean fall despite Three Stooges skits and spaghetti westerns. Proper ankles also push the rider's weight back in the saddle rather than pitching it forward off the toes. This gains importance in jumping. If the horse refuses the jump, there is a better chance of braking your own forward momentum and staying on, or falling off to the side or back. Falling forward, or “rotationally” onto or over the jump and onto your head or neck is never good, and a collective breath is held in the crowd at any show in this case, exhaled in relief and subdued applause when the rider rises, dusts him or herself off and, astonishingly to me, gets back on, usually more pissed-off than scared.

Despite these excellent incentives to keep my heels down, it is fairly impossible. For balance and security, gripping those stirrups with my toes is a primal instinct. My faith in my superhuman pedal digits directs them for all they are worth earthward and curling around in an attempt to maintain a hold of that tiny little stirrup rung. My heroic efforts to lower my recalcitrant heels results in two horizontal feet at best. Only when I am practicing jumping position and my butt rises off the saddle, gravitationally forcing all my clumsy weight into my heels, do I gain some downward angle. I have no trouble with this in yoga's downward dog—my ankles bend to a slim wedge, so it must be some weird psychological security blanket—my toes will glue me to the horse. I suspect I am not alone. Riders everywhere hear “keep your heels down” ranking right alongside the standards “keep your hands down and thumbs up,” “shoulders back,” “relax your elbows,” “loose thighs” and my personal favorite, “look where you want to go.” Again, I am better with my right ankle, but the left is, like the leg it is attached to, a booted rebel. I've had a right hip replacement, and I find myself contemplating whether a matching one on my left might even things out.

My next challenge soon presented itself: a trail ride, suggested by a fellow boarder at Riga Meadow. With Bobbi as my bodyguard, four of us set out to explore the two hundred and fifty acres of trails bordering
the farm. I was a cocktail of nervous and excited, and my imaginary film entitled “Things that Could go Horribly Wrong, and No Doubt Will” looped in my head. Trail riding seems awfully exposed in comparison to a contained ring. Multiple horses may not get along or grow agitated at venturing far from home into the unknown. Even well-trod trails harbor terrors as nature changes daily. Uneven footing, streams, downed limbs, slippery hills, a gravelly patch, a muddy puddle of water and narrow passages are expected elements you would hardly notice on foot, but pose a possible hazard for even the steadiest horses. Things to stumble over are omnipresent. Hikers, dogs and vehicles can appear out of nowhere and may not care a crumb about spooking your horse. Indeed, some nitwits try to scare the horses for their own hee-haws.

But the lure of the open trail is part of the American West dream in many of us: cantering windblown through a field of tall grass; meandering a pine needle laden path; clopping over rivulets and river stones; making forward progress through natural beauty without the heat of asphalt or the whine of an engine; just the smell and sound of horse, the conversation of friends enjoying the same moment in nature. Isn't this what it's all about?

In theory, yes; in fact, I was a wreck the entire two hours, a long time to be tight as a bow string. Though Bandi rode pretty steadily, I alerted to each minute change in terrain, every rustle in the brush, and all ear twitches and head jerks of the leading equines. I rode more fearfully attuned than the horse beneath me, and I, supposedly, had the bigger brain. Oh, me of slender trust. Extremely solicitous on my behalf, my companions graciously passed up a long canter down an old railroad bed through the perfect alley of trees lined with soft, even footing.

“This is the safest place to canter—but we'll trot on, don't worry,” one sighed at the missed opportunity.

But even trotting made me nervous. Bandi, energized and happy, rushed to keep up with the pack. His forward, bouncy trot that I couldn't reliably slow, unbalanced me, and I hung on the reins. Walking down
steep hills required a counterbalancing body angle that I hadn't ever practiced, and because of my steering, I nudged tree trunks with my knees and head-butted a few low branches. On the last leg of the journey, with the barn in my sights, I relaxed enough to enjoy the field of wildflowers and open views of the hills receding north into the distance.
Thank god we're almost home. I made it!
But my moment was eclipsed by a neighbor's dog who chased us, barking and threatening a closer lunge until, at the last possible moment his owner called him off. Bandi didn't seem to mind, but I monitored every flicker of his ears as a barometer of his inner state.

Mission accomplished without mishap yielded an endorphin rush, but I can't say I had enjoyed myself. It felt like those calculus tests in college—you apply the formulas and get a decent grade, but without the satisfaction of really understanding the material. My lack of nerve defeated me.
Why am I such a coward? What happened to my teenage fearlessness on those New Jersey hack rides when all I wanted to do was gallop, and then gallop some more?
I relished the rush of speed then, the floating glide of a fast canter, the stretch of the hacks' muscular necks with manes flying, the ground disappearing fast under dusty hooves, my friends going just as fast, the control I believed I had, sure that I'd stay on.
When, exactly, did I get old?

Recreations never live up to memory as I discovered on my tenuous trail ride as an older me. But there were other pleasures besides the riding: the before and after skills better suited to the forty-seven year old that I had to master. I learned each task slowly. It began with simply walking Bandi from his paddock into a grooming stall. The first time Bobbi ceremoniously asked, “Would you like to lead your horse?” I thought
Yes,
and then quickly,
No way.
The halter and lead rope were a tangle of leather, buckles and twisted hemp with infinite options for attachment. Bobbi guided my brain and hands.

“And, don't forget to close the stall door or paddock gate behind you, or your horse may decide to sneak past you and escape.”

So I led, and Bandi bumped his nose into my back and kicked my heels.

“Don't get underneath him, push him out if you have to, and stay alongside. Look ahead to where you want to go.”

I've heard that before
. Over a few weeks I got the hang of it, and felt overdue to attempt a solo “lead-in.” So there I was, heart racing even though it sounds like the easiest thing in the world: 1) place halter over horse's head and secure, 2) hook lead line onto halter, 3) open gate, 4) walk horse into barn. Steps 1 and 2 went well, but I faltered at unchaining the gate one-handed while my other hung on to Bandi. Bobbi warned me not to wrap the lead line around my hand or arms in case a thousand-pound animal decides to bolt and you, entangled, are yanked or dragged by an arm that eventually detaches from its socket. While fumbling at the gate, Bandi stepped on my foot, only for a second and not full pressure, but it still hurt, let me tell you. Once I unlatched the gate, facing him I gave a short tug on the rope.

No go.

Another, harder tug.

Nope.

His big eyes looked right at me, very attentively, with ears up and head cocked, cute as could be, but would not budge. I leaned back heavily into a protracted heave, against which he settled back stronger. No way could my one hundred and twenty pounds win this tug of war.

I decided to try Bobbi's trick of flicking the loose end of the lead rope under Bandi's belly. Quickly, he pranced out of the safety of the fenced-in paddock. I jumped out of his way. We took a few steps, with me looking down, minding my toes. I realized I should have been “looking where we were going,”
duh,
rather than at him or my own precious body parts. As I made this adjustment, he stopped abruptly and ducked his head down into some long green grass, hoovering away. Because their paddock grass is well picked over, a good feed requires a human escorting them to the virgin tufts that thrive in between the fences, barns and rings. It is a special treat, reserved for after-work or special bonding time—but we were just getting started. Bandi knew he was on borrowed
time so he braced his forelegs and planted his nose down, mowing bites of grass back and forth as a typewriter slides along its carriage, his left eye daring me to interfere.

So I enjoyed watching Bandi munch until my reverie broke with the realization that I was establishing a bad habit. Bandi bullied me into this treat while Bobbi had cautioned
me
to tell
him
when to indulge. I pulled and tugged. He ignored me, casually munching, and I got my foot stepped on again trying to leverage my weight against his. I glanced around the farm to see who might be witnessing my ineptitude and could offer advice. Finally, I gave him a little boot under his chin, a firm yank with the lead line, and marched ahead with conviction. I heard Bobbi's voice in my head: “Keep looking where you want to go.”

Bandi tried dipping again, but I maintained some authority until, agitated and in a hurry, he began to hustle me to the barn. I didn't want him ahead of me, so I fast-walked, which only encouraged him to trot and me to run. We bumped our way abruptly into the stall, and though I managed to turn him around properly, he wedged me against the wall, and his hoof found my foot again. He thrust his head into his corner pail and greedily gobbled his grain.
Aha! Dinner time.
Relieved there was a reason for his bad manners, I also realized I had been horse-handled. He pegged the novice at my first approach in the paddock. Already dejected, I then remembered that horses should not eat just before a ride, which is what I intended to do. Powerless to battle his face out of his bucket, I gave up. I gathered up my grooming materials, put away my tack and called it a day.