Reprinted from Endurance News, April 2005, monthly publication of the American Endurance Ride Conference, www.aerc.org, 866-271-2372
I’m holding up my end of the “prepping for a hundred” bargain and my childhood friend Anita still plans to help my husband, Richard, act as pit crew. Every time we talk (and I confirm and re-confirm the date with her) she says “it sounds like fun.” And then she reminds me that I need to fill her in on what’s required of her.
Here goes, Anita …
First of all, forget everything we learned in 4-H. In endurance, we put cold water on hot horses. We encourage them to eat heartily then climb right back on and start riding again. And let them drink any time, any where, out of any questionable water source.
Since I crewed for my husband for a few seasons before competing myself, I can lend you some general pointers on a variety of topics.
Worry. Everyone has a gift. Mine is worrying. If I’m not worrying, I’m surely delusional or we’re about to be pulled. If it weren’t so annoying I’m sure it would be rather amusing.
“I’m worried about Ned. We passed a mailbox, and he didn’t spook.”
“Did I mention that he offered to canter on his right lead? Surely something is wrong.”
My advice? Say “uh-huh.” Maybe remind me again how wonderful this will be to look back upon when we’re all done. I won’t believe you at the time, but you can say “I told you so” later on.
Eating (horse). Ned is an obnoxious eater. The stuff he eats at vet checks is carefully formulated to be a perfect blend of protein, carbs, electrolytes and water. This will not stop him from slobbering a considerable percentage of it on me, you, the vet, his tack and his body. I’ve figured all this in, so don’t worry. Besides, worrying is my job. (See above.)
My advice? Stay out of his slushie blast radius, or resolve yourself to wearing your share.
Eating (human). No telling what I might like to eat on ride day. Typically salty stuff like nuts, and something with some protein, like Power Bars or cheese. I’ll pack enough food for a small army, but I guarantee if you eat the last Double Chocolate Harvest Power Bar, it will be precisely what I’m craving at the vet check.
My advice? Keep up your strength, but don’t eat the last anything.
Drinking (horse). Ned rarely drinks at holds because there are so many other preferable sources of water on trail, like slimy puddles with two inch tadpoles writhing in them. He’s allowed to drink anything he likes. Occasionally this means the water in which his filthy interference boots are soaking.
Drinking (human). Gatorade is horrible stuff, and the only time I can drink it is on endurance rides. Only orange. Maybe I’ll drink ice tea. Perhaps a cup of coffee would hit the spot at 3 a.m. or so. I’ll also pack beer, and probably some Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Please don’t let me drink it.
My advice? You can drink as much of the booze as you like, but if you’re blotto when I get in to a vet check, I’ll still make you trot my horse.
Clothing (horse). Ned’s tack must be adjusted just so. His saddle pad must be straight and even and pulled up into the gullet. The saddle can be neither too far forward nor too far back. He steers and stops better when the hackamore is not on backwards and when the right rein is on the right and the left rein is on the left.
My advice? Just help me get the saddle up onto his back; it’s significantly heavier as the ride goes on. I’ll handle the technical stuff.
Clothing (human). I know I won’t look good. I accept that. I seem to have some sort of obsession with attempting to smell okay, however. I’m bound to change clothes a lot.
My advice? You may roll your eyes at me when I put on antiperspirant at the holds, but if I don’t you may wish to stand upwind.
Peeing (horse). Arnold Schwarzenegger is The Terminator. Ned is The Urinator. Urination at a vet hold is an event.Someone will announce “he’s peeing.” And everyone in earshot will turn to check the volume, color, density. It’s supposed to be copious, a clear yellow and the consistency of, well, pee.
My advice? It is not funny to say “It looked like maple syrup. That’s okay, right?”
Peeing (human). Having a crew will allow me the incredible privilege of peeing leisurely without worry (see above). I’ve been known to run off to the potty while Ned is thoroughly engrossed in eating, but it really reduces the joy in the blessed relief of urination.
My advice? No need to announce when I’m peeing.
The sequence of events.
Okay, this is actually rather important.
1.Ned and I arrive at the in-timer. (In theory, you’ll have some clue of our estimated arrival time, based on the length of the previous loop. Murphy’s Law guarantees it occurs just about the time you decide to duck in for a shower.) The timer marks the in-time on our vet card. From that point on, you have stewardship for the card – it needs to accompany the horse through the pulse/vetting process.
2.If it’s cold, you’ll want to have a wool cooler to throw over Ned’s body to keep his muscles warm. If it’s hot, you’ll want to have cold water to sponge or pour on him to help him cool down. It’s conceivable we’ll cool him down with cold water, then cover him to keep him warm.
3.Depending on how warm it is, we may want to strip tack. Given the sponge and breast collar attached to the saddle, it is important that everything is detached when we make the final heave of the saddle off the horse. (Nothing like leaving a breast collar half attached to the horse to serve as a reminder that the equine is a flight animal.) In 4-H, we didn’t throw our saddles on the ground. In endurance, we do.
4.We may confirm Ned’s pulse is below parameter (usually 60 or 64) before going to the P&R box, or we may just hope for the best. I’m generally coming into the gate slow enough to know his pulse is down, or close to it. During the pulse-taking, the idea is to keep Ned standing still, quiet, and near his buddy if he has one. He’s generally itchy at this point, and seems to instinctively know this is the precise time he can scratch his head on my arm without getting scolded because I don’t dare upset him, and thus raise his pulse. We say ‘thank you’ to the pulse takers and don’t let Ned rub his head on them either.
5.Typically, we head right for the vet at this time. If you have a handful or two of hay (because you don’t have a bunch of other things to carry – wool coolers and stethoscopes and vet cards and such), he can munch a few bites while we’re in line. Sometimes this area is crowded, and particularly early in the ride, the horses can be a little wound up. So maintain your space, and whatever you do, don’t lose our place in line!
6.We let the vet know right away if we think there is any problem with the horse – he/she is our partner in ensuring the horse makes it through the ride safely. The vet will check Ned nose to tail, including his capillary refill, his gut sounds, his pulse before and after his trot out (CRI), his saddle area and legs. You’ll be asked to trot Ned out and back, typically to a designated point like a pylon. There is an art to trotting out a horse. You want to run fast enough to keep up with a big, forward, straight trot, but not let the horse canter or get ahead of you, with the reins/lead loose enough that the vet can readily detect any head bobbing. It helps if you don’t fall down. The vets also appreciate it if the horse stops before he reaches their toes. We say “thank you” to the vets and take their advice about the care of the horse.
7. If all looks good, we head back to our little hold area, or our trailer, where we have food and drinks and rest time. When I say “we” I mean me and Ned. You get to wait on us.
8. You’ll head up to the out-timer and ask for an out time, which gets recorded on our vet card. We say “thank you” to the out timers, because they have to do math (adding hold times to pulse times) all day. You note the time, then place the card back in our pommel pack.
9. We fuss over Ned, and get him tacked up about 5-10 minutes before the out time.
10. You don’t laugh at your friend when you see her laborious efforts to remount the ever-growing-taller horse.
11. Just before heading out, we remember the helmet/gloves/interference boots, we almost forgot to put on.
12.You clean up from the apparent tornado that came through, rest for about 10 minutes, then start prepping for our return – refilling water tubs, picking up trash, re-freezing ice boots, and prepping another slushie. Then you wait, and watch the time, and keep looking toward the in-timer, ad infinitum, until you spy us coming in again. Then it begins all over again.
Do you still think this sounds like fun?
I do. God bless the pit crews!