[Note: I’ve struggled with this blog. Drafted, edited, scrapped, deleted, started again, changed direction. I think this is because this topic is one I struggle with, and I don’t want to imply that I am taking better or less good risks than anyone else, or that this is some “how to” blog. It is simply one broad’s journey. I appreciate your patience with my imperfection.]
It is that time of year in South Carolina.
I describe it as looking at the negative [anyone remember negatives from cameras with film?] of what used to happen in WNY as autumn waned and winter breathed down our collective necks. Briskly.
Visual reference of a photo negative for the kids. It’s a complicated story, but the white looks black and the black looks white. A version of reverse-land. (Note: Maybe this analogy is not a strong one if I have to explain it?]
In the deep south, it is the cool mornings and pleasantly warm afternoons giving way to the steamy heat and oppressive humidity of summer. Down here Mother Nature is exhaling hot air down our necks, and she brought her friends. Gnats and deer flies.
When it came to winter up north in my previous life, the ride season wound down –New Jersey, always New Jersey!– and the horses got a vacation. It was the holidays, and falalala, time for baking and making soup. Horses got their shoes pulled and a well-earned vacation.
Down here, five years in, I’m still working on offering myself the same grace. Fly boots and fans for the horses, riding in the early mornings when I do. No needless suffering required for anyone involved. Salads and indoor projects, and consulting gigs performed from the air conditioning in my office. Working out in the workout room rather than suffering outside.
Or.
We can haul out somewhere where summer’s grip is a bit less cruel. This is an option too, so long as diesel fuel remains available and not requiring a home equity loan.
We’ve Come A Long Way, Baby (But)
About a month ago, Atticus went to his first competition alone Ride in the Pines) a few hours up the road, camped for the first time, and jauntily did the introductory ride at a healthy clip.
I am all in for young girls who say “can I trot your horse?” at the final vet check. “Yes, please, and thank you.”
He had a green horse moment when we met 50-mile riders heading out as we headed in to the vet check on in the last few miles. The timing was a bit troubling because we met where the trail bridged a pond. The first pair put Atticus on high alert — “should we turn and join them?” (No, buddy, let’s carry on. Camp is ahead.) The second pair — “no, really, I think we need to go with them!” [adding a spin and an attempt to do so]. The third pair, well, that got us some backing up toward the water, and a half rear.
Timing is everything. We approached six 50-milers, a pair at a time, right where the trail borders a pond. What could possibly go wrong?
That was the moment I opted to dismount, downplay the air of drama, give Atticus a pat and a kind word, then a hand walk up the trail in the direction we were headed. Away from his new best friends. Me safely on foot. I reminded Atticus that we were in this together, the two of us, and that I was his ‘safe space.’ Hopefully in his soup can-sized brain, I was adding pennies to the jar of being someone he could trust. Found a spot to remount, and with his cheerful go-forward nature restored, we headed on in to camp.
He was doing the best he could that day. Me too.
A few years ago, I was riding with my friend Kathy. She was telling me about a recent dressage test, and I cannot recall which test, or even which horse she’d ridden. What I do recall was what the judge had written under Collective Remarks. (This is where a dressage judge remarks on their overall impressions of the horse and rider.)
Takes good risks.
Oh, how I loved that. Three words with so much weight about the judgment of the rider, their depth of understanding about their horse and their partnership and where they might shine and where they might need to be prudent. Hold back. Take an exit ramp.
I often confess that I haven’t had an original thought in my head. However, I am damned sure a fan of other people’s words and ideas, steal them with reckless abandon, sometimes mis-attribute them and otherwise share them with great glee.
And by golly, I aspire to be someone who Takes Good Risks.
In some ways, with Atticus, since I am older and wiser and full of orthopedic wear-and-tear and a concussed brain I prefer not to damage further, I’ve done just that.
Practical Goals
I’m in no rush and I have very limited competition fever. Goal-oriented, yes. But more aspiring to ride this horse when he’s 20 and I’m 70 — did I really just type that? — than any AERC mileage mission.
The notion that I’m seriously contemplating hauling Atticus a few days out west when we’ve never even completed a Limited Distance ride. Why not?
It’s all about the journey.
A Willingness to Cut Bait … or Outsource
I chose wisely –AKA got lucky– when buying Atticus. He was mature enough physically to go straight to work, he’d had gainful employment as a driving horse, and being a Morgan and all, was ready for a job promotion. He was ‘broke’ in the best sense of the word; he’d been out and about in the world, trailered all over, tied quietly for long periods of time, and seemed to have little penchant for drama.
While my 28-year-old self was capable (barely) of bringing along an acrobatic and opinionated character like my beloved Ned, my 58 year old self would not have considered such an option. If Atticus had turned out to be “too much horse”, I’d have sold him with little hesitation. He’d have fit nicely into someone’s driving program. (Hedged bets make such decisions easier, particularly when you’re not over your head financially.)
Ned, a questionable choice even at 28, would be an unthinkable risk today.
After all, you don’t marry everyone you date. Sometimes it’s just not a match. And that’s okay.
The Company We Keep
Lucky for me, I also have Elise. This is no small thing. I consulted her before and during my plans to purchase this horse, and she is fully on board to handle the rides when, for whatever reason, it makes more sense for her to ride him than me. A long gap in his work, or travel taking me out of town? A cold, windy day? A dressage lesson focused on canter transitions and maintaining the gait? My creaky neck acting up? Elise, who is quicker and better-seated than I was even in my twenties, gets the nod.
Elise and Atticus, sucking up all the ‘squishability’ dressage wisdom. I like to send Elise videos from six months ago if she has a moment when she thinks she had a tough ride.
I’ve had excellent riding company. My friends threw themselves on the sword of riding to my ‘green horse’ least-common-denominator standards these past several months, patiently accommodating a bit of the nonsense that comes with it from time to time. Priceless. (Thank you, Elyse, and Kathy and Marianne and Val!)
Marianne and Shayla chaperone us around their neighborhood trails.
I enjoy geek-out conversations with my friends on the journey, the struggles, sharing ideas and commiserating over setbacks.
Gene, keeper of an enviable tack collection, gave us the perfect bit.
We’re back on the dressage lesson wagon. Lynn has the perfect mix of “let’s try that again” and “this is a good time to quit for the day.”
Nothing better than coaching from the ground and your own reflected image to check on progress.
I want to do this right. That intro ride, while a success on paper — Atticus could and did go out alone, he kept up a pace that was faster than I would have expected he’d offer, and he camped like an old-timer (“more hay, please”). But he was a little more powered by adrenaline, and a little scant on “squishability” as Lynn likes to call it. In his next lesson, I confessed, and we took a step toward the little things. The investments that will be time well spent in my boy’s rideability and longevity.
It takes a village.
Focusing on the Little Things (because they become Big Things)
With the steamy season approaching, tacking up and hitting the Woods or my home trails and yard, doing the slow building-up work seems worth the price of admission. I’ve begun to do more solo rides.
How does a risk-averse broad ‘take good risks” while riding all by herself?
Dog tag ID on Atticus’ bridle, RoadID bracelet on my person, beloved oh-shit-strap in place.
I get these little engraved dog tags for halters and bridles so my horses have emergency phone numbers on them when I head out into the vast wilderness of, say, Hitchcock Woods.
Once I purged my childhood riding instructor’s voice from my head, threatening to break my fingers if I touched the saddle horn, I embraced the ‘oh shit strap’ era of my late 50s with righteous enthusiasm!
Walk/halt transitions with the subtlest minnow-on-a-fishing-hook contact and a squeezing of my fingers. Atticus makes these wildly gratifying by literally sighing most of the time when he comes softly onto the bit, glued to my seat.
Leg yields and playing with lateral work up and down the driveway, with me doing my level best to do less rather than more. For a Shetland Pony on steroids, Atticus is remarkably sensitive. Even if I have to do a volte (tiny circle) in my driveway at a walk to remind him that yes, indeed, he can bend through his rib cage.
He occasionally, however, still likes to go right when I say let’s go left, or gets fixated on some rustling out in the woods, with little mind to wear he’s putting his feet. He’s still green, after all. And heaven knows, he has ideas! The ratio of shouted aids to whispered ones is heading in the correct direction.
I tell myself that my job is to teach him to want to listen, and to look to me for guidance.
Morgans should come with a warning label. “Abhors a leadership vacuum.” Or better yet — “bus driver in training.” Atticus is happy to take over any time he thinks he can do a better job of making decisions, so there’s a bit of mental gymnastics in reminding him that when we dance, I lead. Most of the time.
The canter is a work in progress. I suspect he wasn’t allowed to canter in harness, and so, there’s some combination of him and me creating a speed bump there. Paging Elise, who has made galloping young racehorses a part of her professional career. It’s kind of a no-brainer to have her help us. (I look forward to gleefully cantering Atticus all over the place, as it’s a good one, and comfy.)
Bodywork and magnawave with Beth. Learning new stretches. Missing (again) a moment of pandiculation that occurred about three seconds after I grabbed this image and shoved my phone in my pocket.
This was the second session where Atticus offered us enthusiastic pandiculation. (“The act of stretching oneself, as if when waking”) The second time we missed it with our cameras.
Focusing on the balance of Atticus’ front feet, as they have a tendency to resemble manhole covers. Battling a wee bit of frog sulcus thrush, discussing it with Keith. Keith who says “Whatever you’d like me to do, Miss Patti” but who I know will push back if I’m having a Bad Owner Idea Moment. Figuring out what shoes and when will serve him best for which trail challenges.
Reinforcing manners. Standing stock still to be mounted. Bringing his focus back to me, subtly or not-so-subtly, in a million ways. Loading in the trailer, regardless of what’s happening all around him. With a giant pony who constantly yells “HEY! What’s that!?!” — this is a real part of his training.
Thankfully, he is wicked smart and very coachable, and on the rare occasions when he is truly rude, he takes a firm correction with the aplomb of a partner who is told he just WAY overstepped a boundary.
Saying No
I’m also willing to say no.
To a ride that is lovely, but just ‘too much’ for a first LD, like Biltmore — so heading there to crew instead. To a ride within four hours which has a big river crossing when Atticus and I have only traversed little creeks, and there’s a boatload of rain in the forecast. To Old Dominion, when Atticus has never confronted a mountain or climbed a trail that is basically boulder to boulder.
Key to all of this, I think, is being in no rush. If an objective look at the challenge puts us at a significant risk of over-facing Atticus, it’s a ‘thanks, but no.’
Saying Yes
But also saying yes, to stretching the rubber band. Deciding it was time to start riding out solo at the Woods, without Dunk or another buddy accompanying us.
Having manageable adventures out solo.
To contemplating a road trip or two to get out of the heat, even if there’s no t-shirt or mug or AERC-sanctioned miles that result. To teaching an Endurance 101 clinic, or two, far from home, and planning to take Atticus along to compete, if the stars align.
Have favorite mug and coffee. Will travel.
To noodling around with more difficult questions, with zero expectation of a correct answer, and a word of praise for a good effort.
There’s always tomorrow, after all.