Some days can only be saved by a good ride.
There are a number of things lately that have left me in a state of kerfuffle, as I like to say. Out of sorts might be a better way of putting it.
We put an elderly horse down last week, rather than see him face another ruthless winter. Was it the right thing to do? Boy, I hope so, because it certainly wasn’t easy.
Work, for me, has been stressful. My husband has been facing a variety of health issues, which weighs on my mind. The ride we were to attend got blown out of the water at the last minute when we found our hauling vehicle had shredded a fan belt. (The truck in general causes me angina on a fairly routine basis.) I got some surprising news about someone I thought I used to know that was a bit disturbing and some of my friends have been going through a rough time too.
I find myself wound up, tense, unable to focus and just generally discombobulated when life gets this way. Today the weather is perfect. A gorgeous autumn day, the leaves just about at peak, and me finding irritation at every turn — from the grocery store to my crotchety computer to the federal government’s ineptitude. Everyone has plotted to piss me off today.
Finally this afternoon I decided to ride.
A genius move, if I do say so myself.
I’m plotting to steal my husband’s horse, Sarge. I borrowed him for last month’s GMHA 100 Mile CTR, but today, since he was the one rideable horse up at the barn when I went down with breeches and boots on, he was the mount of choice.
Rarely do I school Sarge in dressage. He is my husband’s horse, and while I “tune him up” on occasion, my husband and I have mostly thought of this as “installing the buttons.” You know, the sideways button, the canter button, etc.
Sarge is a complex ride. Like every horse I have ever known, he requires that his rider shake up the formula a bit for dressage success.
Riding back to front has been drilled into my head forever, but with Sarge, one cannot, in any way, shape or form, drive the hind end into any sort of fixed hand. In fact, I find that my Germanic instinct to do so is best cured by the mantra “front to back” while riding him.
He loathes any holding. Hold a steady contact without the essence of softening, he will lock his jaw, find his underneck and brace against you for all he is worth. Grip with a leg, and the hock on that side drops off into neverneverland, such that he actually feels grossly uneven behind. Hold with your seat and endure a temper tantrum of epic proportion. He’s a feisty little bastard.
The beauty of Sarge is his brilliance. He is smart as a whip, and truth be told, I am well aware that he knows he is smarter than me. Certainly he knows far more about being a horse.
When I find myself able to get my act together to his satisfaction, it is absolutely gratifying. The amazing thing is that it requires so little, physically. Sitting still, but not too still, a soft contact but never without the squeeze or release of a ring finger on one side or the other, the brush of an inner calf and then off again. By the end of our ride, I called out to Rich — “watch this!” (Yes, just like the kid on the bike — “Look Mom! No hands!”)
We crossed the short side, soft and through and absolutely boinging in a medium trot (because I know this horse can trot!) and across the diagonal with the sensation of his withers coming up and up and up and his back as soft and receiving as warm butter. Good boy!
Of course, within a stride or two of reaching the corner I’d tightened something, or held something, or braced a part in a way Sarge found offensive, so we were back to a not-so-pretty moment, but no matter …
He’d made my day and I asked for some swinging, marching walk, re-newing his faith in my competence and me in his brilliance.
A good day, after all.