A Rambling On Horses

My last semester at college was a summer semester. I had the choice of walking with the graduating class of 1998 and finishing the 3 semester hours I had left in the summer, or waiting until 1999 to graduate and pay to take a bunch of classes I didn't need or pay to take 3 hours in the fall. Either way, I was graduating in 3 years, so I went with the summer class. I had just bought my first horse the summer before, and had been offered free room and board at the farmhouse where I boarded my horse in exchange for running the place while the family went on a week long trip at the end of the summer. I was ecstatic. I was the first person that they had ever trusted their business to, at least enough to go cross country for a week, and I was only 20 years old. But in a way, I was used to that sort of priority. After all, horses were the ones that had taught me more than college or the real world ever could.

From junior high through college, I worked summers as a stable hand at a local hunter/jumper barn. I was the typical kid growing up who loved horses, but whose parents had enough money to pay the bills and that was about it. They splurged on riding lessons once a week at the tune of $15 a pop, and dropped me off at the barn every Sunday for an entire day of slave labor, in hopes that I would get to ride a horse for a second time that week. I learned how to work hard, not complain, get dirty, and do what I was told no matter what the demand was- and I learned to ride. Some would say I rode well, but that wasn't the point. I couldn't afford to go to horse shows unless I worked them at the same time- imagine running a marathon and being in charge of handing out the water to the other runners at the same time- it just doesn't work. I was tipped well by the "rich" people whose boots I shined, whose horses I tacked up for the ring, whose stalls were spotless, and who got to simply step off their horse when they were done and go change their clothes. I would save that sweat equity money, and in the last weekend of every fall, I would go to a show as a rider, not a "barn girl". And what I loved at each and every one of these shows was that I won.

Now, I could care less about the ribbons, though they were nice. I could care less about my name on the loudspeaker shouting that I was Champion or Reserve Champion. And I could care less about the applause and the pats on the back. But what I LOVED about winning was that I did it on a borrowed horse with my own money against spoiled little kids who rode horses worth $100K (and they rode them every stinkin' day). What I LOVED about winning was that, by the last class, people stopped to watch because they couldn't figure out where I had come from, this kid in cheap boots and a borrowed saddle, who was beating the snot out of their $100K horses and their thousands of dollars worth of riding lessons for their kid. I loved the fact that all my hard work was worth it. It didn't matter that no one would remember my name by the end of the next summer, when I was able to show again.

My favorite story was from one of the last shows I rode in. It was the last show of the summer, and I borrowed a sale horse that I would have given my left arm to have. This horse and I just knew each other. If I thought go left, we went left. If I thought slow, we slowed. It was amazing and wonderful and incredibly breath-taking. So I went to this show on my borrowed horse, a bargain horse priced at $35K, and we went in to the ring 11 times that weekend, and never placed lower than third. We were Champion twice, and by Sunday, one of the biggest trainers in the area with one of the winningest riders came over to my trainer and asked to borrow me. It seemed his winningest rider had a problem- two horses trying to qualify for finals in the same class. He needed an extra rider. Me. Me! A no-name from no-where, without a horse of her own, with a borrowed saddle and $5 in her pocket, was going to sit on (and show!) the number one horse in the state. Number one. And when this trainer hoisted me into the saddle, he simply slapped my boot before leading me to the ring and said, "Don't lose."

My trainer couldn't watch. I couldn't breathe. All I could think was Don't Lose! Don't Lose! I don't remember much of the class, nor do I remember lining up to receive ribbons. But I do remember hearing my name mentioned as second place... oh fuck! I lost! Until I heard that first place went to the girl who was trying to get her other horse to finals. Oh Thank God! I lost to her and her other horse! Incredible - Her horses were first and second places. Whew. I remember hitting the ground after jumping down from that enormous sculpture of a horse, getting a pat on the back from someone, and floating back to my trainer, who had her hands over her ears and her eyes shut as I walked up. She squeaked, "Who won?" and I smiled when I told her. I had just rode the number one horse in that state and had come in second- to the girl who I should have come in second to. My trainer was proud. So was I.

My second favorite story involves the love of my life, Skeeter. He was a school horse, meaning all he did was teach people how to ride, but for some reason, he loved me. I loved him. We had lots of fun together. One year, when I made it to the show finals, my borrowed show horse was sold out from under me last minute, so I took Skeeter instead. This horse was pushing 20, hadn't been in a show ring in at least 5 years, but we still managed to get a ribbon in every class. Then, during a different smaller show that was just for people that rode at our barn, I rode Skeeter again. I rode Skeeter against all the boarders expensive horses, always with the odds against us. We walked into the ring, we jumped our course, and we won. My trainer came over to me and said, "Though I shouldn't have wanted my 25 year old school horse and my one student without a horse to win, I'm damn glad you did. At least you showed them how it should be done!" I've never been prouder. Skeeter died when I went to college. He was running around the pasture with his buddies, and died while galloping like a 2 year old. He was pushing 30. I still have his halter to remember him by, though I don't need it.

I bought my first horse the summer after Skeeter died, a spitting image of Skeeter, minus the little star on his head. He's taught me a lot about life, too, but mostly he reminds me of everything horses taught me growing up. That money doesn't make you a good person (or a good rider), that hard work can get you further than brown-nosing and money-grubbing, that sometimes the underdog DOES win, and that if you love something enough, there isn't a thing in the world that can stop you from achieving what it is you want. I wish more things in life taught as clearly as Skeeter or as pointedly as boot-shining and stall-cleaning did, but the fact is, if you want it bad enough, you can get it. You just have to be able to find the lessons and learn from them.