The Old Gray Mare, She Ain’t What She Used to Be

I love horses. Always have, always will. I am one of those lucky kids who actually got my own pony. When I was ten, my dad was transferred to another town just twenty miles away from where we were currently living. Today, people commute hours and miles away from where they actually live. But back then, at least with my dad’s company, the family had to be as close as possible to where he worked. My folks couldn’t find any place in the new town that suited them, so for almost a year, we rented a farm outside the town where Dad had to work. A farm! I was in horse heaven.

I had read every book ever written about horses: Walter Farley’s Black Stallion series, everything Marguerite Henry wrote, and Mary Elwyn Patchett’s Brumby books. I even wrote to the Chincoteague Fire Department after I read Henry’s Misty of Chincoteague, and received a beautiful card and letter from the fire chief himself! Saturday mornings would find me glued to the TV watching My Friend Flicka and Fury. When my family would visit my grandparents, I would beg to go to Uncle Nick and Aunt Joyce’s farm. They had quarter horses they would let me ride, and later had two beautiful Paso Fino horses. To ride these animals was like gliding on air, their gaits were so smooth. I wanted a horse of my own so badly that it was always on the top of my Christmas list, and it was the only thing I would wish for whenever I blew out my birthday candles.

The first thing my parents did when we moved to the farm was to find me a stocky, shaggy little Shetland pony. I named him Midnight. He was clever in knowing by the look in my eyes when he was going to be ridden, and would make a mad dash to the other end of the pasture. If I was on him more than thirty minutes, he would get bored and crane his neck around to nip at my bare legs. I rode him bareback, and in the spring when he started shedding, my jeans would look as though they were made of mohair after I slid off his back. He was ornery, mean, and messy—and I loved him dearly!

My parents were pleasantly surprised at how I took care of little Middy. I hauled buckets of water down to his stall in the winter, cleaned up after him, and brushed him constantly. I rode Midnight around and around, daydreaming of being a princess astride a huge Budweiser-type Clydesdale riding behind a chivalrous knight. When I saw an old rerun on TV of young Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet riding a horse in a famous steeplechase, Midnight became my jumper. I thrilled to the feeling of him gathering up his four stubby little legs and leaping across a foot-wide creek that dribbled through our pasture.

When I had filled out my profile, I mentioned I’d had a pony when I was ten and liked riding horses. I didn’t mention that the last time I’d ridden was around age thirty, back when my spine had some cushion to it and my legs could grip the horse’s barrel and not remain bowed when I got off. But this little tidbit of information about riding evidently caught the eye of one of my potential dates. He emailed me that he enjoyed seeing my picture, I was lovely, smart, et cetera . . . and that he loved horses, too. Whoa, Nelly! I had to take a closer look at this potential match.

His picture was pleasant. He was my age, had a receding hairline of what looked like graying dark hair, a strong jaw, a nice smile, and a straight nose with a mustache that reminded me of Tom Selleck. Hmm. He passed on the “looks” criteria!

He’d had some college. Good. Had grown up in a small town in northeastern Iowa. Great. Father of two adults, grandfather of two little girls. Hey—we had some things in common, for sure. Recently divorced. (Who could divorce a lover of horses?) He was still employed, but looking forward to retirement to travel, probably when he turned sixty-five. He loved to go to movies and read, and enjoyed going to five-star restaurants. And there was the “loves horses” part. This guy I had to meet.

I immediately fired off an email. By now, pro that I’d become at this electronic-dating thing, I had a standard paragraph that I merely copied and pasted. I added that my hometown was a small town, talked about how much we had in common, and ended by saying that I was an experienced horsewoman. I hit “Send” before I wondered if I should have clarified the “experienced horsewoman” description as something that I was in my youth. Well, I argued with my conscience, I do have experience, it was with horses, and I’m a woman, so I guess that’s the truth. Maybe this guy used to have horses, and we’ll have that fun part of our lives in common.

Next morning, I turned on the computer, and there were more matches. And a reply from the guy who loved horses. My fingers flew across the computer keys faster than a ticket holder cashing in on a win. My eyes scanned his message. He thought I sounded nice. He thought we had a lot in common. He would like to go horseback riding with me. Would tomorrow (Saturday) morning work? His name was Cal. His phone number was . . .

Wow! A date! And he’s obviously in good enough shape to still ride. Oh, but am I? Horseback riding at my age? I hadn’t been on a horse in years. What if I couldn’t remember how to do it? But, gee, if this guy—I’d call him Cowboy Cal, I decided—was my age and still rode, then, yes, I was going to gamble that I wouldn’t make a fool of myself.

I called him. He sounded as pleasant as he looked. My heart was beating fast, but I did mention the fact that it had been a “couple” of years since I’d had time to ride. He laughed and said he could say the same thing. I immediately felt better. Cal told me a friend of his recommended a riding stable just south of the city. Would I like to meet there, have a ride, and then maybe go for a late lunch somewhere? I agreed, hung up, and then picked up the phone again.

I made a quick call to the stables, where a tired-sounding woman assured me that they had nice, quiet horses and the ride would be with a large group led by one of her employees. Phew! That sounded nice and safe!

Saturday arrived hot and humid as usual. I debated whether I should spritz on some kind of cool, citrusy perfume, but decided the eau d’equine smells around a stable probably wouldn’t mix well with that. I popped in my contacts, grabbed my sunglasses, hit my hair with hairspray, and wondered for a millisecond if I should spray on bug repellent. I dismissed that thought, and hopped into the car for my first-ever date with a horse . . . and rider.

For once, I had a date beat me to the venue. As soon as I had parked my car, I spotted a guy who pretty much matched his profile picture striding over to me. Man! I couldn’t help smiling. He had a cowboy hat on! What is it about a guy dressed like the Marlboro ad man that sends shivers down women’s spines? He wasn’t stooped over, or overly paunchy. Cowboy Cal, with that rugged hat and Tom Selleck mustache, actually looked kind of good, as a matter of fact! I just knew we were going to hit it off.

As he got closer, I noticed him kind of looking me up and down. Instinctively, I sucked my stomach in and lifted my head—not in an arrogant, confident way, but more for my turkey neck with the double chin to not be so noticeable. I was wearing jeans, and I was sure the area once called a waist, but now referred to as the ubiquitous muffin-top, was expanding. I tried to stand taller and suck in my stomach harder.

I flashed him what I hoped was a dazzling smile. I was not wearing a cowboy hat, or any type of headgear at all, because I sure didn’t want to ruin my hairdo. And I’d stupidly taken off my sunglasses so he could see my lovely blue eye shadow. But I wished I had something on that shaded my face. My smile wasn’t the only thing dazzling—the darned sun was so bright that as I looked up at Cowboy Cal, my squinting eyes teared up at the blinding light. Dang it! This was not the way I’d envisioned making a first impression. I took a second to pull myself together, wiped my wet eyes, sidled over a bit so the sun wasn’t assaulting me directly in the face, and we introduced ourselves.

I had my old tennies on because I didn’t want to step in anything gushy, like, uh, horse apples. He had on what looked like brand-new cowboy boots. I wished I had something else to wear, but I wasn’t going to change my shoes to the sandals I had in the car for our after-riding lunch date. But Cal didn’t seem to notice my feet. He took my elbow and led me to the front of the stable, where a throng of obviously inexperienced would-be riders had gathered. City slickers, all of us! I wouldn’t stand out at all if I couldn’t remember how to ride. Cowboy Cal was certainly the most authentic-looking rider there. But not for long.

The first thing all the riders were instructed to do was don protective headgear that looked like a cross between old football helmets and children’s bike helmets. (There went my hairdo.) We all looked more like we were participants in a Roller Derby than riders of horses. I noticed that there were several women who were dressed in tennis shoes, and also had muffin-tops, so thrown together with these matching helmets, I didn’t feel so obvious as a nonrider. (Which, I told myself, isn’t true, because I used to ride!)

I was ready to mount up and get to riding next to my date. This would be fun! We could amble along the trail and visit, discussing a variety of topics and getting to know each other.

An employee of the stable began leading the horses out one at a time, and handed the reins to each prospective rider to hang on to. I remarked casually that I hoped to get the only palomino there that I had spotted. Not only was it pretty, but I’d been observing how docile it was. It barely moved. The stable hand must have heard me, because he led my very own “Trigger” over to me, and I almost started clapping! This was going to be a piece of cake.

Cowboy Cal was given a big rangy-looking horse, who stood quietly next to mine. I walked closer to my horse, one palm outstretched so the horse would smell me. Trigger, having discovered the open palm did not contain a sugar cube, apple slice, or bit of hay, lowered his head even more, shifted his weight to one side, and stood there. I continued petting his nose, rubbed his face between his eyes, and scratched behind his ears. If any of that felt good to him, he never let me know.

Next from our leader came a quick verbal lesson, followed by an example of how to mount, dismount, and turn the horse’s head with the reins, followed by a command for everyone to mount up. I stood by the left side of my horse’s saddle, reins in my hand, also grasping the saddle horn. I remembered how to mount! I was so proud of myself, especially when I noticed some of the other riders trying to mount their horse from the right-hand side! They must not have been paying attention to the lessons. I snorted. Everyone knows you go from the left!

I then turned to see if Cal was coming to give me a leg up into the saddle. When I saw he was already up in his saddle looking down at me, I gave a little wave, turned to put my left foot in the stirrup, and . . .

Uh-oh, something was wrong here. Why was this stirrup so high? I put a little oomph into swinging my knee up higher so my foot would hit the stirrup, but it only swung down to the ground faster than it had gone up. Oh, dear! “Darn it!” I muttered.

I tried again, but this time my knee swung into the side of poor Trigger’s ribcage, and he whipped his head around to give me THE LOOK. I gave him what I hoped a horse would know is an “I’m sorry and really didn’t mean it” look back. Cal, in an attempt to be helpful that I found annoying, finally spoke up and suggested I adjust the stirrup—if I needed to.

Uh-oh. Did I remember how to do that? My mind was blank! But I rallied. After all, I had recently learned how to adjust my baby granddaughter’s car seat, so how hard could this be? I fumbled a bit, and then, thank heaven, the stirrup came down a couple of notches. I shot a look of smug triumph over my shoulder, not knowing if Cal even saw, managed to get my foot in the stirrup, and swung up. My left thigh shot searing swords of pain throughout my whole body. But by gum, I had managed to not only remember how to adjust the stirrup, but get about fifty pounds more of me up in the air than I’d ever had to do when I was sixteen.

Right then, the helper appeared to see if I needed any help. I proudly told him nope, and he moved off, leaving me sitting there with my left side with the stirrup the correct length next to Cal. I smiled over at him, all the while debating whether or not I should call the helper back so that he could adjust the other stirrup: the one with my right knee at a ninety-degree angle to my now-screaming right hip. Maybe I could just ease my foot out of the stirrup and let it hang down.

I started a conversation with Cal so he wouldn’t notice my extraction efforts. It took me awhile, but finally I was free of pain, and my right leg hung limply next to the very high stirrup.

The worst was over. I was comfortably seated on a horse that had somehow grown taller when I looked down at the ground below. I was with a nice, handsome man, and we had about an hour on a ride through nature on a beautiful, sunny day. Let the date begin!

We rode side by side for about fifty yards, until the trail took a turn toward the woodsy area surrounding the ranch. “Everyone will need to ride single file,” the leader yelled from somewhere far ahead of us.

My gentleman-cowboy date urged me to go ahead of him. I urged him to. Ladies first, he insisted. I was desperate to make a good impression on this date—and a good first impression does not consist of a view of a woman’s backside, spread the width of a big horse’s saddle! Once I was ahead of him, I tried turning once or twice in the saddle to talk to Cal, but then my waist and neck started cramping, so I was forced to just stare ahead. What a view I had—two big butts: the rider’s in front of me, and that of his horse.

My stomach clenched as I realized that was exactly the sight meeting Cal’s eyes. And I had just begun to feel my back perspiring in the summer’s increasing heat and humidity. I prayed the once-fresh T-shirt I was wearing did not have sweat streaks down the back. It felt like it was clinging to me. Did that mean my saggy back muscles were showing? Oh, this was not good.

A few minutes later, I realized it was better than what was to come. The stable hand had urged his horse into a trot. As I saw the helmets of the other riders ahead of me start moving up and down like a row of bobbleheads, I almost panicked. I heard Cal say something about how I better get my foot in the stirrup (aw, crap, he noticed that!), but Trigger was obviously a creature of habit and had broken into a trot along with all his other kin. So here I was trotting—make that bouncing—around on the horse like a sack of potatoes. I clung to the saddle horn and tried to balance myself with my left leg. My loose leg wasn’t able to help balance me. The leg in the stirrup was straining hard to keep me upright, all the time actually slowly pulling the saddle—and me—to the left side. When I realized the saddle horn was no longer lined up behind poor Trigger’s mane, I let out a shriek as I was bounced, inch by inch, closer to the ground.

I managed to pull the reins, and bless the horse, he stopped immediately. I kicked my foot out of the left stirrup, ignominiously got my right leg swung around, and managed to painfully slide off the saddle to the ground before the saddle slid portside anymore. I’ll give Cal this: he had stopped his horse back far enough so I wouldn’t have been run over if I fell off. He and the five or six others behind him were craning their necks to see what was going on. A few people hollered at me to see if I was okay. The rest, including Cal, were either laughing out loud or grinning. I was red-faced, and it wasn’t from the heat.

Evidently there was another paid stable hand bringing up the rear. Almost immediately someone was next to me, adjusting both stirrups, tightening the cinch around poor Trigger’s belly, and boosting me back up in the saddle before I had a chance to say that I’d be glad to walk the horse for a while. Like a conductor on a train, the helper yelled that we were all aboard now, and I was back to jostling.

Another humiliation was about to begin: Trigger’s digestive system started to work right about then. I had no idea that the horse needed to go to the bathroom until I suddenly heard a phtt, phtt, phtt, phtt emanating from his tail region in rhythmic time to the trotting pace we were on. Oh, man! I hoped no one thought those sounds were coming from me! Trigger and his musical tail continued the entire time we trotted.

At long last, my embarrassment was over. We emerged from the narrow trail into an open meadow, and everyone eventually gathered around in a circle. Trigger was able to relieve himself totally, and whether it was that, or just because we were all in a jumble, I noticed that Cal was on the other side of the group. I didn’t care. I could see the stable way over on the other side of the grassy area, because we’d evidently ridden in a circle.

Trigger spied home, too, and seemed restless to get there. The group leader explained that if we wanted to break into a gentle canter the rest of the way, we should tap our horse’s side gently. The horses knew there were oats waiting for them, he said. He also mentioned that if we wanted our mounts to walk, we should hold the reins tightly and the animal would plod on home.

I chose to plod. My neck and spine were stiffening up from the tortuous trotting they’d endured. Cal appeared beside me, and asked how I was doing.

“Great,” I replied unenthusiastically. Sweat was running from the top of my helmeted head down my cheeks and disappearing into my now dusty T-shirt. I peered at Cal and felt a little better. He looked kind of like I felt.

“Good,” he said. “I didn’t know if you wanted to gallop back to the ranch?”

It was a question I think he was hoping I would answer with a no, and he got his wish.

I replied, “How about a walk so we can finally visit a bit?” He actually seemed relieved at that and swung his horse next to mine. At last!

One of the stable hands galloped up to us. “How are you doing, Tenderfoot?” he asked me.

“It’s not my foot that’s tender,” I muttered. He just grinned, dug his heels into his horse’s side, and shot toward the barn.

Evidently my docile Trigger took that as a challenge. Before I knew it, he’d sprung into a gallop as fast as the favorite out of the gate, taking me totally off guard. If I hadn’t grabbed the saddle horn, I’d have rolled backward right off Trigger’s rear. I guess my horse wanted to hurry home, get the saddle off, and receive his treat, because he took the bit in his mouth, and no amount of sawing the reins back and forth was going to slow him down.

There was something in Trigger’s gait that made me wish that I had worn a sports bra. An extra-strong, industrial-strength sports bra, for that matter, would have been very welcome. I was swinging left and right, up and down, and flopping so much it was like there was a live mackerel on my chest. I was squeezing my legs so tightly against the horse to prevent me from falling off, that had Trigger been one of those thigh-toning devices, I would have crushed him.

At least we were getting to the end of this ride sooner rather than later. It was just embarrassing to see all the people who’d made it ahead of me watching me come in for a landing. But Trigger was on autopilot, and that included swerving suddenly to his stall and stopping dead in his tracks. My flopping top continued forward into the saddle horn, and I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. I sounded like I had, anyway: “Uuunnhhh!”

But I was done with the ride. I righted myself, and barely managed to swing off the saddle and slide to the ground. I almost sat down—my legs were like jelly—but I grabbed the horse’s mane and made a pretense of petting and hugging him. I think I was actually hanging on to him for support for a few seconds. I finally turned to walk back to the main throng . . . and realized that there was no way I was going to be walking ladylike.

My cousin Jenny in Virginia had once colorfully described the first time she got off a horse, and now I knew what she meant. Yes, my legs were “as wide apart as a hooker’s on opening night at a discount brothel!” I was mortified. The irony of it was that for years in my younger days, I had always done exercises designed to keep my thighs from touching each other. Now I’d gotten my wish, only about forty-eight inches farther apart than necessary. The only saving grace was that I was not the only one groaning in pain and walking spraddled.

I took off the sweaty helmet that had flattened my hair into a greasy-looking replica of itself, hitched up the stretched-out straps on my bra, and wiped my horse-hairy and dusty hand across my sweaty face. I decided right then and there I could never date a man whose choice of a first date sucked as badly as this date did. I didn’t want lunch. I only wanted to get home and soak in the bathtub for hours.

Evidently Cal felt the same way. He was actually wheezing, and he apologetically and sheepishly suggested maybe we should call it a day. Riding in front of him most of the time must have made me miss his own equine ineptness, because he was soaked to the skin, and he had developed a goatee on his chin that hadn’t been there before—courtesy, I assumed, from a face plant somewhere into his mount’s dirty and shedding coat.

As we stood together, unhappily surveying each other, I thought he seemed a bit shorter than I’d noticed before. I realized that he was suffering the same thigh fate as I—only his legs were spread so much further apart, he had lost about five inches in height.

We each made it to our own cars, but not before we shook hands and confessed that maybe it had been more than a few years since we’d each ridden horses. Cal did try to regain some grace by mentioning he’d never ridden such a fat horse before. I just nodded, and mentioned that all the horses here seemed extraordinarily wide.

I had to sit in the car for a while before my legs stopped shaking so that I could drive home safely. I took a hot bath, some Minit Rub, Aleve, and suffered through a restless night’s sleep before I was back to normal.

I never again heard from Cowboy Cal, but I checked his profile once. He had edited it. “Loves horses” was no longer there!