Horsekeeping

She was right. With a full summer of riding under my belt, I was an adequate, if not fully secure, equestrienne. My ride over the jumps on Labor Day boosted my confidence, and though the memory of that first show still weakened my knees, this year I slept soundly the night before and awoke eager rather than a quaking wimp. This time, three members of my family were participating. Jane was hoping to improve her lead line walk/trot fifth of five finish, and Elliot would debut. His four classes and my three brought cantering and jumping cross rails into the mix, so together we faced new territory.

Weatogue Stables was well-represented: early Saturday morning Bobbi trailered our seven horses, in twos, the eight miles to Riga Meadow. To avoid a fourth trip, she wedged the mini Hawk sideways in the tack compartment of her trailer, strictly admonishing Bandi and Willy to behave. Packing for and moving seven horses and nine riders was complicated: in admiration I watched the girls remember everything from Showsheen—a mane and tail beautifier—to treats, crops to bridles, saddles to hoof oil. They had been up since 5 a.m. and at the barn until midnight Friday bathing horses, braiding manes, polishing and organizing tack, but they couldn’t fix the weather. Three to four inches of rain fell on Friday. Saturday morning I cut through the early morning fog and arrived at Riga Meadow to find a soppy outdoor ring with two small lakes wind-rippling at the far end.

We found Bobbi’s friend Cindi and her niece Kaylee both set to ride, and Terri, who kindly came as groom to choreograph this dance of Weatogue pairs crisscrossing overlapping events. Unlike in dressage competitions, there are no predetermined riding times at hunter jumper shows, only a sequence of classes simultaneously run on two fields that unfold as they may. We had to watch and be ready. Though Bobbi was not riding until late, she had eight riders to baby-sit; being the oldest, I couldn’t monopolize her. Elliot and I nodded at our instructions where to be and when and settled into preparation. I paid our fees and from the organizer’s tent collected our black numbers on white cardboard that we strung around our waists. I drew forty-seven, my age, which I hoped signaled luck. Elliot helped me tack up Bandi, and we headed outside.

The grounds were not as busy as last September, the weather good for something at least. My warm-up went well both in the ring and on the slick grass. Elliot played photographer and Bandi and I hammed it up; we laughed and relaxed. During the ring practice Bandi sloshed unperturbed through the water both at a trot and a canter, at ease and willing to go. He enjoyed showing and picked up his game in response to my aids.

Our appearance certainly shone more professionally this time. I remembered those posh kids from last year and stepped up to the plate. At Manhattan Saddlery earlier that week I had spent a small fortune on fancy new gear from show pads to gloves. It paid off: Elliot looked grown up and handsome in tan breeches, a white collared shirt and his navy school blazer. His smooth skin glowed late-summer ochre and his skill with our horses testified to a vacation well-spent. Our slightly uncomfortable show duds reminded us this wasn’t our daily, schooling ride. In vain we tried not to soil ourselves as we groomed.

Later, when Jane turned up after her soccer match, she was equally handsome in beige show breeches, shiny black Ariat paddock boots (I drew the line at show boots for the kids with the way their feet were growing), and a pink satin helmet cover set off by a black ribbon above the visor and little embroidered horseshoes scattered across the crown. I shortened the arms of Elliot’s outgrown dark green blazer to Jane’s size and splurged on a white, stretch-cotton, choker collared show shirt and pink and black gloves. I gathered her abundant, root beer-shaded hair into a black cotton snood, crocheted and beaded with a rhinestone bow, tasteless glitz in the real world but a nice touch here. Bobbi hunted down an English saddle small enough to fit Hawk, and Jane (no western saddles allowed) and I bet this compact elegant duo would surely win on cuteness alone. But Jane’s skills had improved since last year when, on Bandi, she declined to trot.

Alas, looking the part was less than half the battle, and Elliot and I had a rough day. In my easiest class of walk/trot I took a green, sixth out of the seven entrants, the same class I had won the year before. Adding the canter in my next event I improved but broke to an unintentional walk in a tight turn when I foolishly attempted to space myself from the large, looming ever closer, possibly bucking butt of the horse ahead. I placed fifth of seven. I considered chickening out of the cross rails event but gathered my nerve despite having practiced it only twice. Four cross-railed jumps, about a foot high at the lowest point, were arranged across a rectangular course to be taken twice at either a trot or a canter. The direction was given to take the course left, and I usually always jumped right. A wave of dyslexia set in as I reoriented my plan, but at least I would be riding solo in the ring, able to concentrate on myself.

An awkward start: I cut the corner into the first jump and trotted instead of cantered, but then everything smoothed out. Bandi, my seasoned coil of a leaper, knew exactly what to do. I gave him his head, raised my hind from the saddle into my two-point, kept my heels down and my back slightly concave, my head up, eyes straight ahead, allowed him some more rein and, last but not least grabbed some mane just in case my show-off went big. No need to have worried. He gave just enough to clear all eight, safely and, being Bandi, without expending any excess energy. I was balanced and calm. It didn’t feel as clumsy or sound as thunderous as it seemed watching previous rides. Bandi’s hooves to dirt in the canter no doubt pounded the same gaited galumph, galumph, galumph, customary jerking landing and flying dust as the others, but our ride was level, clean and silent to my ears. Once airborne, an exhilarated concentration edged out all anxiety. I didn’t stop thinking, but thought fruitfully, a basketball coach would say “I got my head in the game.”

But poor Elliot and Kaylee atop Cleo and Willy! Elliot finished dead last and then fifth, and Kaylee only slightly better. By the end of the second class Kaylee’s eyes cascaded tears. Our usually “mild mannered enough to trust little kids and someday Scott on him” lesson horse Willy had morphed into a wild man, strongly forward enough to petrify Kaylee as he galloped the course and preferred not to rein back. To her credit Kaylee kept her wits and hung on throughout. She fared better later in the day with a controlled ride on steady Cleo to high placements in some of the hunter classes out in the grass field. But with Elliot on Cleo in the ring, she kept breaking her trot, and he, already unnerved by his earlier ride, had the added misfortune of following a bucking appaloosa. This naughty pony’s antics stopped Cleo fast in her tracks and almost sent Elliot flying over the front of her neck.

Kaylee’s Mom was strenuously applying similar damage control not too far away. And I had to admit to feeling a little more sympathy for Kaylee: Willy truly acted the brute, almost dangerously so. Elliot’s episode seemed rather small beer in comparison, but then, he’s less experienced, and fear is fear, rational or not.

This was a tough call as a parent—do I let him off the hook or recast him for another try? On the one hand, ending on a sour note could bode poorly for his riding future and confidence in general. On the other, due to a cold his batteries weren’t full strength. But I suspected he would perform better, and if not, getting through is almost always better than quitting... unless of course, he got hurt, a possibility more likely with revved up nerves. I chewed my lip considering, while Elliot wiped his eyes. My gut: get him through the cross rails class; my heart: give the kid a break. I defaulted to some tough love that had worked for me once before and that I incidentally discovered by losing my patience. Instead of pushing, I pulled.

Elliot took third place and Kaylee second. I considered both solid victories given the pre-game show, and though Elliot downplayed it, he smiled more and accepted the congratulations I sincerely piled on. We agreed that scratching his last event, the pleasure pony group class, was a good plan. Taking this breather, we relaxed. Almost immediately Scott arrived with a tearful Jane, fresh from her first soccer game with a bee sting on her finger. Her puffy face as she piggy-backed Scott dramatically expecting a sympathetic fuss, sent me reeling: Oh no, I thought. I cannot deal with another fragile child right now.

With hours before Jane’s event, a rest and lunch revived us. Scott took a drained Elliot home while Jane retold her yellow-jacket tale of woe to her barn friends who turned up to support her and the beloved Hawkster. Soon I had five or six girls with me in Hawk’s stall, grooming and firing dozens of questions about the next procedure. At one point I believe the girls levitated our poor mini, picking all four hooves simultaneously. But Hawk bathed peacefully in the attention and nobly suffered their ministrations, always the perfect gentleman.

Hawk and Jane elicited audible admiration as they approached the ring, captivating even this veteran horse crowd. With a screen star grin Jane directed leader Meghan to walk, trot and canter her and Hawk around the field to warm up. She knew all eyes were already on her. It was her big moment: this time she was ready.

Eight entered the short stirrup walk/trot, a big group. And they all looked perfect—girls with pink satin-ribboned braids and polished ponies; blazered boys atop over-sized, sweet-tempered horses; trusted trainers leading them who, along with the judge, couldn’t help but serially smile. This low pressure respite of pure enjoyment was appreciated by all. Allotted ample time to circuit, the kids reversed direction and received individual, studied attention from the judge. Their serious faces registered the import of their precious time under her professional gaze. Jane maintained her bolt-upright posture and, in her new show duds, posted like she’d been born in a saddle. With heels down, her head and thumbs up, and all silliness gone, she slightly frowned in concentration as Meghan subtly prompted her. So impressed by her gumption, confidence and beauty, I blinked back tears of gratitude that I made Jane.

Our sizable Weatogue crowd cheered, and all arms collectively shot up into the air. I pumped a double thumbs-up to Jane who clutched her blue ribbon and her embossed winner’s cup with the pride of knowing she had nailed it. Exiting the ring into her bevy of admirers, she glowed until sundown. It was Jane’s moment alright, a highlight in her little life so far, and a reparative end to our show day of ups and downs.

On the whole, Weatogue Stables performed well, sweeping events out in the jump field with Cindi on Bandi, Bobbi on Chase, Kaylee on Cleo and a jittery Brandy debuting on Toby. Only Meghan trailed, finishing dead last on Willy in her only two events. This bit of news helped cheer Elliot who learned that even experienced riders have bad days. We also learned, from Willy’s behavior, that a good lesson horse does not necessarily make a good show horse. All told, we returned to our barn happily depleted with arms full of ribbons.

Yet the rewards ran deeper than satin medals. The effort involved just to get there was immense (only five miles away for about nine hours but it may as well have been further and longer), loading up horses, equipment, outfitting ourselves body and mind: and then to actually compete—multiple animals, fifteen rides, the emotional roller coaster. To emerge whole at the back end of such a unique and thorough sensory experience exponentially satisfied. Winning was fun, and we plumbed those moments when they came our way, but underneath I settled on the firmer foundation of vocation that matched, even exceeded both the logistical hassles and the thrill of victory. The shows periodically and publicly marked our progress with our horses, yet there would always be more, harder work, not always under our control. And this day-by-day, side-by-side effort was both the whole point and a large part of what Bobbi meant by “if it was easy, it wouldn’t be much fun.”

Already Elliot, Jane and I understood it is all about spending time with your horse and going for your personal peon best in this sport of kings. Experienced equestrians around our farm talk about each ride—what went wrong, what right—and their horses first and foremost; their placement, if it is mentioned at all, is an afterthought. “We came in last,” someone will say, “but my horse didn’t break the trot and was soft in my hand the whole time.” For our crowd, at least, the shows are mostly an excuse to justify our horsiness, the internal, self-indulgent, intensely compelling gratification of it, both to ourselves and the outside world. If we bragged about a first or a second, it was always underscored by the fact that it speaks more to the hours in the saddle, the collective years and decades spent grooming and befriending your horse, the truly enchanting “work” that surrounds those few minutes of judgment. Once hooked, you’re done for. But, don’t lean upon accolades. More process than result, any winning goes hand in hand with more losing. Few people who do not actually participate themselves will ever really understand the compulsion. You’ll probably alienate family and friends. And forget the money.

By evening our road trip was far from over: all hands were enlisted to unload, clean tack and unbraid manes. The rest of the horses still wanted their stalls cleaned, their dinners served, their fly sheets fitted and their escorts out to paddock. Though exhausted, no one complained. The not-to-be-rushed culmination of a show day was praising, feeding, grooming and turning out our show companions into the late summer night, and rehashing the events—our fears, revelations, disappointments and surprises of the day as the crickets chirped and the sky embered down from orange to dark night blue.

As I drove home, I acknowledged that my nerve had been returning over the last several weeks; that now I honestly looked forward to riding and began believing in my own invincibility again; that I could fall and not paralyze myself; that Bandi was more steady when I was confident; that I could catch him in the dump and run and would improve with practice (after all, Brandy, Meghan and Bobbi managed him); that it was foolish to waste this rare opportunity to really know horses by dwelling in a state of fear. This was not racing or bronco-busting but well-executed, measured control of carefully-trained animals. My perceived huge boulder of risk chipped down into more manageable rocks. I envisioned grinding them into smoother pebbles, maybe even innocuous sand. An endless beach, years of riding pleasure stretched ahead. I looked to that distant horizon and settled in for a long trek.

THE NEXT WEEK WE HOSTED our own second Weatogue Stables dressage show, pretty much a repeat of our first in June but doubled in size: two rings and two judges. Once again we skirted the predicted heavy thunderstorms and lashing wind with only mist, humidity, and a few brief downpours. A cloud-burst during my first ride rocketed Bandi through our free walk, the section of the test requiring a slow, relaxed pace and a loose rein, usually Bandi’s best mode that I expected would boost my score. Elliot, Jane and I all moved up to training level this time, and we rode well, but not great.

By the end of the day I had a hard time recalling exactly where in the middle of the pack Elliot and I placed, but my memory remained scored by other details of a great day—Elliot’s controlled canter into the corners and his circular twenty meter circle (one of the hardest skills to perfect); Jane’s confidence on Hawk and the kisses she lavished on his neck with her friends all gathered around; the focused faces of the young Weatogue riders working their skills and Meghan’s pride watching them; Bobbi, as conductor, centered between the two rings calling the tests as needed and, by walkie-talkie orchestrating every aspect of this complex ballet of a show, grateful for the coffee, coke and water we ferried to keep her going; the lively movement of riders, horses and spectators shifting between the barn and the ring; all this against the lush green backdrop of a renewed farm.

I had arrived at the barn by 8:00 a.m. and planned to return home after Elliot’s last test at 1:30. By 5:00, I still could not drag myself away from the afternoon’s higher level rides. The heavy weather had ceded to bright and breezy, with a nodding sun glinting rays off the few top-hatted experts strutting their regal paces around our well-draining, not-soggy ring. As masterful horses fancy-stepped their distinct silhouettes against the stadium wave of the luxuriant maples, a few of their leaves portending autumn, I mourned this coda to a transformative, vanishing summer. I draped my bone-tired frame over the fence, cooler now in the long shadows of the day, intently watching the exquisite pas de deux that years of fine-tuning can cast between horse and rider. Looking into both their faces as they waltzed past I saw such utter concentration coupled with their stately strides, human and animal confident in their abilities, and in tune only to each other. Their eyes may have stared vaguely out, but their focus was turned deeply inward, monitoring and refining every body part and its movement, their very skin alert, striving for grace and accuracy in the spaces between every second, and in the air between footfalls. Their wordless communication of thought and motion energized through seat, legs, fingertips, muscles, bones, sinews and brains was so compelling that I already yearned to be back up on my horse so, together, we could do better.

As I reluctantly turned to my car and the pull of home, Meghan unabashedly paraded Angel around the grounds in the green fleece “Weatogue Stables” embroidered cooling sheet that they had won as a team in June. A preening close to our successful event, her “billboard” promoted both our farm and Bobbi’s accomplished horse that Meg had just ridden at a high level test. They both shone in the sun’s golden beam. I was filled with goodwill and sheer joy as they passed by.