Moonshine and I clashed regularly. Every ride was a fight. I insisted that he work like every other horse—I gave the cue and he should automatically do whatever I wanted. That was rarely the case. With Moonshine, the more forceful the cue, the more inclined he would be to ignore it completely. The more he resisted my cues, the more frustrated I became, and the more we battled. Were it not for Carol’s coaxing, soothing, firm, and confident training (and sense of humor) we probably would never have gotten along.
“He’s just not listening to me!” I let out in total frustration during countless lessons.
“Just keep asking, Victoria,” she frequently encouraged.
“No, Carol, I can’t . . . he’s not listening; he won’t even go straight!” I insisted.
Anytime I applied a cue with my legs, Moonshine either bucked with his hind legs or drifted so close to the rail of the arena that he squeezed and dragged my leg against the entire length of the wall. I had scratch marks on both boots to show it. Luckily, my boots were cheap.
“Yes, he will, Victoria,” she coaxed. “Be persistent, don’t give in. Just keep asking the same way, and stay calm.”
I always followed Carol’s instructions exactly. I trusted her completely. But also, I idolized the way she rode and wanted to be just like her, both as an equestrian and as a person.
She was perpetually calm, patient. I found it fascinating that nothing rattled her. She was always in control. Even though she spent most of her waking hours in a barn, she was the most elegant person I had ever known. She carried herself with an effortless grace and poise. She didn’t just walk through a barn like everyone else, she glided through it. What was amazing to me was that even with all the elegance she exuded, there was not a shred of arrogance. She treated everyone the same. And she was always in the same good mood.
When she rode a horse, she became part of it. They were so united that it was difficult to imagine one without the other. And even though it didn’t look like she was doing anything, somehow that horse picked its legs up higher, floated across the ring, and seamlessly transitioned from one movement to the next. Not only did she have a secret language with every horse, but every horse performed its absolute best when she was on its back—even Moonshine.
“Carol, I can’t get him to bend,” I let out, exasperated and in a full sweat, in January. “I can’t feel my left arm!”
“Hop off,” she said, taking off her jacket.
Yes! She’s going to fix him! I was jubilant.
I loved when she would jump on, like a plumber fixing a deep clog, and then hand me the finished product.
“But don’t get used to this, Victoria. I’m training you not just to be a rider, but to be a good trainer. I won’t always be around, so you have to be learn to fix these things on your own.”
“OK,” I said, not expecting that harsh dose of reality.
“Inside leg to outside rein,” Carol repeated over and over in probably every one of my lessons. How does she never get tired of saying the same thing over and over? I marveled. I would have killed me by now. Not Carol, she always smiled and joked with me.
In spite of her consistent and clear directions, I frequently dropped my outside rein and used both legs when she told me to use just one. It didn’t matter. When I disobeyed, she never got angry or yelled at me. All she did was calmly repeat the instruction.
I think I disobeyed for two reasons. First, I stopped thinking about those basic dressage cues and let myself get caught up in everything else that was going wrong. If Moonshine was bent too much to the inside, I would pull his head to the outside. Then his shoulders would fall to the inside and he would bend the wrong way! Too many things would go wrong all at the same time, and I needed to fix them all. How could I ignore everything that was going wrong and just focus only on inside leg to outside rein?
The second reason I didn’t listen is that I wanted to test Carol’s theory. Did I really have to always apply pressure with my inside leg and hold on to my outside rein? Was that really the only way to ride dressage? Would it make any difference with a horse as terrible as Moonshine? He would always be impossible to ride, so why bother doing all that work?
“Inside leg, outside rein,” I heard again. “You know, Victoria, pretty soon you’ll be hearing this in your sleep.”
“I already am!” I let out, trotting past her, still wrangling with Moonshine.
“Aww, I’m flattered. Dreaming of me every night?” she joked.
It was true, I heard it so much, I dreamed her voice. It was powerful and calm, loud but close, “Inside leg, outside rein, inside leg, outside rein . . .”
I didn’t just hear her voice when I slept; I heard her all the time. I heard her when I brushed my teeth, on my way to school, and when I sat in class.
Even though I heard her repeating the same instruction over and over, at virtually all hours of the day, I still resisted. It didn’t register, my body wouldn’t do it. I continued to drop my outside rein and my inside leg would hang loosely by Moonshine’s side. Nevertheless, she continued to repeat calmly, patiently, and cheerfully the same instruction. I was grateful that she was so calm—if she had been as emotional as I was, that would have surely pushed me over the edge.
Another show season was going by, and I again noticed that most of Carol’s students went to away shows. I still yearned to be considered one of Carol’s advanced students and be good enough to compete off the property. I was thirteen, I had been riding for years. I was ready.
“Carol, when can I go to the away shows with everyone else?” I asked.
“When you’re ready,” she replied.
“I’m ready. I want to go to away shows, too,” I insisted.
“I know, you’re ready for the Olympics,” she teased. “Away shows are very different from the shows we have here. You would have to compete against top, imported European horses and professional riders and trainers. It’s a different world.”
“I don’t care. I’m ready. I hate being stuck here when everyone else gets to go,” I insisted.
“How about this—when you hold on to your outside rein for an entire lesson, then we’ll talk,” she bribed.
“Fine,” I sighed.
__________
That summer slipped by without us going to any of the elite away shows. I was more frustrated than ever. Moonshine didn’t make it any easier. He kept me honest in my riding, which means he never cut me any breaks, like a nice horse would have. Trained horses will sometimes cover up a rider’s mistakes. When I rode Carol’s horses, it didn’t even matter that I was on their backs, they would still go through the entire routine by themselves. Needless to say, if I made a mistake, they just kept going as if it were business as usual.
Not Moonshine. If I ever dropped my outside rein, he would turn his head away from it and broadcast to everyone watching, “Look everyone, she dropped her outside rein again!” Not even the school horses would sell me out like Moonshine did—and school horses take any shortcut they can get. Moonshine seemed to do whatever he could to piss me off. His attitude only fueled my irritation. But I trusted and respected Carol, so I did whatever she said.
Months rolled by, and we weren’t progressing. I didn’t get to do the fancy upper level dressage movements like some of Carol’s other students. It was the same lesson, over and over, every weekend. For almost a year, I was only allowed to canter in a circle. If Moonshine ever saw a straight line at the canter, he would take off running. It was so frustrating being forced to ride on a circle, when Carol’s other students got to do pirouettes and flying changes—and it looked so easy. I felt like we would be in training wheels forever.
I was particularly envious of Beth. She was 17 and her parents had bought her a huge, beautiful warmblood—the type of horse that was bred specifically for dressage. Their whole bodies were designed to do all of the upper level dressage moves. Moonshine, on the other hand, was an Appendix—half Quarter horse, half Thoroughbred—which was really half cowboy’s horse, half racehorse. Moonshine’s long hind legs and short back were all wrong for dressage. Beth’s horse, Lugano, with his elegant long limbs and high neck, had the perfect conformation for high level dressage. Plus, he was sweet. He never slapped his ears back on his head or tried to kick people, horses, and dogs, like Moonshine.
Beth had everything I wanted—the superstar horse, the loving parents, and the stable family. She even had the car I wanted, a brand new Toyota RAV4. She was also Carol’s most advanced student. Lugano knew how to do all the cool tricks in upper level dressage. Not only was Lugano already trained to the highest levels of dressage, but he also adored her. She didn’t have to bribe him to like her with bags of carrots like I did with Moonshine. Lugano always nickered as soon as she stepped in the barn. I wouldn’t dare open Moonshine’s door without a carrot, certain I would be greeted by gnashing teeth. And then, I would be on the never ending twenty-meter circle in one of my lessons with Carol, while Beth floated by on her spectacular horse, doing trick after trick.
Comparing Beth and Lugano to me and Moonshine made me question why I should keep riding. Maybe it wasn’t just that Lugano was better than Moonshine, maybe Beth was also better than me. Maybe everyone was a better rider than me. Maybe I was a terrible rider and no one had the heart to tell me the truth.
Why am I doing this? I started asking myself. What’s the point? Even if Moonshine is perfect, he’ll never compete against a horse like Lugano. I couldn’t answer. It seemed as though I was riding whenever I wasn’t in school because it was the schedule I created for myself. Was I riding so much just because this had become part of my routine, or did I really love it? Sure, I love being at the barn, but what’s the point of riding if I’m not getting any better?
On the hour-long drive to the barn, I would daydream about doing pirouettes in my lesson. And on the drive back home, after having spent the entire lesson on a twenty-meter circle, I would wonder if I would ever be good enough to do a pirouette, or any other advanced dressage move.