Some people know this about me, most don’t, but when I was eighteen I worked young Thoroughbreds on the track. I backed, prepped and reschooled the retirees for a breeder back home in BC, Canada. The facility laid claim to its own private, one-mile sand track, edged by unkept turf, also known as grass, and untamable blackberry bushes that loved destroying the fences from spring through to winter.
I’ll never forget my first time up in the short stirrups for a gallop. I was on a young, rather slow and sweet chestnut named Willy. My co-rider needed someone to pace the horse she was galloping and I volunteered hungrily. Somewhat enviously, I’d watched her work horses week in and week out, and finally got my chance! I seriously underestimated the how-to’s of no legs on the horse and a short, bridged rein, and ended up riding the outer turf line. We kept drifting towards the perilous blackberry bushes while I sorted out my balance and rein connection. Always a quick study, I got better fast, and in no time at all I had my own list of ten hot blooded youngsters to gallop every morning- and kept a tight, brisk ride right alongside the inside rail.
Easy peasy.
Not before long it was time to work my first horse. The moment of truth. I’d prepped him for months, and it was time to see what Joey could do. The well-bred, long legged chestnut with four white socks was the season favourite and I could hardly wait to feel him unleash the power I’d trained into him. I warmed him up, just a brisk canter to get the motor purring. Joey was bred for distance so I knew he’d have lots of juice left. We picked up the pace, business as usual, and I watched our marker approached. And then I made a collosal mistake.
It took one stride, as we hit the marker, for me to throw away the reins and feel Joey uncoil beneath me. He surged forward. The world fell away in a blur as my focus narrowed to the space between his ginger ears. My eyes watered and my heart nearly exploded. The devil couldn’t have caught us. Suddenly, our last marker approached, fast. And that’s when I took up a feel and realized I was merely a passenger. In my euphoria, I had thrown away the connection and Joey had the bit between his teeth. Adrenaline flooded my senses, as if it flowed out of him and into me. We roared down the track like a freight train off the rails, neither of us in control and our last marker far behind us.
And then once more.
Two miles in, fatigue started settling in. I still couldn’t pull him up, he was tiring but still under the influence of his adrenaline rush. He slowed slightly and began drifting outward… What I failed to mention is, behind the broken fence line on the backside of the track, was a whimsically wild field bordering a babbling brook, both approaching far to quickly for my comfort. Perhaps, if I’d let the momentum build stride for stride, or held a tenuous connection I could have stayed in control. Hindsight is always 20/20.
The body recognizes danger far before the conscious mind can form the thought. When dread grows in the pit of your gut, you have a split second to accept that jumping off the train wreck is the lesser of two evils. It’s a snap decision. An acceptance of fate, be damned the consequences. If you‘re not the hysterical type, you can attempt mastering the fall, but gravity always snatches you to the earth faster than expected.
So I bailed, tried to land. Hit the ground rolling, my skin absorbing the grains of sand as I slid up the track before the momentum released me. And the bastard horse, baffled by my stunt, slowed and veered into the woodland meadow, jumped the fence and joined his buddies in the neighboring pasture.
He was no worse for wear.
I picked sand out of my arms for a week.
I churned the chain of events over in my mind for days and deduced: you can ride fast, push them harder, but maintain a feel, like an Avatar plugging into their dragon. The sweet spot lies right up against the threshold of mindlessness without crossing over into the horses natural fight or flight response.
The next time I worked a horse it was all eyes on me. A hush fell upon the small crowd that had gathered. I heard later that the owner of the horse, bless her, clutched her cross fervently. But I’d already learned my lesson: stay aware, and never let them take the bit and run.
Have a great weekend,
Danielle
