Out alone

I tell a couple of friends I’ve been chatting to on social media that I’m going to take Anakin out on his own. I actually say, ‘I’m going to put my big girl pants on and take Anakin out on his own.’ I’m not a brave horse rider and I’ve never ridden Anakin out on his own before; he’s a tall Thoroughbred ex-racehorse and I’ve only been on him maybe a dozen times, always with someone else out for the ride with us. He’s a well-behaved horse. He doesn’t buck, rear or shy. He’s reliable. But he’s big and has a powerful energy. He’s fast and he likes to run and he doesn’t always have great brakes. But I’ve said it now. Put it out there that I’m going to do this.

The irony of me feeling that riding Anakin out on his own is a brave thing to do is not lost on me. The chat I have been having with my friends has mostly been about a mutual friend who is currently galloping across the Mongolian wilderness in the Mongol Derby, a 1000km horse race. The riders have ten days to cover the distance. There are no tracks, just way points that the riders navigate to reach. They change horses every 35km. The horses are at least half wild, bred on the fenceless steppe. At each horse station, the riders have to present the horse they have just ridden to the vets and are penalised if their horses don’t pass the tests. So the race is as much about looking after the horse as it is about covering the ground quickly. Oh, and staying on the horses, which may buck or rear or bolt, or all of those. Or refuse to leave its friends. The riders wear GPS trackers and the race is live tracked, so my friends and I have been watching our friend’s progress; she has become a little pink dot on the Mongolian map. A thousand kilometres in ten days on a about thirty different horses. Now that’s a level of endurance and tenacity I simply don’t have.

I’m not a brave horse rider, maybe because I came to it late, but more likely because I’m simply not physically brave. I know I am unlikely to bounce well if I hit the ground, so I make sure it’s very unlikely that I am going to come off. I play it safe. I ride horses I know well and in situations that are relatively safe.

When I get to the paddock, I decide I’ll ride Floss first. Floss is my old girl. She and I know each other well. She’s small and I feel safe on her. I know her quirks. I saddle her up and we head out the gate, down the road. Floss is reluctant. She walks slowly. Doesn’t want to trot. I tune in and concentrate on the way she is moving, checking to make doubly sure she is not lame or uneven. She’s not. She’s fine. I guess she just preferred the idea of staying in the paddock with her friends and the hay instead of coming out with me. We carry on, cross over the railway line and follow a bush track. Floss knows where we are going now. We get to the half way mark and she suddenly perks up. She strides along at a walk and trots happily. She doesn’t even baulk at the huge puddle. It’s up to her knees as she walks through the middle of it. Out the other side, she wants to trot again. I let her. A movement in the trees catches my eye. A large bird flies silently away from us. It lands on a branch and looks back. It’s an owl, its round face a surprise in the sunlight. A barn owl I think, but no, it’s too big. It’s a masked owl. It turns away and disappears in the leaves. The memory of it stays with me; the silence of its flight, the roundness of its face, the unexpected delight of seeing it.

Back at the paddock I unsaddle Floss and put her back in with her friends. I look at Anakin. I hesitate. I decide I’ll feed the horses first, and have my lunch. I eat as I watch them eating and I know now I am procrastinating. But I said I would do this. And in the scheme of things, it’s not such a brave act.

I grab Anakin’s halter from the tack shed and walk over to him, bring him out of the paddock. I brush him and clean out his feet and finally saddle him. I lead him to the mounting block – I have no chance of getting on him from the ground. The combination of his height and my stiff hips prohibits it. From the mounting block it’s easy. A foot in the stirrup, swing my leg over. I walk him around the yard then out the gate. We are both completely calm. I can’t help but smile. It feels so good. He’s actually much nicer to ride than Floss is, but don’t tell her I said that. I walk him for a while and then we trot. We trot and trot. He’s calm and steady and doesn’t miss a beat. He’s willing and smooth. I think about cantering. But no. Not today. I won’t be greedy. I’ll just take this. The feeling of this big horse willingly carrying me along, his ears pricked forward in front of me, the sound of his hooves on the ground, his breath in the air. This is enough. Next time maybe I will go further and faster, push my boundary a little bit further. Today, this is enough.

Thanks for reading,

Jill