The sound of cleats in the stirrups

As the assigned rider for the night, James takes Chev's reins from me in the indoor arena and hops aboard. I make a dutiful strapper, if nothing else. He takes Chev through his gaits and I'm watching keenly from the spectator stands - I remember this! It used to give me such enormous joy as a child and teenager...!

No, No, No, No, Yes!

It was Dad's idea to start with.

Dad brought me home a children's story book about a young girl who takes riding lessons. The front cover pictured her astride a gorgeous buckskin horse - I was gob-smacked at the show of such courage! I read the story eagerly in my normal bookworm fashion - the girl was a bit nervous to start with, but with the gentle coaxing and adept teaching of her riding instructor, she gained confidence and learned to ride the big horse around the arena ... along with a few other girls and boys on their respective horses. At that particular point, the story distinctly lost its appeal for me.

At 7 years old, having just started the first grade of primary school in a foreign country, and having only a sparse command of the English language plus a significant hearing loss on one side, I had a crippling case of performance anxiety in almost every life scenario. Simply walking into a shop with my parents was enough to make me turn myself inside-out with shyness. And the thought of learning something completely new in front of a whole group of children my age, as well as an instructor, filled me with a deep sense of "I'm so glad that's not me!!" However, I did think the horse was fabulously beautiful, so the story soon became one of my favourites, if only for the pictures of the horse.

To my amazement and horror, one day soon after buying me the book, Dad asked me if I would like to go horse riding. He was quite taken aback at the vehemence with which I - repeatedly - said "No!!!". I'll never know by what streak of inspiration Dad persevered, but keep at it he did. And after numerous discussions aimed at allaying my 7-year-old fears and concerns, and promises that there would be no formal "class" environment, just a stroll in the local forest with a bunch of other beginners, I relented.

In my bliss at 9 years old.

I'll never forget the odd sensation of a horse's first steps beneath me - the last thing I'd expected was to be swinging slightly sideways at each step. True to Dad's word, off we went in a long line of horses into the forest, with me on a lead rope held by the ride leader - of whom I was very wary. 

By the time we all strolled back into the horse yards 45 minutes and a few peaceful kilometres later, I was hooked, of course, and clamouring for more! Even if that also meant more of travelling in close proximity to that scary ride leader, who seemed to be constantly telling me something unintelligible about rising up in my stirrups every time the horse trotted.

Thus started my obsession with these amazing animals. An obsession that, in spite of much begging for more on my part, was kept strictly limited by my parents to one ride per week for an hour plus one week of holiday camp per school holiday.

By the end of my school days at 17 years old, I'd become an adept horsewoman - keen, ready and capable of joining the world of equestrian eventing.

My turn, now?

So now here I am, almost 40 years older, watching my partner James cantering happily around the arena, and wondering how it is that such an all-encompassing childhood passion could've been so completely quashed in my teens, and remained so since then.

I have to get onto that horse - I can feel an invisible and irresistible hand pushing, pushing, pushing me from behind...

James has slowed Chev back to a walk and is starting to cool him down.

"My turn, now? Please?" I hear the words pour forth from my mouth at barely a whisper, which only Tiffany and her mother sitting next to me can hear. I'm asking this of the Universe, in fact, as much as of the people I'm with.

I call out louder. "Can I cool him off?" Tiffany and her mother are looking down at my leotard-clad legs and cycling shoes, and I can see James' eyebrows raising up quizzically.

"I'll just walk, I promise!"

I'm out of those spectator stands like a shot and James brings Chev over to the mounting block. The rich smell of horse sweat envelopes me and I can feel heat emanating from Chev's big horse body. One, two, three... swing a leg over the saddle... thread cycling shoes into the stirrups. My cycling cleats clatter against the stirrup bars and then find a helpful niche to settle into.

I'm on. A horse! Again!! And it feels utterly devine...

Pick up the reins, gently squeeze with my calves, and the Good Ship Chev moves off gracefully.