Of stepping-stones and obstacles

The block of granite which was an obstacle in the pathway of the weak, became a stepping-stone in the pathway of the strong. Thomas Carlyle

James and I have been riding Chev on Sundays for a couple of weeks, and I'm both enthused and perturbed - above all, enthused about rediscovering a passion for something that gives me true joy.

To a lesser extent, I'm also somewhat perturbed by two things - firstly, my lack of saddle fitness despite being above averagely fit for so many other activities, and having been a satisfyingly competent rider back in the day.

This particular niggling perturbation is readily fixed - I'm going to organise myself a weekly riding lesson, at least until December, when my current job runs out. Funds are distinctly tight in my personal budget but I can afford that, and it will give me some horse time and a chance to re-hone my riding skills. Plus it will help me get through the final 3 months of my detested office job!

The second, rather surprising, challenge to my hopes and wishes of bringing horses back into my life in some shape or form, is my partner James' less-than-cool reaction to them.

My partner of three-and-a-half years, James shares my passion for many an indoor and outdoor adventure. Over the years, our time together has been jammed packed with cycling, rock climbing, bush-walking, playing music together, doing yoga, singing, dancing, swimming in the river, laughing, crying, much joking around, drinking merrily, playing chasies, and generally running amuck together quite fabulously. A partnership made in heaven by many counts.

And yet ... no sooner do I organise a weekly riding lesson for myself than James declares, "If you get back into horses, we're not going to see much of each other because I'm not getting back into them. It's too expensive and too complicated."

I'm sure he's right. He would know, having enjoyed the highs and lows of horse ownership himself for a good 20 years. I can see his point - we both live on a tight budget, and our lives are already very full. But sorry ... for better or worse, this time I'm not stopping unless it's on my terms!!

I will, however, tread carefully.

If the jodhpurs don't fit...

It's agreed amongst Tiffany and her parents that James and I will both ride Chev during Tiffany's convalescence, but only in the arena. And only once per week.

I'm grateful for, and not a little shell-shocked by, the sudden and unexpected resumption of horse activity in my life, and my inexplicably compelling inner drive to pursue it. Aside from the (very) odd ride with various horsey friends, it's been decades since horses featured in any significant way in my life.

When you long for something with all your heart, and year after year your heart-felt dream slips further and further from your grasp, some part of your soul wraps that dream up with a satin bow and parks it in a corner of your mind for safekeeping. And then, in its time, some magical moment happens in the real world that aligns with your soul's yearnings, and it reaches out and grabs a hold. The satin bow gracefully falls away, and you just know that it's finally time - not to give up, or give in, but to give it all you've got!

At home, I dig out my old riding kit - jodhpurs, boots, helmet and gloves; all very worn but mostly still serviceable. The jodhpurs were a prized possession - finally bought for me by my parents after many years of my having the insides of my legs rubbed raw with each ride by the seams of my jeans.

I was 15 when I acquired those jodhies, and I'm now 54. Miraculously, I still manage to wriggle into them. But closing the zipper across my butt has a snowball's chance in hell of success - it's close, but no cigar. Necessity being the mother of invention, I sew a strong shoelace along each zipper side, leaving regular loops along its length, and then thread another shoelace through each loop and pull it taught. The resulting webbing effect looks pretty whacky but it's out of sight beneath my winter jersey, and it works beautifully in holding the open edges of the zipper close enough together to keep the jodhies up. I haven't been labelled a fashion disaster for nothing!

The zipper engineering reminds me of one of my mother's (many) reasons for not letting me ride more often than once per week - it was her firm belief that frequent horse riding makes a woman's backside spread out, which will make her look fat... which will render her unmarriageable ... which, by her terms, is an unimaginable disaster. If my mother were here to see my zipper handiwork, she might be feeling vindicated in her beliefs; my butt has, indeed, grown bigger. But I, for one, am both grateful and impressed that I can still squeeze into those jodhies at all! Years of constant cycling, yoga, rock climbing, and a myriad of other strenuous sports have served me exceptionally well in the area of physique.

The helmet is a different matter entirely. I look at it in amazement - its surface sports numerous soil-ingrained gouges from my hitting the deck at speed off the back of various friends' horses. Obviously unserviceable, it should no doubt have been retired many rides ago. I'll have to borrow Tiffany's spare for now.

My trusty old boots are good quality RM Williams that cost a bomb when my mother bought them for me in my teens, and have been re-soled and stitched back together more times than I can poke a stick at. They still manage to look classy after a polish - quality lasts and is always worth the expense.

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.

Where do you feel "right" in the world?

The Aussie Stock horse - a hardy breed noted for its
endurance, agility and predominantly good temperament.

My kingdom for a horse

My partner - James, has a friend - Bob, who has a daughter - Tiffany, who has a horse - Chev.

After approximately 4 months of blissful ownership by Tiffany, one day, Chev decides that he'd rather be up there in the corner of the paddock near where his mates are grouped together and peering at him with varying interest, rather than down here on the flat where Tiffany is coaxing him in 20m circles at a brisk trot. An ex-polo pony and registered Australian Stock Horse, Chev can get himself moving post-haste, at high speed. Tiffany has around 5 years of riding experience, and this doesn't include a bolt. Halfway to the paddock corner at a speedy canter, Tiffany sees the barbed wire fence looming rapidly, decides to bail, lands with one leg askew, and fractures a heel. That'll be 6 weeks in a cast, and no riding for you, young lady.

So, now Bob is on the phone to James, who had his own beloved horse many a decade previously and became quite the accomplished eventer in his day.

"Can you please come and ride this horse so he doesn't go feral before Tiff can resume charge?"

"Yes, I could do that; as happy to ride, as not," declares James.

I've been following - with not inconsiderable nostalgia and envy - Tiffany's progress over the past 4 years, through various phases of continually nagging her parents for the right to own a horse, researching and then sourcing "the one", and then negotiating the trials and tribulations of first-horse-ownership. Whereas childhood me never succeeded in breaking through my parent's resolve to keep our household a horse-ownership-free zone, Tiffany found more convincing means of wearing her parents down.

They smell so sweet!

We arrive at the stable in darkness. It's a mid-winter evening and the outside temperature is flat-lining around the 5^oC mark. As the task of exercising Chev has been allocated only to James, my intention is to play the innocent (and ever-hopeful) bystander.

James is impressively kitted out, replete with moleskin pants, brown leather boots and chaps, and suitably dirt-stained crash cap. I've swung by on my cycle-commute home from work, so looking rather like a misplaced circus performer in a rodeo - multicoloured leotards, cleated cycle shoes, and fluorescent orange jersey.

Chev is comfortably ensconced his stall and Tiffany's mother is giving directions, under Tiffany's watchful eye, about where to find his grooming kit and tack. James arms himself with a body brush and hands me another, and I suddenly find myself once again in close proximity to one of these magical, awesome equine beings.

It's been such along time!

I can smell horse; I can feel strong, firm muscle under warm, silky hair; I follow those enchantingly beautiful curves with the brush and feel Chev leaning in towards me, responding with relish to my ministration. It's not often that I feel at home in this world, and I'm acutely aware of how deeply comforting this space is to me.

Not me, but you get the gist... and that does look like Chev.

As I'm standing on Chev's near side, Tiffany's mother hands me his bridle. The deft movements haven't left my fingers at all, even after a 35+ year break, in holding the bit spread out and gently squeezing Chev's jaw open with my left hand while carefully pulling the bridle strap over his ears with my right.

Dang, I think - I forgot to shove the bit into my pocket whilst brushing, so as to warm it up a little from its mid-winter chill. Chev chomps uncomfortably on the cold, steel bit.

For convenience, James has thrown the saddle on from the off-side, where he's standing. I can see it's in need of re-positioning a good deal forward; funny how these details become so ingrained, even after so many years of non-use.

Tiffany's mother slides opens the stall door and I find myself in the lead, with Chev in tow, heading for the indoor arena. I'm hobbling along in my bike shoes, cleats clattering on the concrete stable floors, leotards and jersey liberally covered with short, brown horse hair, and hands smelling sweetly of horse. There's an eager horse following closely on my heals.

And it Just. Feels. Right.