Back on the Horse

Life Lesson

When I was 13, I took horseback riding lessons in the Oakland hills. Our saddles were English, the lessons were in an arena; it was pretty tame. Our instructor, Linda, was strict. She told us that the horse knew if we knew what to do and we were to telegraph this confident knowing by sitting just so and using our knees and our thighs and our feet and we were to handle the reins lightly, letting Sunshine or Garbo or Schwepps know that we knew what we were doing. We did a few shows. My younger sister got the blue ribbons; if I was lucky, I got red. I didn’t care so much about sitting pretty, I wanted to gallop across wide open spaces where fences were few.

Schwepps was big and white with freckles that came with attitude. As I mounted him, I knew Schwepps would break into a gallop at the slightest encouragement. It was a cold January day and when the rain hit, it felt like we were riding inside a galvanized drum. We couldn’t see the lightning, but Schwepps knew it was there. He bucked. I clamped my knees tighter, leaned forward, held on. Schwepps bucked again. Linda was yelling something, but I couldn’t hear her over the thrumming of the rain and the humming in my head: Stay on, stay on.

I didn’t stay on. I fell off slowly, losing the stirrups first, then clinging to the saddle, sliding as Schwepps galloped and bucked and finally threw off the lightweight little package that was me. I remember Schwepps’ belly as he jumped over me. I remember the way the edge of his hoof caught my jacket, but not my arm. I remember standing up and waiting for Linda to get Schwepps’s, now crow-kicking defiantly, to stop.

Then she made me get back on. I remember not wanting to get back on that ornery horse in the deepest way. I remember not wanting to tell Linda that I was afraid. I remember getting back on Schwepps, shortening my stirrups. Thinking: I can do this.

It was a good lesson. Worth remembering when whatever it is I’m trying to do gets really hard.