by Fault lines
Freight Train perked up a bit as we left the barn, but didn't get antsy until we passed the outdoor ring and the cutoff for the trail rides. When there wasn't any other place we could be going except the crosscountry course, his whole mood changed. He was like a kid who couldn't contain himself. He wanted to go, and I wouldn't let him, so he started dancing in place. He got so many steps out of every yard he. looked like a parade horse. Freight Train pulled his head in and arched his neck so my pulling on the bit didn't do any good: His neck was as far back as it would go.
I laughed out loud and reached down to pat his neck. "Easy, big guy," I said. "We'll get there." I continued to hold the reins in one hand and pat his neck to calm him down as we made our way down the road. I don't know why I love this so much. Maybe because around people I always seem to be the one with the throttle wide open. Thoroughbreds are so antsy, around them I feel like mellowness itself. Or maybe I love being around them simply because I know so well how they feel.
We rounded a curve, and the hill with the crosscountry jumps on it came into view. Freight Train got serious about moving along and gave up his dancing in place for some serious pulling on the bit. I took the reins in each hand and squeezed and released, squeezed and released. It wouldn't do any good to pull steadily. Freight Train would just brace against the pressure or get the bit in his teeth, which meant real trouble.
As the first jump came in sight I let Freight Train canter, and we started circling in slow circles a long way from it. Without saying anything, it was clear between Joe and me that he would wait for me to do whatever I needed to do to get Freight Train under control. The new mare would follow Freight Train over the jumps.
Freight Train wasn't happy about circling, but he tolerated it until he reached the part of the circle where he was facing the first jump. Then he tried to leap forward and take off, but I was relentless. I made him circle again by holding tight the rein away from the jump and loosening the other. Freight Train's head was pointing toward the circle, but for the whole first quarter of it his body tried to gallop sideways to get to the jump.
We circled this way a few times, then the next time around I switched circles so he was heading into a circle on the other side and making a figure eight. Poor Freight Train was so intent on getting to the jump he didn't see the new circle coming up and didn't switch leads when I pulled him to the other side.
That put him galloping with his outside foot leading on the new circle, and he damn near fell on his nose. He stumbled, corrected himself, and switched leads. The message I'd sent was clear: Pay attention to me, Freight Train, or you're going to fall on your head.
We did a few more figure eights, and then I headed for the first jump.
It was a particularly tough one: a platform only two feet or so high but a good five feet deep. It had no wings, and it was only ten feet wide, which meant it was very easy and tempting for a horse to run out on either side. The jump looked like a simple upright until you were right up on it, which just increased the chances a horse would try to go around.
The issue for Freight Train wasn't that it was a platform —he knew this course —it was whether his strides would be right coming into it. No matter how good a horse is at jumping, he still has to take off the right distance from a jump. It has to be far enough away that he won't hit it going up and close enough that he can clear the whole thing coming down. Ideally he would gallop with even strides to the jump and magically find himself exactly the right distance from the jump to take off
That wouldn't happen by accident, not even with an experienced jumper like Freight Train. It was my job to lengthen or shorten his strides from farther away so that by three strides out he would be coming in perfectly.
If he came in wrong, he'd either have to leave out a stride and jump long —not easy when the jump is five feet deep —or he'd have to take an itsy-bitsy stride and "chip" it —also not easy when you're moving at thoroughbred speed. A couple of thousand pounds has a lot of momentum when it's moving right along.
Either way, the price of screwing up was that he could land on top of the jump or fail to clear it in the first place. This would be a really big problem with a crosscountry jump because they are rigid and fixed. The jump we were facing was made out of logs nailed together, and they were just about thick enough, say, to hold up the World Trade Center. Come to think of it: It is strange that I love this so.
Freight Train didn't want to listen to me. The sun was shining, and the jump was just sitting there, and by God, he was a thoroughbred, which meant he was born and bred to move at intoxicating speeds. But the whole point of the stupid circling was to establish who was the boss of this operation, and he reluctantly slowed in response to my constant hassling.
I measured the distance from the jump to where I thought the third stride out would be. I decided Freight Train wasn't coming in right so I shortened his stride even more. He responded reluctantly, but he responded.
As we got closer to the jump my own adrenaline started to soar, and I could taste the bitter edge of fear in my mouth. Putting your life on the line will always get your attention. Unless you're a loony, it'll scare the bejesus out of you. "Take your best shot, fate," I thought as I always did, "and then leave me alone till the next time" —a strange mantra but one that always comes to mind.
By three strides from the jump Freight Train was coming in right. I eased up slightly on the reins and got ready to jump. By this point Freight Train could figure out for himself what he needed to do, and he kept his stride even as we approached.
He took his last stride and soared into the air. He jumped big as horses usually do when faced with rigid, wide jumps. I stood up in the stirrups and threw myself forward so I could release the reins up his neck. He needed to be able to stretch out in the air as much as he liked without hitting the bit. Novice riders always hold on to the reins to balance themselves, and it's a wonder some horses don't just stomp them to death once they finally get off.
Freight Train had a hang time that Michael Jordan would envy, and it seemed like I was flying forever. The exhilaration hit me like, well, a freight train, and by the time I landed I had enough endorphins for major heart surgery without anesthetics. I was in the zone. I could hear birds chirping with a singular clarity and see every leaf on the nearby trees stand out distinctly. Everything had a color and vividness that nothing but jumping or drugs can produce.
I looked back as we cantered up the hill, and Joe had gotten his mare over the jump, although barely. She looked spooked and shaken, and Joe looked determined. To a new horse a crosscountry jump is a formidable thing.
I laughed out loud as we cantered. All those snide male comments about women and horses miss the mark. All that junk about that "big thing between their legs." We don't confuse horses with men; we aren't making love to horses when we ride —we are the horse. It is like becoming a centaur and suddenly acquiring four powerful legs. Freight Train and I for this moment in time were a unit, a finely oiled machine, and we were leaping like gazelles over every obstacle in our path. Jesus, life was sweet.
The second jump was a far simpler one: an upright made of logs with wings that went out at an angle and almost guided the horse to the jump. We were doing fine on the approach, when Freight Train suddenly veered to the left. Surprised — the jump ahead was nothing compared to the last one —I tried to recover my balance and press with my left leg to straighten him out. But Freight Train kept moving at an angle and looking at the trees. I glanced over —what was spooking him — and caught a glimpse of something yellow.
Yellow. What's yellow? Deer aren't yellow. But I didn't have time to think about it. Freight Train was still coming in at an angle, and we were almost on top of the jump. He chipped it. Lucky it was a small one.
I looked back. There was no way to warn Joe about whatever it was that was in the trees. But his mare was so nervous about the jumps she didn't seem to be paying attention to anything else, anyway.
I made a long, s
low curve to the right toward a stand of trees. To get to the third jump we had to canter down a lane through the trees, and it was close to my favorite part of the course.
Freight Train and I were alone in the tunnel of trees —Joe and his mare were still pretty far behind —and I could hear birds on both sides. The trees were so close and so vivid I felt like I could reach out and touch them. It gave me time to think about the yellow something I saw —thought I saw —in the trees. I came up blank. It certainly wasn't hunting season, and the course wasn't close to any hiking trails.
Whatever it was, it was gone. Freight Train seemed fine. My head was thoroughly in the zone by now so everything seemed in slow motion. The sound of Freight Train's hoofs drumming on the hard-packed dirt sounded like some kind of old, lost sound vaguely remembered, almost like a heartbeat.
As we approached the end of the trees, fear broke through my endorphin-soaked brain. The next jump was a killer, loosely speaking. It started with a sharp turn to the right so that we'd be going downhill. It was fairly scary to canter downhill without jumping, but the jump itself made it worse. It was a drop jump. This meant you leaped over something on one side expecting to land at the same level you took off, only to find the ground was several feet lower on the other side. The jump hid the drop so an unsuspecting horse wouldn't see —until it was too late—that the small two-foot solid jump in front of him hid a three-foot drop straight down on the other side.
There was also the problem that we had done a U-turn and were coming back to the same bunch of trees that had spooked Freight Train — although this time from the other side.
I could feel Freight Train tense as we got closer to the end of the tunnel, and I took the time to put the reins in one hand and pat his neck. This time I was standing in the saddle and leaning forward. He wasn't going too fast now, and the point was just to keep him moving over the jump.
I saw the jump ahead and squeezed my legs slightly. Freight Train's strides weren't coming in right, and this time I thought I'd lengthen to pick up a little speed; going downhill make horses cautious, and they tend to slow. This jump was such a horse-stopper that I just wanted to get Freight Train over it. I didn't much care about the form.
The jump was close after the tunnel of trees, and the three-stride-from-the-jump mark came up quickly. Freight Train still seemed a little off to me, so I squeezed even more to lengthen his last three strides. We weren't going over this pretty, but I'd be damned if we weren't going over it.
Suddenly, from the stand of trees on our right, something white broke from cover and ran right in front of Freight Train. I saw the blur in my peripheral vision and thought "uh-oh," but the whole thing happened too fast to do anything.
Freight Train immediately shied to the left, away from the intruder and, unfortunately, the jump: horses instinctively protect their legs by not stepping on strange things. I was already standing up in the stirrups and leaning forward, and there was no time to get back. Freight Train went left, but I went straight. I flew through the air toward the jump. The world seemed to flip, and I hit the jump hard with my back and bounced over it, landing the three feet down on the other side.
If I'd had any presence of mind, I'd have been worried that Joe wouldn't see Freight Train was loose and would take the jump and land right on top of me. But I was too stunned to worry about anything: I tried to remember what happened, but couldn't. I just lay there. It didn't even cross my mind to get up.
I heard the sound of feet running —Freight Train had gone back down the tunnel of trees, and Joe had seen him and pulled up. Then Joe was next to me saying, "Are you all right?"
I didn't answer for a minute. For some reason I hate that question. People always ask it when you get hurt before you even know if you are all right or not. You're supposed to say, "Yes, I'm fine," even if you aren't, so they can quit worrying. I couldn't seem to find enough breath to say anything, and Joe said again, "Are you all right?"
When I didn't answer he said, "Michael, can you move your legs?" That freaked me, and I said, "Of course I can move my legs," and then tried to move them. They did move, which was very reassuring. I sat up, and then it came to me.
"It wasn't Freight Train's fault," I said to Joe. "Something ran across the course right in front of him." Which was very weird, come to think of it. I had never heard of an animal running toward danger. I got a little more oriented and sat up, asking, "Is Freight Train all right?" The world started whirling when I sat up, and I leaned back on my hands and closed my eyes to stop the spinning.
"He's fine," Joe said.
"Well, go and check him," I said testily with my eyes still shut.
"To hell with Freight Train," Joe said.
"He's a forty-thousand-dollar horse, Joe. Go and check him. I'm all right."
Joe grumbled, but he went off, and I was glad for the moment alone to collect myself. I got up slowly and tried to brush the dirt off my back. I found I had to move very slowly to keep the world from spinning, and I walked over to the jump and leaned against it with my eyes shut again. Joe came back with both horses in tow, and I straightened up. "He's fine," he said.
I looked at the horses. Both had grass coming out from their bits where they had used their freedom to graze on the new grass just starting. Both looked totally unperturbed at my predicament. Horses are not big in the empathy department.
I tried moving again. The world had gotten reasonably stable. I walked over to Freight Train and started to get on.
"Are you all right?" Joe said.
"Of course I'm all right," I responded tersely. "You asked me that already."
"Well, you're getting on the wrong horse," Joe said. "It's the only reason I ask."
I looked at the horse I was getting on, and it was Joe's mare. I stepped back with whatever dignity I could summon —which wasn't much —and moved over to the other horse. Maybe I was in worse shape than I thought.
"We're going home, Michael," Joe said.
"You know Freight Train has to go over the jump," I responded. Joe knew you should never let a horse get away with not taking a jump for any reason. No matter what the reason for balking —except maybe sudden death —the horse went over the jump it refused before you went home. Joe knew that.
"Fine," Joe said. "I'll take him over."
"Joe," I said slowly, "I need to go over the jump too."
I could hear him sigh, but he didn't say anything. "Give me your crop," I said. He gave me the crop and a leg up on Freight Train. I held the crop down my leg where Freight Train couldn't see it. Ordinarily, it would be the last thing I'd need with Freight Train, but this time might be different.
We turned and trotted up the hill. I was not going to try to make the sharp turn from the tunnel in the trees again —no point in making this harder than it already was. I wiggled various parts of my body as I went, trying to figure out if everything worked. Everything seemed to, but I did not feel well and this was going to be a major deal getting over this jump. What the hell was it? A Goddamn psycho rabbit? What would cause a rabbit to run in front of a galloping thoroughbred?
Joe got on his mare and positioned himself to the left of the jump to discourage Freight Train from shying the same way he had before. Ordinarily I would have told him I didn't need the help, but this time I kept my mouth shut.
We trotted to begin with, the trees on our right and the jump straight ahead. One thing was for sure: I could throw away the left rein. Freight Train wouldn't shy toward the trees where the intruder had come from. Why had I thought that? It wasn't an intruder; it was just a stupid rabbit. If Freight Train went anywhere it would be to the left, like he had before.
We started cantering halfway down the hill, and I could feel Freight Train's body tense as we got closer. This time I was sitting as far back in the saddle as I could get in case he did balk. I saw him cut his eye toward the trees, looking, no doubt, for another rabbit. I was holding the right rein so tightly he couldn't possibly move his head to the left, but hi
s hindquarters started drifting. Freight Train wasn't even thinking about the jump ahead. He was expecting trouble from the trees.
I had the crop in my left hand, but Freight Train didn't know it. I took the reins in my right hand and cracked him sharply on his left hindquarters. Surprised, he shot forward —the trees forgotten for the moment.
The jump was right in front of him, and he wasn't ready. I hit him again, more sharply this time, and he took off, awkwardly and late, but he did take off.
He wasn't exactly balanced, and I didn't feel like I was flying—more like falling. He stumbled when he landed on the other side and almost went down on his nose. I fell forward on his neck when he stumbled.
Freight Train caught himself, and so did I, and neither of us went down, although it was close. We were over. I pulled him up, more relieved than I wanted to admit, and Joe came trotting up, probably more relieved than he wanted to admit.
I considered whether I could get through the rest of the course. I just hated to call it quits, but I felt like shit. Freight Train would do fine, but could I get through it? Luckily I didn't have to make the decision. "We're going home," Joe said, and started off on his mare before I had a chance to argue. To be truthful, I didn't really want to.
I followed behind, and we walked back to the barn. Neither of us said anything. When somebody got hurt, Joe always got angry —from worry, I think, but it wasn't pleasant to deal with. I'd given him enough flak about it over the years that he'd learned —at least around me —to keep it to himself For my part, the vertigo kept coming and going, and I was working at just staying on the horse.
I Started to unsaddle Freight Train at the barn, but Joe took the saddle out of my hands. "Go home, Michael," he said tersely. "You look like shit."
I didn't even think of arguing. I just headed for the car. I looked back and saw Joe watching. He was probably wondering if I'd get in the wrong car. For Christ's sakes, I was moving under my own steam. How bad could it be?