by Roxanne Bok
I didn’t know if I could actually part with Bandi. The week after my decision I visited him in his stall. Leaving his hay and walking right over, he nuzzled me in recognition. He knew, after our year and a half together, that I was his special, if often absent, “little person” (as Meghan termed horse owners). It is agonizing to send an animal you love into the unknown. We toyed with leasing him, but Bobbi made a few calls and found two young girls who appreciated him. At a financial loss, but content with the barn and trainer that Bobbi knew, I let him go. The two girls feel lucky to have him. He has not misbehaved; thus, I conclude he is happier leaping with the young and nimble. We keep track of him, and I maintain a contractual right of first refusal against a sale as a way to control his future.
Still, it was tough. Pitying my turmoil, my hard-boiled husband said: “Would it help to keep Bandi and get a new horse?”
My heart swelled at his indulgence, but I was thinking just the opposite—instead of two, perhaps no horse. I even sported a new sweatshirt that read “I do not need another horse, I do not need another horse, I do not need another horse.” So what did Bobbi and I do? Bought the first horse we looked at. But this time the connection was immediate: like in love, I just knew. That his birthday is the day before mine surely was a sign. Leonardo (sire Michaelangelo, mare Durona) is a highly schooled, fourteen-year-old Dutch warmblood gelding that Bobbi will be riding at Prix St. George level this summer. A bay with a white star, he is all sweet lover boy who, when I lower the stirrups before mounting, places his head on my shoulder so I can kiss his closed eyes. Though a fancy dancer surpassing even Angel, he generously teaches me the basics and trail rides safely. I have had him a year and a half; I haven’t come off him yet, though I expect I will. But I’m not too worried: when he startles he takes me with him—a sideways little leap, not too fast—and he never bolts. He does crib: that is, he chews on fences and rails to intake air for a quick high, but nobody is perfect. I love him more each day.
So I plowed into dressage with my new vehicle. There are six levels to reach Prix St. George, a respectable halfway house to the top, or Grand Prix. Within each of these early levels are two to four “tests” or courses to be followed to the letter, literally: black letters posted around the dressage ring designate direction for maneuvers of military precision. From Prix St. George, there are two levels of Intermediare to perfect before glimpsing the territory of Grand Prix, a rarified atmosphere few horses and riders get to breathe.
By the fall of ’08 I had worked through Introductory and Training levels, more or less to satisfaction, only to be confronted by a major fact that I had somehow, despite my saturation in horse, missed.
“What do you mean all trotting is done ‘sitting’ at the upper levels?”
“That’s right. There is no posting after Training level,” Bobbi said. “You’re going to learn to sit the trot.”
“Leo’s bouncy trot?”
“Yes, maam. We’ll get you on the longe line and loosen up those hips, don’t you worry.”
“Eight years of yoga hasn’t succeeded, I doubt you can crack me. But if I’d known how hard this gets, I might have stuck with jumping—just hang on and go.”
I am trying to get this sitting trot thing down, and I despair until I remember back to when I couldn’t ride Bandi into a corner, or even stay in the ring for that matter. Inch by inch I progress though I still get humbled, jostled and last summer, again stepped on: it took two months for my big toenail to fall off. The disguising red polish I wore helped us locate it in the pool when it finally gave way over Christmas vacation. I waited a year for it to fully grow back in. That wasn’t pretty. But, it wasn’t until attempting the prolonged sitting trot that I realized how natural posting is and why it was invented. Oh, that first sitting trot lesson! Afterward, I took a pee and writhed in pain realizing the raw and... well, all of this is more information than you need to dispel the glam horsey image. Nothing a little cream and time can’t fix.
Jane and Elliot are solid riders now and thoroughly at home around horses. Elliot had competed at Training level with me and just completed his sixth hunter pace with Bobbi. (Yes, I’m still too cowardly to join them). He outgrew his beloved Cleo, but is now the proud owner of Sundance Sonata, a palomino sixteen-year-old gelded Draught-Quarter Horse cross that he fell in love with at first sight. Bobbi and I tended toward the more dressage-schooled, fox-hunting Baxter, but Elliot stuck to his first choice, and he was right. Though we adult worrywarts distrusted Sunny’s forwardness according to Bobbi’s “Whoa is better than Go,” Elliot loves to gallop and can both handle and rein in his horse’s “happiness” when need be. Boy and horse are simpatico whether in a lesson, alone out in our fields, leading or following in a hunter pace. Sunny is not a dressage horse, but that’s fine—Elliot just wants to have fun. His consistent dressage flat work under Bobbi gave him a safe “seat” for the wilder stuff. That Sunny has not misbehaved once earned our trust in him and in Elliot’s instincts.
Jane worked tirelessly with the restored Peaches and won her first dressage show. Untethered from the longe line she took the blue in Introductory level against mostly adult riders. We were so proud of both horse and human; they had come such a long way. Jane, too, is already outgrowing her second pony, but trusty Cleo stands ready to teach her the next skills. Currently she rides both, a real horsewoman. That my kids are so brave and increasingly skillful is ten times better than my reaching any of these milestones. Jane, Elliot and I appreciate the riding and the barn life of horsekeeping more and more, though we have managed to contain competition to our own and local events. Scott, however, never did reach for his tucked away riding gear: at least not yet.
In May, on our forty-ninth birthday weekend, Scott and I set out on our regular walk through the fields and woods. The hay was nearly ripe for the first cutting, and the morning dew steamed in the pre-summer sun. Still snug in Wellies and polar fleece but absorbing hints of heat between the breezes, we watched an early bird rider trailing on white Willy. His haunches rocked and his tail swished lazily against the swaying grass: a picture perfect scene.
“Isn’t it glorious to ride on horseback through this property?” I mused, pushing ever so lightly my hope of Scott taking the plunge.
“It’s pretty glorious on your feet, too,” my unapologetically earth-planted husband reminded me.
I had to agree. And though I longed to be saddled on my horse trailing the mist and a rising sun, Scott pulled me back to him, and I was grateful. The image of another woman on an actual horse and the thought of me on one while I safely enjoyed the land at my husband’s side was beautiful, and enough at that moment. There is a time for riding and a time for this, and they are both good. The farm initially evoked a lover’s passion, novel and exciting in comparison to our nearly thirty years together, but there is no substitute for long-lived human companionship—love and friendship combined. I regretted any selfishness over the past few years that excluded him from the kids’ and my adventure, and reconciled myself to the fact that he probably wouldn’t ever ride and that we would stick to walking and riding (bikes, that is) together.
Copyright © 2011 Roxanne Bok
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any fashion, print, facsimile, or electronic, or by any method yet to be developed, without express written permission of the publisher.
A TWIN LAKES PRESS BOOK
Published by Prospecta Press, an imprint of Easton Studio Press
P.O. Box 3131, Westport, Connecticut 06880 (203) 454-4454
www.prospectapress.com
eISBN : 978-1-935-21277-5
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