Oh my, it feels good to be back on a horse.
DAY THREE
Jogging, jogging, jogging and more jogging. I pass the time watching the Boss work horses out of the corner of my eye. I’ve always believed one should wear breeches when seated on a horse. But I can’t help but notice the bulging thigh muscles straining against the worn denim of the Boss’s pants as he jogs past me on the track. My position on the whole “jeans” issue is softening. Worn leather aside, that is one lucky saddle.
DAY FOUR
I slowly post up and down in my saddle as I causally jog past Mr. Hot Pants, trying to seduce him with the consistent rhythm of my motion. His horse crow-hops with frustration. But the Boss manages to keep the impatient colt in check the entire workout, staying just a few paces behind me and my spectacular beast. I can’t help but feel that my well-toned derriere provided the motivation. Well done, Margaret. Well-done.
DAY FIVE
OK, Jogging Girl just does not sound as cool as Gallop Girl! When is Emily going to let me show her what I can do? Never, apparently. She only tells that me that I have to improve my upper body strength and asks if I have been doing my pull ups.
It all sounds like hogwash to me. Pull ups? I’ve ridden my entire life. I’ve trained with the best coaches this sport has to offer. Not once has ANYONE suggested I need to perform a single pull up.
I’m beginning to think Emily is holding me back. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that she has yet to introduce me to the Boss, who, by the way, is wearing a pair of perfectly molded lambskin chaps today. Swoon.
DAY SIX
Guess what? Emily has six horses for me to joooooggggg. Of course SHE gets to zip around the track at a full gallop, waving her fanny in front of the Boss like a baboon in heat searching for a mate. Not that the Boss is any kind of baboon. He’s wearing a very smart polo shirt tucked into those tight little jeans he loves so much. A good old-fashioned Kentucky work-belt highlights his strong tree trunk of a waist, confirming my suspicions. The Boss does NOT have the squishy love handles that always made Jeff so hard to take seriously. Go ahead, Erica. He’s all yours. Have a blast.
And then it hits me: Emily is never going to let me gallop a horse because she can’t stand the competition. It looks like it’s time to take matters into my own hands.
DAY SEVEN
One thing thirteen years on the A-Circuit will teach you is the importance of fitting in. Don’t trot into the ring dressed like a Pony Clubber and expect to be a champion at Harrisburg. Conversely, don’t show up at a scruffy racetrack barn dressed in quality breeches and expect to be taken seriously as a Gallop Girl. Determined to finally put the “gallop” in Gallop Girl, I strut into Winning Edge dressed in jeans, full chaps and a collarless T-shirt that says “Fearless Female”. I walk right up to the Boss like I’ve known him my whole life, extend my hand and announce, “Margaret Fletcher. I don’t know if you’re aware, but you hired me to gallop your horses last week. Except that I have yet to be given an opportunity to actually gallop.”
Clearly impressed by my pluck, an amused smile spreads across the Boss’s handsome face. I can’t believe I ever found a squishy, love handle-afflicted wimp like Jeff attractive. “Alright Margaret Fletcher, let’s see what you can do. Hey, Liz, tack up Pruney.”
Pruney? That doesn’t sound like the kind of horse that will test the depths of one’s skills. Pruney sounds like the kind of broken-down nag one keeps around so an idiot cousin who thinks she can ride doesn’t kill herself on family visits.
The Boss flashes another smile and says, “I’ll be right back, Princess.” Princess? Clearly, this guy thinks he’s dealing with a rube. But I can handle this. You have to know this happens to me all time. People take one look at my perfectly polished appearance and assume I’m some fancy boulangerie puff pastry. Well, I didn’t appreciate it back in my days on the A-Circuit and I certainly don’t appreciate it now. I can’t wait to show the Boss what I’m made of. Except I have a feeling I might have trouble convincing good old Pruney into any kind gait resembling a gallop.
Fifteen minutes into my internal monologue, the Boss emerges from the barn with two large, athletic prancing animals. Pruney? The Boss hands me an agitated colt and asks, “Did Emily show you how to bridge your reins?” No, Emily showed me how to dress like a Dickensian orphan and tape maxi pads to my shins, that’s it! The Boss gently cradles my calf in what has to be the most seductive leg-up I have ever received in my entire life. He takes care not to let his hand travel too far up my thigh as he pushes me into the saddle. But by the time he’s finished, I feel a delicious, warm glow spread across my body and I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with the extra layer of leggings I’ve got on underneath my jeans.
I try to give the Boss my full attention as he explains the finer points of galloping racehorses. He mounts a beast of his own and says, “See how I’m crossing my reins? Now you want to make a short, tight cross and push down on his neck. If you get in trouble, move the cross down lower to tighten up, then push down with your upper body weight to keep the cross in place. That way, you’re using the strength of your whole body to hold the horse.” I’m too distracted by the Boss’s bulging biceps to absorb whatever it is he’s trying to teach me. So when he turns to me and asks, “Ready to show me what you’ve got, Princess?” I actually have the guts to say, “I was born ready.”
Unfortunately, it turns out that was just the T-shirt talking. I am NOT ready. The next few minutes are a blur. I’m bolting around the track at what must be eight hundred miles an hour while the Boss, who somehow manages to keep pace with me, screams, “Relax! You’re doing fine! Stop pulling so hard. You’ll wear yourself out.” I’m water skiing on this horse’s face like it’s the Fourth of July at some middle class waterpark. But right now, it’s the only thing preventing this fire-breathing dragon from taking me all the way to Texas. The Boss is doing his best to talk me through this terrifying situation. He screams at the top of his lungs, “Bury your hands in his neck and let him pull against himself!” But nothing he says makes any sense at forty miles an hour.
Emily, you were right. I haven’t been doing my pull ups. My arms are turning into Jell-O and I’m pretty sure I’m going to die wearing this ridiculous T-shirt! “There you go, Princess. One more lap then we’ll pull up.” I want to scream, “How the hell do I pull this thing up?!’ But I stopped breathing ten minutes ago and I need to conserve whatever oxygen is left in my body.
The Boss reads the panic on my face and bellows, “Use your whole body for leverage and hope the sucker stops. Otherwise, you’re going to have to keep going until he gets tired.”
I eventually pull that sucker up. I’ll never forget the mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration coursing through my veins. My arms are throbbing; my heart is pounding; my mind is racing. The Boss and I hop off our mounts in tandem and hand them to a hot walker to cool out. It takes me a moment to catch my breath. My cheeks are flushed and my heart is pounding in my chest. When the Boss asks, “Well, Princess, what do you think?” all I can say is, “Wow.”
The Boss laughs, and I’m charmed by the crinkles gently forming at the corners of his eyes. Still bathing in the excitement of galloping my first racehorse, I could probably be seduced by a three hundred pound hairless monkey right now. So you can only imagine how a handsome man like the Boss is looking to my over-stimulated senses. Take a deep breath, Margaret. Getting involved in a romantic relationship with your boss is not appropriate.
With a mischievous look in his eye, the Boss asks if I want to do it again. So soon? I’m impressed. Should we try with you in front this time?
Ten minutes later, I find myself on the back of another young colt with the Boss once again mounted beside me. His sweaty polo shirt clings deliciously to his chest. I am still trying to catch my breath as he leans in to say, “This one is a little stronger than the last. But don’t worry. You’ll be fine. You just have to trust him. Let him go a little and believe that he won’t take
advantage of you and run away.”
I look the Boss squarely in those beautiful blue eyes and say, “Isn’t that what young studs do? Take advantage of you and then run away?”
He smiles. Crinkles spread around his baby blues and that’s when I know I’m really in over my head here.
MY WORKDAY AT WINNING EDGE STARTS AT 5 AM. I’m finished by noon and down for a little catnap two seconds after I walk through the front door.
Three hours later, I wake up screaming in agony. Did I break every bone in my body? I can’t move. I’m not even sure I can breathe. Thank God my phone is within reach. Time to call Mother, the only person with keys to my apartment.
Twenty minutes later, she’s at the door with a masseuse and five gallons of seaweed for him to rub onto my sore, unfortunately tanned body. “Margaret, you look absolutely terrible. What did they do to you? Sven, is there anything you can do about those tan lines on her arms?!”
Sven is strong enough to pick me up and put me on his massage table, while also being gay enough to take off my clothes without making me feel cheap. And then it begins. Mother starts criticizing, “Why are your hands so white and your forearms so brown? You look ridiculous!” As Sven begins the agonizing process of massaging my petrified muscles, my screams briefly drown Mother out. I come up for air in time to hear, “I can’t imagine this new job of yours has anything in common with what you grew up with. Quite frankly, the whole thing sounds dirty, dangerous and unsavory.” Yep, when it comes to criticizing my life choices, Mother is nothing if not persistent. “You’re not going to meet anyone worth socializing with. Honestly, I doubt you’ll meet anyone who isn’t fresh out prison.”
Trying to describe my love of horses to her has always has been a waste of a perfectly good attempt at conversation. We have a script. Mother criticizes, complains and emotionally terrorizes me. I quietly endure it, because she has something I want. Years of experience have taught me that just when you think you’ve spent all the money on horses one could possibly spend, a good A-Circuit trainer will come up with something ELSE you need. A new competition horse to replace the one you just outgrew, a new practice horse to make sure you don’t wear out the competition horse, another new competition horse because your last competition horse just isn’t getting you into the ribbons as often as you should be. It goes on and on. And all of it is expensive. Growing up, I always needed my mother and her access to my father’s money.
Mother attempts to raise an eyebrow for effect (no luck) and says, “You know I never understood your horse habit. But I let you persist because the outfits were cute and social connections worthwhile. But, Honey, I don’t know if I can support this anymore.”
And this is when it hits me like a two-by-four. My new horse habit isn’t something that REQUIRES her support anymore. Back in the good old days, the prospect of being benched for even one weekend of horse showing had me jumping through hoops like a well-trained puppy. But, racehorses give me something that show horses only took away from me:
Independence.
I don’t know how I’m ever going to walk again, much less gallop racehorses. But deep in my heart (the only fully functioning muscle left in my body), I know that I have found my niche. For the first time since Daddy went broke, I’m looking forward to what life has to offer me.
I AM JUST BARELY ABLE TO WALK THE MORNING AFTER MY GALLOP GIRL DEBUT. I’m sure everyone is expecting Princess Fancy Breeches to call in sick today. (That’s what everyone calls me, by the way. Princess Fancy Breeches. Liz, groom/hot-walker/pain in the ass extraordinaire, came up with the nickname after I explained that, no, I would not like to have lunch in the middle of a field when I have access to a perfectly clean picnic table that won’t stain my breeches green. Had I known in advance the consequences of my actions, I might have sacrificed my Tailoreds for the cause of fitting in. But there is no point in living in the past.)
Liz and everyone else on the farm who calls me Princess Fancy Breeches watch me hobble to the Boss’s office with a look of shock and awe. I overhear a couple of whispers. Wow, I had no idea that so many people were betting against my return. I’m a little hurt when Emily joins in on the chorus of naysayers. “Margaret, are you sure it’s a good idea for you to ride today? You look like you’re having a hard time carrying your own body weight.”
What’s the matter, Emily? Have you already run out of horses for me to JOG? You girls think you’re so tough in your ugly jeans and sloppy ponytails. Well, let me tell you something. Until you have survived thirty minutes in an enclosed arena with sixty very determined Hunter Princesses strategically navigating their thirteen hundred pound German Warmbloods in front of the judge’s box and emerged victorious, you don’t know what the word “tough” means.
Here comes the Boss. All right, Margaret, shoulders back, tits up, look elegant. Ouch, on second thought, that hurts.
“Princess, I’ve got a really important job for you today. Find my saddle stretcher.” That doesn’t sound important. He continues, “I’ve got fifteen saddles to stretch and I can’t put you up on a horse until that gets done.” Maybe I’m underestimating the severity of the situation.
I don’t realize just how important a job it is until Emily pulls me aside and tries to convince me that I’m not up for the task. “Margaret, you’re not going to be able to find the saddle stretcher.” Just like I’m not going to be able to gallop a baby? I like Emily. I really do. But don’t think I haven’t noticed her tendency to underestimate my abilities. I don’t appreciate it. Not one bit. And I’m not afraid to put Little Miss Crusty Boots in her place.
“You know Emily,” I say, “I thought poor girls were supposed to be different. But you’re acting like a jealous little Hunter Princess stuck with last year’s Hermes saddle.” That came out a little harsher than I intended. But it has the desired effect and Emily backs off.
To be honest, I have no idea what a saddle stretcher looks like. I’m sure it’s something I should be familiar with. I bet Emily would just love it if I confessed my ignorance. One more opportunity to make fun of the girl who grew up with a silver spoon in her mouth. I’m not falling into that trap. I’m sure I’ll know what it is when I see it.
Three hours later, I’m still looking. A few of the exercise riders and grooms have taken pity on me. One of them even drew me a picture of what a saddle stretcher looks like. I’m beginning to think that maybe everyone at Winning Edge isn’t so bad, even if they call me Princess Fancy Breeches and make fun of my hairnet.
Oh, there’s Sam! I’m sure he’d be happy to help me find the Boss’s saddle stretcher. One look at Sam’s expression and I know I’m an idiot.
“Kid, you need to find the Boss and kick his ass for jerking your chain,” Sam grunts, amused. That’s right, there is no such thing as a saddle stretcher! I’ve been hobbling around Winning Edge like a cripple for the past three hours looking for a fictional piece of equipment and NOBODY took pity on the girl with a serious sunburn and giant bloody WELTS on the inside of her thighs.
There’s the creep. Hey, Boss. I found your saddle stretcher. Now come over here so I can hit you over the head with it!
The sexy little bastard doesn’t even have the decency to look remorseful. No, he looks amazing in the crisp navy blue windbreaker that is both professional and zipped down low enough to tickle a girl’s imagination. He smiles. His eyes crinkle. And he says, “Princess, don’t be mad. Everyone’s got to put up with a little bit of hazing around here.” Hazing! Putting my underwear in the freezer is hazing. Making me wander aimlessly around the track for three hours when every bone in my body feels like it’s broken is just plain cruel.
But when the Boss points out that it would have been much crueler to give me horses to gallop, I have to admit he has a point.
Then he offers to buy me a drink at some local jockey hangout called Shorty’s. It’s not exactly a date. But it’s a start. Maybe this day wasn’t a big waste, after all.
I SHOULD HAVE BEEN PREPARED FOR THE
BROKEN PEANUT SHELLS ON THE FLOOR, the bad lighting and colorful characters. But I wasn’t and once again I feel out of place for taking a shower. The Boss, Emily and a few other recognizables from the track are at the bar, eager to buy me a drink. So it’s less a private meeting of two young able-bodied people interested in seeing where things might go and more of an after-work gathering. Fine, I’ll have a Grand Marnier. Neat.
But the Boss has other plans. “Sorry, Princess, no old lady drinks. You’re having a saddle stretcher. One part tequila in a shot glass.” He slides some sort of pale brown liquid down the bar.
I take a breath and quaff it. Done. Swallowed. That was disgusting. Although, minutes later, I am enjoying a warm glow brewing inside my belly and everybody is starting to look a LOT more attractive.
The Boss raises his glass, commanding the attention of everyone in the room, and says, “Princess, I know we gave you a hard time today. But tonight, we raise our glasses to you — or for you — because you’re probably in too much pain to do it yourself.” And to that, everyone gives a good “Here, here.”
Maybe it’s the tequila, but for the first time since I left the Circuit, I feel like I’m a part of something special. Riders are sharing war stories of their first time galloping. Grooms are patting me on the back for doing such a good job with their favorite filly. Country music is playing and Emily is dancing with a handsome older man in cowboy boots. I gather I’m not the only one with tomorrow off, and the prospect of sleeping in past 4 AM has my coworkers cutting loose. I’ve been to my fair share of year-end banquets, competitors’ barbecues and post clinic luncheons. I’ve been surrounded by my peers in the spirit of celebration. But I’ve never actually been comfortable in those situations.
Tonight is different. I accomplished something big this week by venturing outside of my perfectly polished box and into a strange new world. I’ve always had poise. But this feels different. This feels like real self-confidence. The kind your trainer doesn’t just import for you from Germany. And it isn’t so easily taken away with a snide comment about money buying ribbons.
Margaret Fletcher Gallop Girl: A Fall From Grace at Forty Miles an Hour Page 4