I have been riding horses since I was five years old. From the time I stepped foot in a stirrup, it was clear that I was meant to move on four legs, not my own two. For me, riding was instinctive: my instructors told my mother that I was a natural. Everyone just sort of knew and accepted--some grudgingly, some fearfully, and some proudly--that I was born to ride.
From that young age, I was fearless. I rode full-sized horses--fiery, flighty Saddlebreds, no less--in the beginning. Later, I began to ride horses and ponies over fences at a hunter stable. I acquired my first horse at the age of eight, an adopted Mustang named Wildfire--appropriately. My parents rethought that decision when 1,000 pound Wildfire took off with 75 pound me around our farm as they stood by/ran after helplessly, and that's when Zephyr came into the picture. Zephyr was an athletic and spirited (but very kind-hearted in a gruff, manly sort of way) Connemara pony, and we raced around the farm and over tall jumps in....I'm not going to go so far as to call it a controlled way, but...a way that I was comfortable with at the time. I was so confident when I rode Zephyr: I never had a worry about him missing a stride or refusing a jump. With him, I was bulletproof.
As an adult, with brittle bones, more experience, and infinitely more to lose upon injury/death, I am becoming a wimpier rider. Every time I ride, I do so with the knowledge that this one could be my last--and though I guess it is healthy to grip reality in this way and calculate my risks, it also takes something fundamental away from the experience. I can't lose myself fully in a rip-tearing gallop the way I did with Zephyr day-after-day: I now wonder if there are holes or rocks in my path, I wonder if Finn will get hurt, I wonder if I will fall, and I wonder if it is worth these risks to let loose. So I rarely do.
In fact, the last time I galloped until I was exhilarated and couldn't see a thing through the tears of joy (and wind-sheer) streaming down my face, I did so on a borrowed horse (thank you sincerely, Melvin)--and it was (a.) half an accident, as I believed Melvin to be the slowest horse in the world, and (b.) before I met Greg, and (c.) years before I had Brooke.
I value my life, and my horse, and both of our soundness so much now--I am acutely aware that he is the past, present, and future of my riding life. He is my equine soulmate, I am quite lucky to say, and I fear injuring him because I am not certain that I'd want to ride another horse at this point--I mean really ride. I trust my horse. He takes care of me. We understand each other, and partnering with him is a calculated risk that is still worthwhile. He is my "me time." Sitting on his back, I am graceful and daring and confident and happy and myself in a way that I cannnot achieve independently. He is kind and gentle with my little children. He understands our situation and his role in it.
So, now that you understand my crazy adoration and dependence on this horse...which borders on insanity and is certainly way past obsessive...I tell you that his back has been sore. I have been riding him regularly, if not intensely, all summer, and recently I began jumping him again. It seems that he may not have been fit enough to hit the course with as much gusto as I did-- But what can I say in my defense? He is so fun to jump, that I have trouble controlling my urge to jump everything in sight (a couple of times!). I feel terrible for being inconsiderate to him now, of course. I have been stretching him, massaging him, doing acupressure on him....giving him baths with liniment. I have given him days off, but still I can tell that he is sore.
I have a show planned for September 17 as my birthday present to myself. I wonder if I should take him, or if I'm being selfish?
Somewhere even deeper inside my consciousness: I wonder if I'm just being wimpy?
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