A (big) girl and her horse

Little girls like ponies. Big girls do, too.

Which is why, despite being firmly entrenched in middle age, I am still trying to fulfill a childhood dream of learning how to ride.

You can take up riding at any age. You may have to modify your expectations when older, but you can still have fun. I once read of a retired plumber who was hired on as a handyman at the stable of a horse trainer so he could learn to ride and jump a cross-country course. After his first competition, the retiree declared, “It wasn’t pretty, but I did it.”

As an adult, I tried learning to ride in fits and starts. My first attempt came in college when I had the misfortune of meeting Flicka, who threw and trampled me. I took a hiatus, returning in three years to ride Flicka in a college show.

At the show, a rider who fell off her horse beat me out of fourth place. Still, I thought myself a winner for having gotten back on Flicka and, with closure, took another hiatus.

Fifteen years later, I took lessons with certified instructors and took the plunge of buying a horse. Injuries continued, although optimistically I thought they might be a great way to meet a single doctor in the ER. (They are not.)

I don’t mean to discourage adults from learning to ride, or parents from allowing their children to take lessons. Riding is a dangerous sport, but a lot of injuries happen when people do not get proper training, or when they try to do something they are not ready to do, or when they ride horses not suitable for their skills or experience. Choose your mount and trainer wisely to minimize risk. Don’t do stupid things. Respect the fact that horses are big and can scare easily.

Recently, after having left the riding world behind yet again, the director of a rescue farm called me to say that she had a very quiet, well-trained horse, who might suit me. Like the moth drawn to flame, I said yes to taking Goya home, even though he towers over me and weighs 1,200 pounds. His huge trot tosses me up toward the moon and stars. His gentle temperament, however, is appropriate for someone neither highly skilled nor highly nerved.

Goya and I are taking things slowly. I treat him like a giant Barbie doll and mostly do training exercises on the ground with him as we build confidence in each other. Riding is more mental than physical for both parties. Getting on a horse and turning him left or right isn’t that difficult. After all these years, I know how to do that. But getting on knowing that the big galoot can kill me, even accidentally, is much harder. If I’m anxious, Goya’s anxious. We need to be comfortable with each other. Come spring, the real work begins.

Meanwhile, I enjoy Goya’s welcome when he nuzzles me. I wonder at Goya’s willingness, when free in a corral and riderless, to trot when asked. I appreciate the power and beauty of his movement. I thank him when he lets me see the world as a colossus astride his back.

There’s an old saying: “There’s something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man.” That saying holds true for little girls, and big girls, too.