Running Away

That's what happens when you start reading a book set in the world of horse racing (Jane Smiley's Horse Heaven). Or when you've had a difficult week and you feel like running for miles only you know you couldn't make it to the post office two blocks away without suffering a coronary, or needing a knee replacement.
First, you wait for work to end. Interminably, you wait. Then you walk the dogs as fast as they can walk and still perform their necessary bodily functions. You throw together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich which will end up tasting not a little like Cutter Insect Repellent, since you have dressed in riding boots, thick jeans, a Buzz-Off long-sleeve fisherman's shirt you found on clearance at L.L. Bean, a baseball cap, and six to seven coats of the aforementioned bug spray to prepare for the onslaught of insects awaiting you. You drive like a bat out of hell (or your attic) to reach your horse barn before feeding time, where the ranch owner looks at you like you have lost your mind coming out to ride at dusk in these mosquito plague conditions but politely says nothing, except to offer his bee hood that someone lent him for barn chores. You bravely decline.

Jack came up instantly, as usual, and I swept and swept the mosquitoes from his face, neck, back, everywhere. I sprayed him until he was soggy. Luckily, he had not destroyed the full face mask (with ears) I had repaired last week. Julian needed convincing to come up. Once he was caught, I was horrified to see his skin literally covered in welts. I saw a horse once who had had an allergic reaction to alfalfa. He had developed hives all over his body. Julian looked just like him. I'm sure Jack did, too, but it was hard to see due to his gray coat. My hand could feel every bump as I ran it over his usually smooth skin. I felt horrible, and powerless.

As quickly as I could, I covered Julian's acreage with fly and mosquito spray. It barely shook the insects--though Julian relaxed noticeably and did not move once he felt the spray going on. I could tell he intended to enjoy what respite he could get.

I tacked him up quickly, as standing in one place was an open invitation to the swarms, and led him out to the front pasture. He started dancing, both from mosquitoes and from not having been ridden in weeks. I danced with him, to avoid more broken toes. (I haven't sustained one this year yet, and I am overdue.) I had planned to lunge him, but I decided I couldn't bear being that much closer to the ground, where the mosquitoes were the worst. So, after a couple of false starts, I mounted Jules and we took off at a trot.

Mosquitoes are fast biters, but they are not fast fliers. We shook most of them by trotting, especially when the occasional breeze came up. I took turns holding the reins with one hand as I would use the other to sweep blankets of bugs from his withers and neck. I should have used the arena, which they had recently watered for our use, but I had already dragged the mounting block out to the pasture, and the thought of dismounting and negotiating several gates with those heavy steps and a nervous draft horse did not excite me.

Not to mention--if you'll excuse the expression--I had been bitten by a bug and there was only one way to shake it. I needed to gallop, outdoors, as the sun was setting, through an open green field. Later this weekend I would move to the arena, for the horses' sake, but I just needed one good run. I felt guilty for using Julian to fulfill my selfish needs, but realized he would be outside even if I had not chosen to come. At least I had brought bug spray. I thanked him several times anyway.

We warmed up a bit, trotting the perimeter of the pasture. A few cars slowed as they passed us, while others seemed indifferent. Once he was moving fairly well, I took him to the bottom of the field and turned him back towards the barn. I laid the reins on his neck and grabbed some mane. (Julian doesn't run without bucking.) And he ran. Slowly, at first, to see if I really meant it, then hard, as close to a gallop as a grass-loaded Percheron can get. He tossed his head, which of course led to tossing his hind end a bit. I used the reins to remind him I was still there, and hoped to remain there until I formally dismounted.

We ran in large arcs through the fields, mostly cantering, as I kept reminding myself any open field could lead to dangerous stumbling. It certainly wasn't my intention to break one of his legs, or my neck. Only a few times we went all out--each time with me wondering what a small fraction of speed I was experiencing compared to your average thoroughbred exerciser.

I grew up wanting to be a jockey, but two things changed my mind. First, I knew you couldn't ever exceed more than about 110 lbs. I was too tall and clearly would end up too heavy. Still, the exercisers are often "normal" sized humans. I read more about the life, and learned that exercise riders typically lived on the track, sometimes in extra stalls, made far less than the horses did, and this was the clincher, started work around 4 a.m. seven days a week.

This clearly was not going to work for me. Even at 10 I knew I was not a morning person, and certainly not a pre-dawn person. I remember feeling very sad when I came to this realization. I wondered for some time if it wouldn't be worth the sacrifice--if I wouldn't eventually grow used to it. I read more stories of riders, none of whom seemed to learn to enjoy that part of the job, and put the idea to bed. Mostly.

That part of me that decided not to pursue that dream, who ended up not really fulfilling any dream in particular, was the one that encouraged her horse to do what you're never supposed to encourage your horse to do tonight: run for the barn. I just wanted him to take my breath away, just for a moment, to feel 1600 lbs of muscle working as hard as it could underneath me to move the both of us as fast as possible through the cool evening air, the darkening light, and even through the clouds of mosquitoes. Not even they could catch us now.