Riders on the Storm

Focus is something I have been in short supply of this weekend. There are a few things going on in my life, I suppose, but I am leaning more towards the theory that I am simply passing through one of those valleys wherein I seem to lose all focus for an unspecified period of time.

Jack had his stitches out Saturday, on the first day of November. Though I was at the barn Saturday and Sunday, it wasn’t until I was leaving tonight that I remember my board was due. I don’t travel with a checkbook, so I had to apologize and promise to bring it tomorrow. I am always early in my payment to them, and this was irritating.

I actually didn’t ride Saturday because I couldn’t find the motivation to go back out after the drugs had worn off the horses from the morning visit. (Julian had also been sedated so she could examine a pea-sized lump on his eyelid. No verdict on its cause but I had to postpone its removal to finish absorbing the financial damage from Jack’s bills.) Instead, I fell asleep on the sofa with Ginger. Lots of sinus pain with the changing temperatures, which is typical for me, but I think something else is afoot. I don’t know what or I’d probably tell you. Or maybe I wouldn’t, depends on who you are. ;o)



So after sleeping much more than necessary this weekend, I was determined to have a good ride with Julian today. Again, focus eluded me. I just couldn’t keep myself where I needed to be, and after not riding him for a few weeks, it really needed to be on him. The intermittent rain showers weren’t helping.

As one would expect, he was full of himself, and all over me. I had sloppy horse mouth marks on every pocket; he stole my riding gloves; he tossed my orange safety vest down in the sand; and basically tried to steal anything not nailed down. I managed to saddle him, and mount him (no small feat ever with him) and we rode into the back pasture, determined to find the spot where I had seen the owners disappear into the farmer’s empty fields beyond. That was where the galloping was to be had, and Julian and I both wanted to have it.

We paced that fence three times, but no gate. I felt like the older children from Narnia going into the wardrobe and only finding a wood back behind the coats. There would be no magical portal for Julian and me. Feeding on my frustration, Julian went beyond his usual playing and took off with me. I always find it amusing—not the disobedience, but the act he chooses—because a hard gallop is always what I am after. So I gave him his head and we raced hell-bent for leather around the large field. I always worry about footing, but since I’ll probably die instead some day by choking on a chocolate chip, I dismissed the worry and patted my helmet on tighter. His speed was fantastic—almost breathtaking. He galloped so hard he did not have the extra room to buck, which is common with him. After he ran out of steam, we took a few more runs until he got the devil out, and I headed for the top of the hill, still restless after not finding a way out.

The goal here was to get around the neighbor’s corn field to the areas that had been harvested. I led Julian through the barn aisle out to the front to see if we could find another way back there, using the side of the road by the farm. Though I had my helmet and hunting vest, I had forgotten my phone, and I chided myself. I try to make it a rule never to ride alone without my phone, but of course I was too distracted to remember it. I noticed that now the owners were home and would no doubt see me leave out the front gate, assuring that should I not return by dark (or Julian return alone) I’d have someone to call the Mounties for me. That was good enough for me.

After only two attempts, Julian allowed me to mount from the bumper of my Beetle, and we paced around a bit as I planned my route. As he wandered, he walked towards the barn, where I had re-strung the chain that acts as a stop-gap for horses loose in the aisle. I knew he saw it, but forgot who he was and how he’d been acting—and he walked right through it, snapping it like silly string.

Damn, that angered me. Not at him, but at me for not redirecting him before it happened. Another reminder that my head was somewhere else.

Not to be held back from riding without my senses, we did wander along the country road for some time, though we never found a way back behind the corn. I began to feel quite claustrophobic, as if there was no where for us to go—no escape. I tagged this as a symptom of something else going on with me but still kept turning him in all directions, certain I would find the path that would lead us to open fields.

I like to find something really positive that comes out of each ride, no matter how off-plan it seems to go, and we did get that. As we followed along the corn, with me yelling inaudible obscenities at the farmer who had waited FAR too long to cut his corn, I heard a young voice yelling, “Daddy! Daddy!” I knew that voice. That was my voice, if I was ten again and saw a woman riding a big black horse right by her front yard. She came running to the front of her yard as her dad paused with his rake. She was all smiles, reflecting my own, I suspect. I pulled up on the other side of the road.

“You like horses?” No, idiot, I thought, she clearly hates them.

She nodded vigorously. I looked both ways and headed across the pavement, stopping just on the other side, at the edge of their beautifully manicured lawn.

“Do you mind?” I asked the father. Hard to tiptoe with nearly a ton of horse and rider. He nodded his okay and picked up his little girl, who had no shoes on. Smart man, I thought. I walked down the slope towards them and pulled up alongside. Predictably, Julian reached with a gaping mouth towards the possibility of snacks, so I turned him before they got slimed. Both petted his neck.

“I was crazy about horses when I was your age, “I told the girl, “and I would never forgive myself if I didn’t stop to let you see him close up.”

Jules was still restless—or just disappointed that they had no food—so I turned back pretty quickly to the road and crossed over. I rubbed his neck and told him he’d done a good thing, promising a treat once we got back.

Soon enough we did head back, defeated by the corn. He was doing really well on his own being next to a busy road, but I still couldn’t shake my claustrophobia, or my need for speed. He kept breaking into a trot as well, but no way was I going to run him in a ditch full of beer and liquor bottles. (As it was, I was certain he was going to cut a pastern out there. I kept leaning way over to see his feet—which kept moving too fast for me to examine them properly.) As we re-entered the farm, I saw the owners preparing their own horses for a ride. I took Julian through the open front pasture gate, which is still big, though not as large as the back pasture, and asked him for a canter. He gladly obliged. As we rounded the bottom corner, now facing the barn, I let him go completely, and he stretched out his neck and covered the ground in an instant. It was exhilarating. We took a few more runs and I focused on cooling him down for about twenty minutes, as he was breathing hard, and my knees and legs were aching.

The point to this story is that there is no point. I am distracted and unfocused, and feel, for whatever reasons, fenced in too tightly. I can run hard and fast circles within those fence lines, but I can’t seem to find a way out. The nightmares are back, too, so there is a boil working its way to the surface. I am extremely fortunate to have a partner to help me work those feelings out through 25 mph gallops, or just by his falling asleep with his head on my shoulder after a vet visit.

So, Julian, this one’s for you.