Horsey Part 1 - Johnny Rides A Horse

“I don’t mind what Congress does, as long as they don’t do it in the streets and frighten the horses.” Victor Hugo

HORSEY PART 1: JOHNNY RIDES A HORSE

Years ago I was horsey. I became horsey in my usual manner of becoming anything – frivolously and entirely without forethought or consideration of the potential consequences, which, in the case of my becoming horsey, proved to be significant.

Before becoming horsey I had only once ever been near a horse and that experience was less than encouraging. I was in Los Angeles and met with an old friend, Susan, who lived there as an employee of Tom Cruise’s chosen mythology. Susan suggested that she and I and couple of her cult/work mates go horseback riding. Being a typical male, I was terrified of horses. (What is it with guys? Men who would happily wrestle a cougar in a snake pit or climb K2 wearing a Speedo turn into quivering mush and are apt to soil themselves in the presence of anything equine.) I wanted to spend as much time as possible with Susan whom I adored and had not seen in a few years so I suppressed my anxiety with a “How bad could it be if a zillion 12 year-old girls do it?” and agreed.

Off we went to a riding stable in the Hollywood hills not far from the iconic HOLLYWOOD sign. The attendants asked about our preferences and skills. One friend of Susan’s confidently declared that she was a seasoned veteran, having ridden regularly since the age of 5 or 6. She was assigned a muscular, wild-eyed beast that might well have been named “Cyclone”, “Nitro” or “Homicide Horse”. The sight of this creature confirmed my original premise that humans are not meant to perch themselves on the backs of half-ton, not terribly bright, animals with hooves and big teeth. I stressed that I was a nervous novice and should be given something perhaps 10,000 times less vigorously enthusiastic than H.H. In horsey parlance, “bomb-proof” was what I was after. The smiling attendant was most accommodating. He went into the stable and returned moments later, my Bucephalus for the day in tow. The words of that old song immediately came to mind: “The old gray mare she ain’t what she used to be…” or, this case, probably never was. What a sad looking animal. Typically horses live to between late teens and mid-twenties. Old Gray Mare was, I estimated, fifty-eight.

After being shown how to mount and briefly instructed in the aids (hand, leg and foot instructions to the horse) we set off. There were 6 or 7 of us in the group, led by a guide. We headed along an uneventful trail and all seemed pleasant. At least I told myself it was pleasant. OGM’s quiet disposition notwithstanding, this was a little scary and just plain weird. It was something akin to what a first-time flyer experiences when the eyes and ears are acutely sensitive to the slightest changes. “What’s that sound? Did an engine just fall off?”. “Her shoulder twitched! Is she about to start bucking like some rodeo bronco?” I did my best to ignore everything except Susan. Talk, I assumed, would put my mind at ease, so we chatted as we rode.

After a short time the group became a bit dispersed with a couple of more experienced riders naturally wishing to pick up the pace a bit with a trot, if not a canter or full gallop. One of those was Susan’s aforementioned friend. We amateurs stayed behind, plodding slowly along a trail through that insipid brush/tinder that passes for foliage in Southern California. After 15 or 20 minutes of tolerable meandering and talking with Susan I began to feel a bit more at ease in this decidedly unnatural state. And then…

We left the brush and emerged at a relatively large open space - a plateau on the mountainside. There she was, Susan’s expert friend, thrashing wildly as HH reared, bucked and did whatever he could to dislodge her. After a moment or two, presumably deciding to try another tack, he took off at a full gallop into the bush, Susan’s friend still on top but definitely not in control. This, I did not need to see.

I patted Old Gray Mare’s neck lovingly. “Good horsey. Good horsey.”

Our guide indicated it was time to head back. Gee, how disappointing! Our return route was different. No longer on trails through the brush, we now followed a path about 2 meters from the edge of almost sheer 300-400 foot drops down the mountainside. Our pace picked up a bit as apparently the horses knew exactly what was going on and were anxious to get back to a comfy stall and some hay or oats.

There was another side-effect: OGM immediately moved off the “trail” to the right. I looked down. Her footsteps were landing perhaps 6 inches from the edge of the drop. I am not sure, but “swooning” might be the appropriate word to describe my state. Death, I was certain, was imminent. Right there. Right below my foot. Any minute now I’d be careening off the side of that cliff like a rag doll. I couldn’t breathe.

I was on a horse who was either blind or insane or both. No amount of gentle tugging of the reins or poking with my foot would get her to move. I was last in line, the guard being perhaps 50 feet ahead of me. As much as I wanted to summon help, I couldn’t speak - mainly for fear that my voice might push OGM over the edge. Eventually I overcame that fear.

“Um… um…. say…. um….”. The guide turned around. “Um…. I say, sir… Is this right? Is this where I’m supposed to be?”

The guide trotted back and sidled up beside me. He laughed. “Kick her hard with your right foot.”

“Huh?”

“Kick her. Really hard.” I gave her a tap with my heel. Nothing.

“Don’t be a wuss! Kick her. Hard. Like you mean it!” A stronger tap. Still no change.

The guide went behind me and yelled “Kick her HARD!” I smashed her aging ribs as hard as I could with my heel. She moved a few feet to left and we were back on the trail. I was going to live!

The guide walked beside me again. “What on earth was that all about?” I asked.

He explained that the horses would do that sometimes because some riders, like me, would panic and want to gallop back to the stables asap. (Horses are stupid? Ha!) Sometimes, he said, when training them, they’d actually push a horse over the side of a less severe drop. This worked in most cases and the animal would behave henceforth and stick to the rules. OGM was apparently just a bit too experienced though and still liked to give it a shot now and then.

I remained dazed and frankly do not remember anything else about the trip back to the barn. I made it. That’s all that counted. That, and my personal vow to never again get closer to a horse than the betting window at the race track. Ha! Famous last words!

It would be about 15 years before I saw Susan again. By that time, I could ride circles around her and her expert friend. More on that later in Horsey Part 2 – Johnny Gets a Horse.

Tally ho!