"Mom, I don't want to miss my riding lesson," I pouted. I turned over on the couch to look at my mother, who regarded me resignedly.
"I don't think you will, honey. Now get some sleep or else you'll be too sick to go." I had never thought of myself as the especially tough type, someone who could go running in the rain, play basketball on a broken foot, or even have her first riding lesson while recovering from a bout of flu. But I discovered something new the following day, sitting in a worn EquiLeather saddle on a sedate old Quarter Horse called Beasley, wiping my nose every so often. Even the basics of this new sport were fun. As I learned how to turn Beasley and tell him to go or stop, I knew it was something I could do, and I could go further than getting this stiff old schoolie to weave in and out of cones at a walk.
It didn't take long for me to realise to be a great rider wouldn't be so easy. Next week's ride, this time on a very inquisitive pony called Tex, was somewhat jarring to my mind and to my butt. Tex and I were doing fine journeying around the cones, but there's always someone who doesn't know how to look around her, and today's such person was a lady who galloped her horse past the arena I was in. Tex's herd instinct kicked in right about then, and as he surged forward, I flew out of the saddle about ten feet. I ended up hitting my head and bruising my tailbone painfully. I thought for a minute that I'd never be able to get up or, for that matter, sit down. Jessica, my instructor, grabbed Tex's reins and marched straight up to the offender and her horse. I'm not entirely sure what she said to her, as I was then trying to make sure I wasn't seriously injured, but she sounded furious. I assumed I'd be able to go home and wallow in my bed of shame, but Jessica told me to get back on. She explained that if I didn't, I might never be able to ride a horse again. I could develop a sort of mental block against it. Even as I shook all over and cried, more from fear than pain, I got back on that pony and walked a couple of times around the arena. I knew I had to be able to ride again, even if I had a head cold and an aching bum.
Those next few months were a series of leaps and bounds forward. Jessica recommended that I start taking lessons with her younger sister Cecily, who wasn't much older than I and with whom I got along tremendously. Cecily held the end of the lunge line the day Beasley and I trotted for the first time. She saw me progress through a series of more advanced horses, Jehna the crazy Arabian, Charmer the retired cart horse, Peekaboo the naughty little Morgan, who I established my first real connection with. With Peekaboo, I got into actual horse disciplines, such as jumping and dressage, a sport in which the rider demonstrates the obedience and quality of the horse through a series of conditioning and suppling movements. He was the horse I learned to canter on, and it was Peekaboo who introduced me to my passion for jumping. But he couldn't take me far into the world of athletic, eager equines leaping over painted poles and arrangements of plants.
The first time Cecily presented us with a jump, a miniscule crossbar propped up by two plastic blocks, she warned me: "Margaret, Peekaboo has arthritis in his hind legs. He is not gonna want to go over that jump. It's your job to ride him positively and forward to that jump, keep your leg on and your reins as fences telling him he does not have the option to run away from that fence".
I did. And Peekaboo ducked to the side of those little blocks while I turned him back around to take the jump again. I felt my face turning bright red, but not from embarrassment. I needed to get over that jump, feel that flying sensation the other kids had described. I rode Peekaboo aggressively to the little jump again, and this time I felt a jolt as he pushed off of his hind legs and launched over it. Cecily clapped appreciatively, while commending my relentlessness, "That was some fine riding, Margaret! You really told him to get over that jump and it came through in your body language". I patted Peekaboo's glistening side and trotted him on for another go on the jump.
Peekaboo and I continued to jump these little fences for a few lessons. I learned how to expect the takeoff and feel Peekaboo's tiny arch over the low jumbles of poles. But when my jumping lessons with Peekaboo became impossible and the jumps too high for him to take without having to be given pain medication, I had to revert to Jehna, an old mare I had earlier learned to ride, for my jumping lessons. Jehna was an Arabian, and she had several irritating Arabian characteristics. She was very hotheaded and touchy, had an extremely jarring gait that was painful to ride, and was too nervous to ride on cold days.
After a few frustrating lessons, Cecily and I knew it was time for a break. During a quiet dressage lesson with Peekaboo, I saw Jessamyn, a friend of mine, riding a tall, dark horse I'd never seen before. He had immense dignity and a royal presence, even as he listened to my friend's commands (or aids as they are called in riding). I'd never seen anything so beautiful as his moving forward into the canter, his wavy mane flying and his movement free and flowing. I asked Cecily who he was. She explained that Micky was her cousin's horse. He had just been made available for lessons since he was being sold, and he would soon be gone. I watched him trot gracefully in the circle Jessamyn guided him into, his tail held high and his head raised proudly, and wondered.
I dreaded my next jumping lesson; I didn't feel at all safe on Jehna, and I was quickly outgrowing her. I hated that jumping, something I really put my heart into, was losing its appeal. I told Cecily I couldn't jump Jehna again, which she too had thought about. She thought for a while and said, "You could ride Micky". I would later remember those words as the beginning of an era.
That afternoon, after saddling the tall thoroughbred, I trotted him around the ring and followed every direction that Cecily gave me on how to sit pretty on this elegant fellow. Micky's gaits were wonderful; they had a lot of movement, more than Peekaboo's easy trot, but I was still able to sit his sweeping canter without my butt bouncing out of the saddle on every stride, unlike Jehna's jolting, rollicking movement. He was also the perfect height for my long legs.
After a few lessons on Micky, I started jumping again. Even with a horse that was better suited to me, I still had problems. Before Cecily's cousin bought Micky, he had an owner who evidently terrified him. The first time I attempted to tether him to the heavy tie bar, he pulled the lead rope out of my hands so fast that I got a friction burn on my thumb. Micky cannot be tied even now; you have to loop his lead rope around whatever you're tying him to. He also needs to absolutely trust anyone who touches his head; otherwise he goes off the deep end. He pulls loose from whatever he is "tied" to, and the look on his face is one of pure terror. I suspect that he used to be hit in the head a lot by an unappreciative owner. Micky has ended up meaning a lot to me, and if I ever find the creature that did that to Micky, he'd better be sitting on a racehorse.
It takes great strength to convince Micky to take a jump he's never seen before; he has no confidence in anything he hasn't carefully examined. He tends to stop dead at new jumps unless he is being given very strong aids. During my first jumping lessons with him, Cecily explained how aggressively I would have to ride him to get over the bigger jumps. I was very proud of myself the first time I rode him over a full jump course Cecily told me, "I think we're going to do more than one or two jumps today. You and Micky are going to do this entire course. Remember, keep your leg aids on strongly and give him a whack on the butt with the crop if he even dares to stop at any of those jumps! Go!" I pushed Micky into a trot and put him into a good rhythm, making sure he was heading forward with plenty of impulsion from his muscular hindquarters so he would be able to lift his front legs well over the jump. The first jump was a crossrail in the UK colours, (my favourite country!) I tapped Micky's shoulder with my little red jump crop, warning him that he must take this jump or he'd have me to answer to. He lifted off over the red, white and blue poles, and I patted him for being such a good boy, but my eyes were already on the next jump. Through every obstacle on that course, I threw my heart over along with all three of us; myself, the horse, and even Cecily seemed to have to do this. At the end, Micky and I were both panting and sweating, but I had a big silly grin on my face and Micky seemed very content.
There's a really corny livejournal icon that all the emo kids use: "Loving you is like breathing; if I didn't, I would die". For me, the same holds true for jumping with Micky. Every lift-off of his forelegs, every flight over those painted poles, every jolting landing freed me. It was also wonderful to have a friend and partner in Micky. Whenever I see him now, he puts his head over the door of his stall and nickers softly to me. When I come into his stall and put my arms around his neck, he nudges my arms and lets me kiss his nose. If I'm feeling upset, I can lean on him and he'll never let me fall.
When I met Micky, I was in my sophomore year at Berkeley High School, and wading through all sorts of basic teenage problems. Who were my real friends? Why is there absolutely no dateable boy at a school with around 1,500 of them? Why am I such an idiot that I got a D in Algebra II? Putting energy into jumping and dressage has been strenuous on my limbs, but it eventually had good results on my muscles, and it was an incredible release from everything; my clueless math teacher, and every person who said, "Horses, how is that a sport? You just sit there and let the horse do all the work!"
"No offence Margaret, that's sooooo childish!"
"You wanna screw those cute little horses, don't you? Hahahaha, Margaret rapes horses!" Let them laugh. I know riding takes a lot of work. I know how much leg muscle it takes to convince the horse to do the dressage movement or the jump, the terrific abs it takes to sit the trot and hold yourself in jumping position. I know that riding and owning a horse is a huge commitment to a complicated animal who is perfectly capable of killing a human. There are no kids on those big, expensive horses in the equestrian events in the Summer Olympics. It doesn't concern me that not everyone in this dump they call a city can't appreciate a horse's noble, intelligent nature. Having the physical and therapeutic support of Micky gave me the courage to stand up to these vulgar, immature critics and critiques. I have stopped being close with those of my friends who criticised my bond with horses, and I pursued my interest with every bit of the relentlessness I've had ever since that first jumping lesson with Peekaboo.
Another pressing "teenage" issue at this time was the consideration of higher education. The threat was everywhere: If you don't go to a four-year college, you'll end up bankrupt, or stupid, or destined to a life as a loser. As a sophomore, I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. I knew I loved animals and theatre, but other than that I was stumped, as most 15-year-olds are. I talked to my father about it one night.
"Dad, where did you go to college?"
"I went to St. Andrews."
"How come?"
"Well Margaret, you must understand that it was our family's
university. My father went to St. Andrews, my brother did, my aunt did . . . so
I was in as soon as I wrote a letter explaining who I was. It's one of the best
schools in Scotland, so I didn't have any reservations about it." Dad explained.
"That easily?" It stunned me that it was that simple for him, since
I'd been bombarded by information about the college applications process that
made it sound like rocket science.
"Yes. I absolutely can't believe what they've made the process into
nowadays; y'have to go through hell just to apply. Why, back when I was-"
I cut him off quickly, not wanting to hear all of dad's "In my day .
. ." stories. "Dad, my issue is that I don't know what I want to do with all
this. I got this application from Cal today, it's about 10 pages long. Maybe I
should just write to St. Andrews." We both laughed, but the idea stuck in my
head.
I searched the web for the next couple of days, looking at St.
Andrews and its fellow universities. The Scottish universities were much more
appealing than the American college prospectuses I had looked at; the
educational quality seemed better. There were none of the ridiculous first-year
English requirements stipulated by American universities, but a firm grounding
in each subject matter I researched. I happened on the website for the
University of Aberdeen one night after an invigorating ride on Peekaboo, and
casually started looking at the course list. I wasn't sure what "Equine Studies"
was, so I clicked the link. The resulting page displayed a course outline all
about the care of horses and the management of equine facilities. It was a major
realization: At 15, I knew what I wanted to do with my life. It was all there,
on that page. Meeting Micky cemented this dream in my head and gave new meaning
to my life. I had so many things to live for and the future looked so exciting.
I continued to build a list of colleges offering the Equine Studies
course. It was difficult to narrow them down; my college binder held almost 20
choices. During the end of my sophomore year, I considered and discounted
colleges one by one. By summer, I had established a first choice. The University
of Wales at Aberystwyth is a small university that offers a variety of courses,
including Equine Studies. The agricultural campus is located in a tiny village
outside the town, on a high hill overlooking the sea. I requested more
literature from the university's website, and the equine course was different
from all the others. I was interested in every description of every class in the
catalogue, and the degree of practical work included in the program (a ride
every day, one year of work experience) suited me perfectly. I soldiered through
junior year, working long nights on the AP courses I so desperately needed to
get admitted. A high school diploma wouldn't cut it; British colleges require a
higher standard. I begged my parents to consider side visits to a few places
during our family trip to Britain that summer.
Just a few months later, I was getting sand between my toes on Aberystwyth's North Beach. I still have pictures of me standing shin-deep in the gently curling surf, falling and getting the back of my skirt wet, sitting on the ruins of Aberystwyth Castle. My parents and I stayed in the college dormitories for a few nights and visited the village I was to live in at the University's open day. The horses in the barn ambled over to us and accepted pats and the horse treats I'd brought. The equine demonstrations showed me a community of talented horses and talented riders that seemed to be very supportive and close, but also accepting. I could imagine jumping that big grey in the spacious arena, I could see myself sleeping in the plain but comfortable dormitories, I could spend a lot of time talking to the student guides and professors. I came back to school senior year feeling absolutely ready to apply for college and survive my last year in American school. I enjoyed the luxury of being able to apply early, and the prompt online service confirmed my acceptance to Aberystwyth not too long ago. The horses that first attracted me to Aberystwyth have showed me where I belong. I'm not meant to be in Berkeley, with its large population, floating smog, and dank, depressing marina. I'm a resident of Aberystwyth. I live by the sea, and I gallop through the waves on a proud horse.
