George was gone golfing so there would be no small engines ambushing around corners.
The temperature was moderate so there would be no sweaty streams snaking down my spine.
The wind was calm so there would be no forest gremlins blustering through the trees.
My truck was in the shop so there would be no convenient excuse to run errands on the To Do list.
There were no kids on dirt bikes across the field, no school busses on the roads, no garbage trucks or farm vehicles belching by on their appointed rounds.
So I rode.
There could be no fairer conditions for this fair-weather rider, no better opportunity to avoid many of the potentials for disaster wrought by scary, spooky, sudden sights, sounds, and specters, so for the first time in nearly a year, I psyched up, tacked up and mounted up on my big old painted pony.
The 2020 riding season was abbreviated by a First Ride fall that inflicted no physical damage, but left another ding on the confidence meter, which dropped riding Chicago to the bottom of the Pandemic Priority list.
Last summer’s adventure included a remarkable demonstration of the unspoken connection between horse and rider. I had just been thinking about how age and absence seemed to have left my seat conspicuously unbalanced in the saddle, and the thought had barely left my brain when Chicago decided to test the theory. It started with a crow, taloned prey in tow, lifting off our tiny, wooded trails, and ended with a striking aerial pas-de-deux, as Chicago copied the crow with his own version of airborne. Only while they both lifted up, I thudded down, on my propitiously padded back pockets.
As is our routine in this much-practiced performance, I stood, swore, and saddled up again, to finish our ride without incident. We had a couple more uneventful walks in the woods during the summer, but most of our time together after that included carrots and curry combs, farriers and fly spray, hay flakes and health care.
I’ve never been big in the brave department and in my Wisdom of Age file lies a thick folder of Chicago-caused confidence shakers. But my recent ride through the teeny tiny forest of Four Sticks Farm brought back memories more daring days. Reflection on our 20 years together reminds me that I’ve mustered up enough courage to persevere through a few problems, learn a few lessons and survived to tell the tale.
The truth is, I love that big red beast in my barn. A little look back at some of my long-ago posts will fill you in on a few of the less-than-stellar rides of our storied past. But you’ll also learn that Chicago has ponied children around the dusty arena and tolerated girls pressing painted hands on the coppery canvas of his ample girth. He’s allowed cats to wrap themselves around his legs, and kids to walk themselves under his belly. He’s ignored rowdy Rowdy’s attempts as self-appointed horse herder.
So, while I’m the one unceremoniously picking myself up, it’s not always him, sometimes it’s me, and most often, a little bit of both.
So, I’ll ride.
From Four Sticks Farm 