Horseback

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To me, riding a horse is scary. Huge creature, very high. Long fall.

Horses don't stand still (like a car), don't wait for a treat (like a dog), don't snuggle in your lap (like a cat). A horse is worrisome. Being an unskilled rider, I add to this worry with my false starts, wishy-washy steering, and general anxiety, which the horse can feel right through the reins. It doesn't take a horse long to realize he is in charge, not me, and that he can have some fun. Or not. Some horses for hire are so bored that they just shuffle through their established paths without the slightest urge to prance or be willful. They don't even notice their chance to dominate this hapless rider. I'm good on these horses. I love these horses. Most horses are not like this.

"Let's go riding!" someone inevitably says with a big grin of enthusiasm.

Oh, no, is always my first thought. I immediately start thinking up excuses, good reasons why I can't go. But no matter how good my excuses are, I am talked into it anyway. I'm not sure how this happens.

I don't like to admit how many times I've been horseback riding because it's embarrassing. You'd think I would get better. But I don't, so I always say I'm a complete novice, which I've learned works much better than admitting I have some riding experience. Novices are treated more kindly, not scorned or prodded, and they are given those Old Nelly horses I love. But sometimes the 7-year olds take all the Old Nellys and I am expected to get up on one of the scary horses because I am, after all, an adult.

I tell myself to adjust my attitude, to set a better example. Look, everyone else likes horseback riding I say to myself persuasively. It's easy. My fourth grade daughter loves horses. She doesn't mind if the horse gets frisky or bounces her around. She wants her horse to run. Omigod, run?! Trot?! Noooooo. I get nervous if the horse even looks at me.

My friend has a horse, a beautiful horse with a white blaze on her forehead. Feeding the horse is doable, though horse teeth are extremely big in comparison to a carrot or an apple, or my hand. Maybe my friend hasn't noticed that I always bring my daughter along so she gets the riding lesson, not me. I watch as my friend coaches my child to steer this enormous animal, kick it in the sides, tug the reins harder. Be confident. Be boss. And my daughter does it.

"Go, Tina, go!" she yells at the horse, her little feet flailing away. And Tina obeys, turns right, starts trotting. I am amazed. I can see it in the kid's body language: "I am boss!" That's all there is to it?

Next time, next time.
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