Charlene and Apache at Double D Stables in New Bern
Marilyn and Gizzy at
Double D Stables in New Bern
|
Learning to Ride in
Middle Age
Horses were not on my mind when Marilyn called and cajoled me to go riding
with her. 45 years old and a has-been athlete, my weight was going steadily
up, as my health was hitting the skids. I had the passion for horses as a
young child and a teenager, but the memories of cantering over flowered
fields were deep in crevices of my brain. My friend helped make it reality
again.
One fine autumn day, I went to observe Marilyn’s
lesson. My own equine spark rekindled. Before I could lace up my boots—there
I was on a horse again—relearning a discipline that was paradoxically,
completely new!
I had no fear. Give me the hotdog horse. As the
Lakota warriors cried "It is a wonderful day to die!" I trotted on the
correct diagonal around the ring with real purpose. My painful knee became
strong—I don’t recall the exact day it didn’t hurt anymore. I was squeezing
into my old jeans and I’d purchased my own helmet and riding pants—a REAL
first commitment to the world of riding.
Then - Marilyn fell. I watched her take the
jump on a sorrel gelding that had a slightly wild spirit. Lynx bolted to the
right after their leap and I watched in horror as my friend fell to the
left—just missing a cinderblock by inches. I ran to her and did a cursory
check on her bones. All felt intact, and Marilyn hobbled off to her car.
Days turned into weeks for her pain. I watched as her bruise turned from
black and blue to green. Green—the color of untrained riders.
That day changed my attitude. I’d murmur "Nice
horsie!" as I’d mount for a ride. I now have a job, a husband and two
children who depend on me. I would soar over jumps, only to think on
Christopher Reeve later on. Paraplegia is not the way I want to spend
my life. And horses smell the color of fear. Green—that is me.
My philosophies changed. I did not have to improve
in leaps and bounds. If my riding abilities strengthened even minimally—that
was okay. I may be the last in the class (of otherwise fearless, 12 year
olds!) to take a jump, but I would do it. I read books. Lyons on Horses,
How to Ride Your Pony, and Rita Mae Brown’s novel Riding Shotgun.
I also learned not to refer to my beginner butt—it was called a novice
fanny.
A few observations:
- Fear is good.
Caution
is healthy, if you listen to the message. In middle age, our aches
will be worse than in the teens, so it makes perfect sense to take
it slow.
- Lessons are good. Although we
may have experience from years past, someone half your age with twice
your knowledge may be your teacher. And that is okay. Humble pie tastes
better than dirt.
- Most 12 year olds are very
benevolent to older beginners. I still scratch my head when I recall
recent conversations from girls in my class about their parents. "But
I’m a mom!" I would protest. "Not my mom." was the reply.
- It’s okay to need Ibuprofen
after a vigorous lesson. Enough said about that.
- In some ways, my horse dreams
are more pleasurable and satisfying than when I was younger. Why?
Because it is now, and the riding adds a dimension of nature and
collaboration most sports cannot.
Carpe equine!
Charlene M. Morris
4.17.99
Horses on the HiddenCoast wishes to thank Charlene for her
insight into the adventures of learning to ride as an adult. We look forward
to more articles. Also see
You Know You're Hooked When...
[back to top |
