Whoa Nellie!

Denver, May 11, 2015

Every muscle in my body hurts.

Okay. I’m exaggerating. Just my breathing, walking, sitting and laughing muscles. Just those.

Who knew that riding a horse was a workout…for the rider? Yessiree! You can bet your spurs on it!

From the get-go things were not promising. My assigned horse for the weekend, “T,” a beautiful mocha guy with a black mane, was a mite huge. I know my memory is not what it used to be, and evidently neither is my bod, because the last time I went riding I’m sure I didn’t have to use my arms to pick up my thigh to insert my left foot into the anchoring stirrup. (Admittedly that was 15 years ago, but still…) Once the toe of my boot was securely in place—I swear my foot was up to my belly button and my knee was under my chin—I knew it was a simple task to grab the saddle and swing my right leg up and over to mount the beast. I took a respectable leap. Aha! And was dumbfounded that I failed. Was it my quads that gave out mid-vault, or my arms? No time to debate—too embarrassing! Give ‘er another go.

Heave, and ho! Are you kidding me? My right boot splashes back in the muck. T cast his giant head around and gave me a baleful look. To keep the hot young wrangler next to me from power-lifting my butt into the saddle I threw myself once more at the titan and success was noted by all.

Did I mention I signed up for the intermediate group?

Six intrepid riders set off behind Jeremy, the dude part of the dude ranch, who was charged with getting us back to the corral without a lawsuit. I’m sure he surveyed the lot of us with some trepidation as we yanked at the reins of our mounts trying to show them, after the sorry display of skill at the stable, who was boss. In our group we’re supposed to know how to “post” a trot, and “sit” a lope. Even though Jeremy looks like he was born about two weeks ago, he has the wisdom to go over a few of the finer points of intermediate riding before we motley veterans head off into the wilderness of Pike National Forest.

We walked for a while, getting our bearings, building illusory confidence, the slow rock of the pelvis of each rider responding to the unique gait and rhythm of each horse. Heels down in the stirrups, toes up, balancing a bit on the balls of our feet. There were dapples and grays, fawns and Appaloosas gently parading us over the trails, nipping a bit of grass here, a slurp of creek water there, testing us, teasing us really, into thinking we were in charge. Smooth. Sweet. We’d become the cowpokes we fancied ourselves, strumming Red River Valley in our minds while we clopped along.

Then came a trot to jolt us from this reverie. (I think this is where the old neck started to go.) There’s a bouncy gait for you. Hard to believe when your trotting that the animal beneath you has only 4 legs. Feels like 8, doing a tap dance. The rider’s job is to make it look smooth, because honestly, if you just sit there, it looks like you’re having a seizure. So I bounced up and down in the saddle, trying to make it look like I was standing on every other beat, counting 1-2, 1-2, 1-2, whilst not running into the hindquarters of the horse in front of me, and keeping my teeth from cracking against each other up and down, up and down, without losing the reins, or the idea of why I thought this was going to be such fun and worth spending a small fortune on.

Jeremy brought us to an abrupt halt and we all tried to pretend we didn’t crash into the unforgiving piece of hard leather that is known as the saddle horn. (I’m pretty sure that’s when I bruised my pubic bone.) He eyed us like the experienced old prune of a ranch hand he’s become compared to us, to make sure we were ready for the next exhilaration. The horses snorted and stamped their approval. Despite our challenges with trotting, the high alpine forest was alive with consent. Giddy with anticipation. We were going to lope!

For you non-equestrians, a lope may also be called a gallop, though, in the right hands the lope is a milder, gentler, slower version. A lope would be an English lady on a tour of her estate, whereas a gallop is how Secretariat won the triple crown. The idea in this gait is to keep your bottom securely fastened to the saddle. You become one with the horse—a centaur-worthy vision of grace in flight. The lope is my favorite. It’s why I risk life and limb to do this crazy thing. I love it. It’s fast, but it’s smooth. It’s thrilling. It’s like flying. On a horse. Through the trees and the meadows, up the hills and over the brooks. It’s amazing.

Jeremy has reminded us to use our legs to squeeze the horse a bit, to keep our feet close into the side of the mount, to stay back from the horse in front of us to allow room for swerving around obstacles and the odd clout of dirt kicked up from the flashing hooves. Ready? We nod, smile. Oooh-ahhh! is the ranch cry and we hoot back at him. He gives two clicks with his tongue and off he goes.

The Derby doesn’t start any better: our six horses take up the challenge immediately. They love to gallop as much as we, but even more, they love to race. We know this. We knew it from the last time we visited this ranch, each and every one of us, and yet, here we are, wildly trying to stay in the saddle and hold onto the reins, as the Aussie says, at the same time!

Well let me tell you, instruction notwithstanding, there was a lot of daylight to be seen between those six pairs of buttocks and the saddles. Style-be-damned! Feet and stirrups a-flying, arms flailing and hands grasping wildly for the sturdy anchor of the saddle horn, we threw reins and caution to the wind. My thighs were gripping that gelding like we were about to mate, and to no avail. (I’m pretty sure that’s when I injured my knees, thighs and abs.) We kept this awesome display of ignorance and bliss up until Jeremy had the good sense to grind to a halt, throwing each of us back into the aforementioned horn.

We all remained astride I’m proud to note, despite several more forays into “intermediate” horsemanship. We sashayed back into the corral two hours later, the beginners and advanced beginners green with envy at our comfort in the saddle.

I dismounted, dandily I might say. Looked like I knew exactly what I was doing. When my boots hit the ground though my knees gave me a “Danger Will Robinson, danger!” kind of warning. I dared not move. I swear they did not hurt, not one little bit while I was on that horse, but I suddenly could not lift either leg to step. Like the tin man I wanted to cry out, “Oil can!” I steadied myself momentarily on T’s broad side causing him to cast his eye and judgment on me once more. I gave him a couple pats and clutched his sturdy mane to hide my lurching limp as I tied him to the rail.

We ambled on unsteady legs, wishbone-like, into the dining room for lunch, regaling each other with tales of our accomplishments, which amounted chiefly to not falling off. We have two more riding sessions in the next 24 hours. I hope T will be ready.