Calling Hollywood

It was with a large slice of humble pie this morning that I paused and looked at myself standing in the tack room. I mean, really looked at myself. Mud caked my chaps in thick furrows. Horse slobber dripped off my elbow, and several strands of grimy tail hair stuck out from my jacket zipper. I pushed my rain-sodden hair off my forehead with fingers coated in molasses and oat debris.

In moments like these, when my unsightly appearance is beyond words, I like to reflect on how far removed the realities of the horse industry are from fairy-tale images in children's storybooks. Or Currier and Ives' paintings. Or The Black Stallion. You get the idea. Yes, the real portrait of horsey life is so unglamorous that I sometimes feel the need to blurt this out when I first introduce myself as a horse trainer to strangers. When asked what I do for a living, I want to answer "I train horses.. but it's not as glamorous as you might think."

Admittedly, I am probably just trying to safeguard myself from any misinterpretations that I am a well-coiffed, clean-pressed member of the cast from National Velvet. In reality, I am just like every other trainer-- covered in horse drool, reeking of hay and hooves, picking sand out of my scalp. In fact, we equestrians rarely-- if ever-- resemble the amusing images of us portrayed by artists and Hollywood.

This fact re-confirmed itself for me this morning when, after taking in my dismal appearance, I reflected on a sadistic and bizarre event that my father used to compete in called Sleigh Rallies. Held in sub-zero New England winters, these frosty events involve several horse- and- sleigh combinations lurching around a judge in snowy circles. The objective: whoever does not freeze to death first or flip his sleigh over into the snowbank is deemed a winner. Other ways to get a winning edge include adorning your horse in lots of jingling bells and outfitting your sleigh with lap robes resembling large animals like bear and sheep.

A regular attendant of these events to this day, my father recently sent me a Vermont calendar featuring a photograph of him competing in a Sleigh Rally. To an uneducated horse person, the picture probably looked iyllic. A dapper looking gentleman wrapped in fur and resembling a member of the Russian army promenades merrily through the snow in his horse-drawn sleigh. It's the stuff of Christmas carols and greeting cards, after all. I, on the other hand, know the real truth. A closer inspection of the photo reveals ice hanging from my father's beard and snow balled so thick in the soles of the horse's feet he can barely move. I'm guessing it was no warmer than 5 degrees Fahrenheit in that photo. Not to ask the obvious, but who wants to be outside in that weather at a sporting event involving cold metal buckles, steamy perspiring beasts, and lots and lots of icy snow? Left to Currier and Ives paintings and greeting cards, a portrait of the scene would indeed seem idyllic and glamorous. In real life, it's a whole different story.

As a kid, I was once talked into participating in one of these Sleigh Rallies. Or, more accurately, I was tossed into some one's sleigh and told to go drive in the "Junior Driver" class for participants under 16 years old. I was 11 and had never piloted a sleigh. I was blathering in protest. Nobody seemed to care. The pony's owner tossed me the reins, slapped him on the butt, and next thing I knew, the judge was evaluating me. Within moments, my eyelashes collected snow, blurring my vision. My nose ran and I resorted to use my coat sleeve. My butt cheeks froze to the seat and my hands formed into such rigid claws around the reins that I couldn't have let go if I wanted to. In the end, I won the class for the simple fact that the pony went on auto-pilot and I sat in a state of frozen misery.

If Hollywood had had anything to do with that day, the pony and I would have been the centerpiece of a joyful, fashionable picture, taking part in a pastime reserved only for the very fortunate or very wealthy. More realistically, I was engaged in an event reserved for the very foolish. So it goes with horses, especially when competition is involved.

In the movies, the star always wins his race, jumps the highest, or has a miraculous recovery from a horrifying injury. His owners are always jovial, never broke, never dirty. In real life, none of this happens. Plans get derailed, there's constantly a strange illness or injury, mares become psycho at shows. Owners get frustrated, trainers have meltdowns, and everyone is always dirty. Always dirty.

My "to do" list now includes a note to contact Hollywood about this very point. I'm going to suggest a script that more accurately portrays my life with these magnificent (and drooly) beasts. I think I'll pick Jennifer Aniston to star as me. I can't wait to see how alfalfa slobber looks in her hair.