Getting Too Comfortable

My left hand stirred a bucket of soupy bran mash while also using the wooden spoon to swat at the growing population of barn flies. My right hand, meanwhile, grabbed my tuna sandwich from where it rested on a nearby filth-covered bucket. Ignoring the knowledge that mice frequently trotted across my lunch's perch with their dirty feet, I blew off a cobweb and munched away. Then, in the middle of this unsanitary lunch situation, I paused to admit what an unfortunately familiar scene this had become.





Having meals at the barn means stealing bites of who-knows-what from your coat pockets between lessons or sharing snacks with the resident dog, cat, or goat. It involves grimy hands, mouthfuls of horse hair, and standing up. You are always standing on your feet. And you often use only one hand because the other is occupied with separate tasks.





As unglamorous as this might sound to folks who work in clean office buildings with designated rooms for enjoying lunch, it's just part of life at the barn. Soon, it feels normal to be half-slurping, half-spilling a cup of soup as you walk to the arena. Eating is an area of life that we horse fanatics have adapted to fit into our barn routines. It's one of the events that start to feel completely normal in this fly-ridden, hay-strewn place. In time, other things start to feel normal, too.



In my case, that means bringing to the barn services for which that I once drove into town. Consider my former trips to the Farmer's Market, for instance. In order to procure fresh local produce, I used to visit one of our community's abundant outdoor markets weekly. Given that they were in populated areas, this meant that I needed to make myself presentable to the general public. I had to shower, brush the hay out of my hair, and wear real clothes like the other folks (read as: no jodhpurs or chaps, no manure-covered boots). A trip to the Farmer's Market, therefore, required a few hours of time away from the barn, a senseless concept.



Nowadays, though, a dear student of mine with acreage and farming skill brings me a basket of produce from her land each week. Last week, my bounty included beefsteak tomatoes, fresh mint sprigs, and several pounds of Pippin apples. In the past, she has brought free-range eggs, preserved pear slices, and lettuce greens. Every week when she comes for her lesson, she presents me with a box or bag or basket of organic and succulent harvest. It's like a Farmer's Market that comes to the barn. Not only am I deeply grateful for the produce but I am also thankful for eliminating one of the needs to leave the barn.



Most recently, I have also begun receiving chiropractic treatments in the barn aisle. Dr. Michael Agrella, a long-time human chiropractor had completed licensing and begun treating some of my training horses. He got miraculous results with a couple of them; the horses appeared noticeably more comfortable. If his work was good enough for them, it was good enough for me, I reasoned. From then on, we maximized the doc's barn visits by first treating horses and then laying me face-down on his traveling cot. At the end of the day, the steeds and their trainer all felt mighty fine. And I eliminated one more need to leave the barn.



At first, my students and colleagues viewed this as very odd behavior. How legit could it be to have your spine jerked around on a makeshift cot in the barn? they wondered. Sure, at first I missed the adornments that get one to relax in a practitioner's office-- the gurgling zen fountains, the soothing flute music, the gaudy but nonetheless mesmerizing paintings on the wall. In the barn aisle, I had none of that. I relaxed to the sound of horses kicking their stall doors, dogs barking, water buckets filling. But, maybe pathetically, I can't think of a more relaxing setting. These are, after all, the soothing sounds that surround us every day at the barn and part of the scene that we love to occupy to escape the rest of the world. Dr. Agrella adjusts me in my jodhpurs, chaps, and boots. Except for my birthday suit, I can't think of anything more comfortable and natural for me to wear.

As he snaps my neck back into alignment, we discuss horse training issues and crazy clients. A wheelbarrow swerves around us, driven by the young lady who cleans stalls. I lay contentedly looking up at a blue cloudless sky listening to one of my horses slurp at his bran mash. A fellow trainer walks past and casts us a puzzled glance, probably wondering if this large man pushing his knee into my chest is a qualified bodyworker or a disgruntled client.

Immediately after Dr. Agrella finishes, I slip back into my barn jacket, hand him a check, and climb on a horse. No need to drive across town. No sitting in traffic. And this is exactly my point. You see, lots of people think we horse folks are an unkempt bunch. Our appearance lacks the polish of manicures, styled hair, facials. So, others assume that we don't care about any of that; we neglect it all in favor of looking untidy. Let me set the record straight. It is definitely NOT the case that we do not care. It is more the case that all that primping stuff requires A LOT of time away from the barn. Which explains why most of us have trimmed it from our lives. However, if we were able to get manicures and facials at the barn we would be just as polished- if not more- than the rest of our communities. The issue is not whether or not we care or have enough money or find the time. The issue is whether or not we need to leave the barn.

We might all help each other out by brainstorming what services could be adapted to happen at the barn. I'd like you all to ponder this on your next lunch break, or more accurately the next time you're looting crumbs from your pocket to cram in your mouth.

Vacation Re-defined

While they constitute a segment of the population most in need of vacations, horse people possess a gene that inhibits them from experiencing authentic leisure time. Let me explain this a bit further and perhaps you, gentle reader, can help me understand why the very thing that leads us to crave vacations (endless exhausting horse chores) causes us to miss out on the horseless luxury they offer. On one hand, we can't wait to get away from the barn for a few days of solace and on the other, we don't like being away from the barn. It's a classic Catch-22. But for the purpose of further study, I've managed to divide equestrians into three basic vacationing groups.



1.) Those who plan vacations around horse-related activities, which might include a trail riding adventure in Ireland or a trek on mules through the Grand Canyon. Numerous butt-numbing hours in the saddle and a disagreeable spouse are pillars of these vacations.



2.) Those who plan trips to touristy resort areas with the intention of snorkeling, getting spa treatments, and eating seafood nightly. Upon arrival in their hotel rooms, however, they find themselves earmarking pages in the guidebook for nearby attractions involving horses. These might include a carriage museum, a beach trail ride, or an art gallery featuring equine specific artwork. Disagreeable spouse is guaranteed.



3.) Those who do manage to get away to exotic locations and avoid the sight of horses the entire trip. However, this last group of equestrians phones home at least three times daily to check on the well-being of his or her horses, get updates, and remind the caretakers about turnout schedules and supplements. In fact, several vacation activities are abandoned in order not to interfere with the schedule for phoning home. Again, disagreeable spouse is characteristic of these vacations.

Regardless of which of the above categories an equestrian occupies, he or she returns home feeling entirely refreshed, which begs the question: how can one be refreshed towards something one never took a break from? I believe we should blame faulty psychological wiring. However, I suppose what matters is that we think we had a vacation, never minding that our traveling companions and spouses will confirm that we rarely stopped thinking about horses the whole time and maybe should have just stayed home to begin with.

I'm no stranger to these tendencies. This past week, in fact, I returned home from a pseudo-vacation in Kentucky, a state I had never previously visited. Flying there, I thumbed through the guidebooks selecting all kinds of exciting activities in the Blue Grass state like touring historic mansions, bourbon tasting, visiting a Shaker village. Yet, immediately when I arrived in Lexington, I found myself posing for photographs with bronze horse statues in the airport lobby. Almost before I knew it, my itinerary changed to entirely equine activities. I awoke the next day to visit a race track in the early morning fog, followed by a tour of a retired Thoroughbred facility, and then a jaunt through the Kentucky Horse Park. The following day included a drive through the country (complete with posing for more photos, this time with Thoroughbred foals) and a visit to a bookstore that sold coffee table horse books. My three-day vacation was equine-centric to say the least, but somehow I came back feeling rejuvenated and refreshed for my horses and students at home.

The faulty psychological wiring I mentioned above is undoubtedly genetic, getting passed from pseudo-vacationing equestrians to their offspring. I verified this at an early age while spending some time in Amsterdam with my mother. A conference for ancient Greek philosophy was the context for our trip and most of our time was spent trolling libraries, meeting rooms, and archives in studious hours. One day, fully immersed in ancient texts in a tiny bookstore on a back street, my mom jumped off her feet as if lightning struck her. The next second, she threw the rare book she'd been reading to the floor and bolted out the shop's door. Wondering if perhaps she had suffered a seizure of sorts, I calmly put down my study materials and followed her. Approaching the entrance of the store, I saw her already far down the street, running along a canal with her hair sailing behind her. Thinking by this time that the potential seizure had morphed into sheer madness, I began chasing her, abandoning our bags and coats at the shop.

I found her three city blocks later under a tree trying to catch her breath and thwart an asthma attack. After ensuring she could breathe fine, I asked her point blank if she had suddenly gone stark raving mad.

Of course not, she replied. Her dramatic departure from the bookstore could be explained by the fact that she heard hooves clip-clopping down the street and she wanted to see Amsterdam's carriage horses pulling their fancy carts along the canals filled with tourists. Hence, she ran as fast as she could in the direction of the clippity clops, but alas never caught them. At a young age and perplexed at this point, I asked why she cared so much. I mean, how exciting could it be to see horses in a foreign city when my parents made their living with horses every day at home? When she heard clip-clopping seven days a week on our farm, what could possibly be so thrilling about that noise while on vacation to cause someone to run down the street like a crazy person? The validity of my questions brought her a sheepish smile. It was a little bit crazy, she admitted. And then putting her philosophical training to use, she pondered that equestrians probably just lack the ability to be fully entrenched in other activities without at least a small part of their minds still occupied with the thought of our beloved beasts. At my age, I didn't get it. That all sounded like nonsense.

Now, a bit later in life, it's very easy to imagine myself bolting out of a shop, museum, or other establishment in a foreign city to chase down a set of clopping hooves. And no doubt the sight of a horse, which describes every other day in my life, would indeed refresh me.

The Unscheduled Dismount

Interestingly, the average riding lesson never delves into the skills necessary for a maneuver that faces nearly every equestrian at some point: the emergency dismount. Sometimes also called the unscheduled dismount, this rapid exit from a horse's back includes a moment of urgency, a little terror, and a brief heroic belief in one's superhuman capabilities. In a nutshell, it involves voluntarily flinging yourself off the back of your horse-- most often at high speeds-- onto the hard ground.

Personal preferences determine whether the rider in question opts to tuck and roll, lands on her feet, or keeps hold of the reins. After her first emergency dismount, a rider tends to bring her own individual style to the maneuver. A trademark, if you will. And from then on, this tumultuous parting of company from one's mount becomes a bragging right. It's a way of holding onto our human integrity, maintaining a sense of control. It's our mortal way of believing that, in the face of no possible good outcome, we made an optimal choice to rectify a bad scene. Yes, instead of going down with the ship, we bailed out early. And therefore that proves our intelligence.

Style aside, though, the emergency dismount is never a good thing. It's generally accompanied by life-ending reflections or other "this is how I'm going to die?" sorts of thoughts. And, let's face it: most riders really intend to stay mounted once they get on board every day. Who, after all, wouldn't prefer to be jogging around rhythmically on her horse rather than tucked into a tight ball flying through the air ready for impact with the ground?

For obvious reasons, the emergency dismount is a major bummer. Not only does it bang you up but it bruises your ego, too. When your barn mates ask how your ride went, you hate to answer "Well, things didn't go quite as planned..." In my lifetime around horse people, though, I've observed that after an initial few hours of feeling embarrassed and battered, riders use the mishap to explore the reaches of metaphor. Put simply, they start bragging. In fact, they end up bragging about the unscheduled dismount more than they would about a perfectly flawless ride.

It starts innocently enough with the rider admitting to his or her coach that, after an unexplained something or other spooked her horse, she decided to bail off. Then later she tells the same story to her friend, except embellishes it with a colorful detail like this: "At first, I hit the ground running, but then I figured I'd tuck and roll, because why not? Well, after the roll, I was right back up on my feet."

Later that afternoon, she retells the story to a group of fellow riders, adding a little more flare: "After somersaulting through the air, I ended up on the other side of the arena fence, but I broad-jumped back into the arena, ran alongside my horse, grabbed his reins..."

By the time, the story reaches its final version, the rider performed a stunt that involved hitting the ground and then somersaulting under the horse's galloping hooves, then she sprung back up on her feet and swung her leg up (while sprinting at Olympic speeds, mind you) and did a flying re-mount onto her horse. So, basically, she never dismounted in the first place. Not only was there less shame in this version of the day's happenings because it maintains the guise of control but it was so grossly exaggerated that her friends thought Hollywood would be calling any second for stunt training. In sum, it was far more exciting-- and in some ways, fruitful-- than just another day in the arena.

Admittedly, I've spun my own fanciful tales about emergency dismounts. I've added a fictional somersault here and there, exaggerated the speeds of the occurrence, etc. I mean, it's just a lot better than saying Things got bad and I jumped off. So, now as a trainer, I know to believe only a fraction of what follows when a student starts out "Well, things didn't go quite as planned..." And for this reason, I think I'll petition the American Riding Instructors' Association to develop standard operating procedures for these emergency dismount maneuvers. I'm envisioning something like this: Step 1.) Admit things are getting bad quickly, Step 2.) Recognize that you are neither John Wayne, a circus trainer, nor a rodeo rider, Step 3.) Say a Hail Mary and jump! Forget about gymnastic routines, cartwheels, or other heroics.