Everybody Should Ride Horseback Once in Their Lives

Everybody should have the opportunity to ride horseback once in their lives.

I was twelve years old the first time I rode horseback. I was at my father's company picnic, somewhere outside of Washington D.C. I have no recollection of the place, but  I do remember the horses. I was nervous to ride, but excited. I couldn't make up my mind if I would pretend to be John Wayne or Clint Eastwood. I wish I had brought along my cheap cowboy hat or had my cap guns hanging by my side, but I didn't know I would be "riding" this day.

I hopped on the horse, and it was clear that I was going to be Clint Eastwood. Not the Clint Eastwood of The spaghetti westerns, or of Pale Rider, but the Clint Eastwood of Unforgiven... the one who couldn't climb up onto his horse.

With more than a little help, I was off. I had no guns, no hat, and no fear. I made cowboy faces and wanted to spit, but my mother wouldn't have approved. I was in my own little world. It was 1870, or at least it could have been. We rode through the tree line, one behind the other. We were twelve year old cowboys. Look out!

"Look out" is what I actually heard yelled by the unshaven fellow in chaps who was running our posse. He had a real cowboy hat on and a real cowboy look. He sure didn't have a real cowboy accent though, when he yelled, "Who put the kid on Big Red?" I didn't know what he was talking about. I didn't know who Big Red was. All that I knew was that I was learning to be a cowboy. I was enjoying myself on top of my horse. My big horse. My big, red horse. Uh oh.

After a flash of God-fearing nerves went through me, I calmed down enough to hear the wrangler with the mid-Atlantic accent tell me to calm down and not panic. He told me not to do anything. That sounded good by me. I'll just sit here and fear the unknown. I did a good job of it too. I rode, I feared, I lived.  I heard the fellows running the operation talk about how lucky I was to not have been hurt, and I saw one of the men being scolded about it. Nothing went wrong. It was a great experience. Still, I reacted the same way to that as I did the first time my father had me taste escargot... you know, snails. I loved it. He then told me what it was, and I didn't taste any new foods with him again for a very, very long time. I didn't ride a horse again for a very, very long time.

Two summers ago I was in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, where they have a great place to tour the countryside on horseback. My good buddy, who we will call "Bob" to protect the innocent, headed over to sign up for the ride and he seemed a little nervous. He was so nervous that he made me nervous. He had never ridden before and I hadn't ridden in twenty four years. Maybe it was unexplained nerves that lingered from the trauma of Big Red all those years earlier, or maybe it was my friend acting out, combined with the energy drinks, yes drinks, plural, that we had each consumed that morning, but either way, I was on edge now.

As we sat in the rustic, nail exposed waiting area, Bob seemed more anxious then ever. I tried to calm him down by insisting we would probably survive it. I told him how much fun it would be and he would love it. None of that calmed him down. I couldn't think of anything else to say. WWCED? That means What Would Clint Eastwood Do? I figured Clint would slug some whiskey and roll his cigar in his mouth and grumble, cursing under his breath. But I chose not to do that.

Just then, the group who had headed out before us arrived back at the depot. We saw six or seven ladies in the group who had to be approaching seventy years of age. I felt my friend looking at me. I looked over at him and smiled. He had immediately calmed down and not only conquered his fear, he ended up being a great rider. Of course it didn't hurt when they gave him a horse who shared the same name as his beloved dog.

When I was twelve, I was as eager as could be. At the age of thirty five, Bob was the opposite. Both experiences were memorable and both paid off. I had a great time when I was twelve, even with the fear. I was a cowboy, and I think that a lot of us hold onto a romantic attachment to that lifestyle. That was and remains a grueling and difficult existence, as it is for the farmers too who still ride horseback today.

Bob had been nervous about riding but took to it better than I have, or probably ever will. He could have passed for a cowboy that day, except that he smiled too big and too much. But I guess that's okay. That's why I believe everybody should have the opportunity to ride a horse at least once in their life. It's not simply an American experience, but it is a great one, and an enduring one in this country. One that helps make this country great.

And as for my horse that day... Well, I was given the slowest horse they had and I held up the single file line in which we were trotting. It was a long way from Big Red. I miss that horse. It's time to ride again.

JKN