Bart

Something a friend of mine wrote got me to thinking about horses. Now, I know she loves them. In a way, I do too. I am just supremely convinced they don't love me.

When I was little, I was quite spoiled by my paternal grandparents. At the age of four I asked for a pony, and I got one.

His name was Pepper and he was stabled not far from Pimlico. For a few years, and mostly on weekends, we'd go over and I'd feed him and then I would ride him around a tightly enclosed paddock. You know the kind that looks like a maze? It was all good; I was satisfied.

Then one day, Nana suggested I ride him in the big corral. No maze. Just fenced in space. Sure, why not?

I climbed on Pepper, who I had been getting on for years. Feeding him apples and carrots and sugar. For YEARS.

He took off like a bat out of hell. I had no idea he could even run. Later I was told they could hear me screaming all the way over on the racetrack.

Now let's flash forward. Yup, it’s time to meet Bart.

My other grandparents (maternal) had a little summer house. It was in a community that was built to feel like a ranch. There were two beaches, a clubhouse, a restaurant, a petting zoo, an archery range, and a golf course. Everything had this lasso logo on it. I didn't like it. Always reminded me of a hangman's noose.

Did I mention they also had stables? With horses available for the residents? But I’d paid that little attention. Pepper, the wild runaway pony, remained firmly embedded in my mind.

Until when I was thirteen and my best friend Lisa came to visit for a weekend. Lisa was funny and cool and I was glad and a little surprised that she wanted to be my friend. My grandparents drove us around, giving her the tour. She saw the beaches, the clubs, and the marina. Did any of that excite her? Nope. We went by the stables and she Eeeeeeeee'd! Lisa was a rider. She loved riding. Adored it. "Oooh! Oooh! We can go riding!" exclaimed Lisa. I gulped and hoped the color did not drain from my face. I said in my coolest 13-year old voice, "Sure."

Now these grandparents hadn't been present for the Pepper train wreck. But they did know I'd owned him (notice the past tense) and had hung around Pimlico. So this idea didn't even give them pause. So much for hoping they would put a stop to this folly. Poppa got out and reserved us horses for the next day. And I knew I was going to die.

Lisa was given a cutie named Twinkie. I was given Bart. Bart was big. He was a bronzish brown with a black mane and tail. He tossed his head a lot. I didn't even come close to being as tall as his shoulder. Bart wasn't a horse; he was a two-story building. Okay, maybe not, but it sure felt that way. And we were going to ride the adult trail! Wheeee! As I listened to our trail guide, I silently mourned my short life and the fact that I wouldn't live to lose my virginity. Or something like that.

Because of my height, the guide helped me mount. He caught the look in my eyes. "You okay?" "Oh yeah," I said. "I'm great." I guess I was determined to die cool.

Bart was pretty good at first. I managed to settle in and get somewhat comfortable. Comfortable being defined as feeling like I was being bounced so hard that my brains were going to fall out. I mimicked Lisa's leg positions and how she held the reins. This was going to be alright. Uh-huh.

We reached the start of the trail, which wound its way through nice thick woods. It took Bart about thirty seconds to pick a tree and head for it. I gently tugged the reins back towards the trail. I urged him with my knee. In other words, I did everything I could think of that I'd ever seen on TV and in Bonanza reruns. I even made that silly kind of clicking sound with my mouth. No go. Bart got to the tree and his purpose was clear. Use tree to remove Strummer. Turn and rub his back as if it needed a really good, hard scratching. Except of course, I was on said back and kind of in the way. So I got barked.

The guide intervened and got us back on the trail. And he intervened at the next tree. And the next. And the next. And then the one after that. Every twenty yards, Bart wanted nothing but tree and absolutely nothing to do with me.

Lisa was obviously born in the saddle. Twinkie did everything she wanted. Stopping, starting, turning, whatever. Twinkie would have gone out to dinner with Lisa if she could. And paid.

It was now perfectly clear to the guide what was going on and he was about to make my shame complete. He turned to Lisa. The trail was simple; it just went in a big circle and ended up back at the stables. They were three others with us, all obviously comfortable with their horse. And older than us. But Lisa was Horse Girl. He asked her to take the lead and the others would finish the trail. In the meantime he would lead me back.

The guide took me off the trail and straight into the woods. That was a little bit of Hades, but soon it opened up and lo! Road! Black top! We were going to use the route traveled by normal humans, you know, who use cars. Bart's head was a little lower. His step was a little slower. That's right, I thought, bad horsey. I figured he felt, well, horse-whipped and I let my guard down. Mistake. Just like Pepper, the very tiny by comparison Pepper, Bart took off.

Have you ever been on a horse going full out on a black top road surface? Oh. My. God. Each hit of his hooves and I thought my teeth were going to come out. Through the top of my head. Then he did a weird running-bucking combo and I lost the reins. They flew right out of my hands, leather burning me on their way. This was not better than tree-scraping.

I wrapped my hands in Bart's mane, put my head down by his necked and squeezed as hard as I could with my knees. Bart galloped all the way back to the corral. And I stayed on. I don't know how, but I did. The guide, who was trying to catch us on his horse, unsuccessfully, told me later that that part of my ride impressed him. This was said after I stopped crying and hyperventilating, which is what I did for about fifteen minutes after I was pulled off of Bart's back. And my hands had been disentangled from his mane.

That night:

Lisa: You should have told me you couldn't ride.

Me: Yeah.

*Silence.*

Me: Do you know how to drive a speedboat?

Lisa: (Eyes wide.) No! Aren't we too young?

Me: Nope. It's different for boats, not like cars. Poppa has a bright red one we use for water skiing. I learned to drive her when I was eleven. I take Dottie out every time I'm down here.

Lisa: Wow.

Me: I'll take you out tomorrow. I'll show you what to do and maybe you can take the wheel for a little bit.

I was smiling when we turned the lights out to sleep. And the next day, I gave her the ride of her life. I turned into every wake and wave. I threw Dottie into the air and let her land again to skim the water, all with the greatest of ease. Lisa looked both pale and excited. She loved it. I volunteered to let her steer us back into the marina, since we were only going a few knots by then. She declined.

Lisa had her cool. And I had mine.

To this day I still intensely dislike Bart. But I don't hold him against other horses. Nope. Not me.