When I was little girl I didn’t get the chance to ride ‘real’ horses nearly as much as I wanted…but i was a resourceful kid so I just made do with other things.
One of my chosen mounts was the mailbox at the front of our house, which come to think of it, was a really strange piece of infrastructure…
It was a boob-height brick wall that didn’t enclose or protect anything because it was only about 2 metres long. It had a slot for the mail and inside was a truly cavernous chamber for when you were receiving things in the post… like I dunno, a set of twins?
Anhoo, I used to drag out a kitchen chair and mount the mailbox for my regular self directed riding lessons.
Up, down, up, down i’d go… diligently practicing my rising trot, with my legs sticking straight out to the sides.
Of course, this method came with unique challenges- like the ants biting my inner thighs and the smirky glances from the cool neighbourhood kids as they zoomed around on their rollerblades.
“Hmph…they don’t even realise what a truly marvellous equestrian I am” I would snootily say as I tightened my velvet helmet and proceeded to thrust up and down on the bricks.
And just like Eric the Eel who trained for the Olympics amongst the crocodiles in the Congo, I too was preparing for for my future life as an elite equestrian athlete.
I didn’t know it at the time, but all those formative hours spent riding an immovable mailbox would prepare me perfectly for 30 years later when I met this glorious grey horse.
See, My Beloved is a horse that values safety over athleticism… and for him, the safest place is keeping all four feet firmly planted on the ground and proceeding very, very slowly.
Of course I haven’t yet met a dressage judge who has rewarded us for our shuffley, safety conscious movement because they all seem to be preoccupied with willowy, elevated, gravity defying stuff – which is all well and good for the moment… but if they ever invent dressage on the side of a very steep hill, or gale force winds equitation – we’ll see who comes out on top.
However, instead of just waiting around for the Standing Still Olympics or the Steep Hill Invitational, I called on my skills from those halcyon mailbox days as I prepared for a big dressage competition.
“Come on you fat lump” I’d grunt encouragingly, feeling somewhat like the pot speaking to the kettle, as I wondered for the zilllionth time why I’d even agreed to enter.
Sometimes during these training sessions, I’d notice that even though I was going up and down and thrusting like a true professional – My Beloved was not in fact not moving at all.
But for someone that learned to trot on something permanently fixed to the ground…I was in my element.
Anyway, last Friday the big day came and as my hair frizzed out the sides of my helmet, sweat dripped into my eyes and I rolled the tighty whiteys up over my clammy thighs, I thought
“What am doing I here? Like really.. What is the bloody point?”
But off we went, sweating and heaving and thrusting our way around the rectangles…
And suddenly, I was so proud to be there with my glorious Goodyear blimp. He was beautiful and I was beautiful and when I spotted the event papparazzi I made sure to flash a smile – while at the same time delivering a big mailbox thrust…lest he take advantage of my vanity and stop for a quick snackette.
In the end we got minor placings in both tests and came away with fourth overall… Which is in Anchorman’s words – ‘a pretty big deal’ when you’re at an event with 600 competitors.
Of course there were absolutely not 600 people in my division… but you are reading the words of someone who often competes in the lowest grade, amongst a field of four and still manages to come last… So on these occasions, we must make time to celebrate.
Now over my illustrious equestrian career, as I’ve worked my way up from mailbox jockey to yelllow rosette winning hippo rider – i’ve noticed how many people dispose of their horses for not being ‘good enough’.
And between friends saying they don’t know why I bother and my old coach announcing that he has exactly zero talent.. There are certain opinions within my circle that I should do the same with My Beloved.
And while I have never experienced winning fancy things, I do wonder whether that feeling could ever possibly trump the heart bursting joy of tiny victories with a horse you adore?
Who knows… this ‘sacking’ horses thing might be like those fashionable low-crotch pants…Something I will never understand and am not at all tempted to try.
And as I type this, watching My Beloved repeatedly chew on a tyre feeder (only to shit himself when it lifts off the ground)… I know that my velvet helmeted, inner six year old would be absolutely thrilled to have this horse in her life.
In the coming months I know I’ll crack the sads and forget this feeling entirely… Like the time I cried all the way home because I was so sick of coming last.
So hopefully I remember to come back and read this post…
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