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certificate – and lead my horse to the round pen next to the arena. Once inside, I<br />
fasten the reins so they won’t trip him, and I pick up a longe whip with the intent<br />
of working the edge off him before getting on. At my command, he starts trotting<br />
along the rail, his legs snapping up in a lovely rhythm that I hear beating in my<br />
head. I watch him as he moves: his ears are tilted in my direction, and his head is<br />
lowered submissively. I smile, although my heart is still pounding in my chest, and<br />
ask him to canter.<br />
He does more. He bucks.<br />
He’s doing it to let off steam, I know. He has pent-up energy that he’s<br />
releasing, and nothing more. It’s not an angry gesture, or one of defiance, or even<br />
one of fear. It’s just his way of commenting on the nice day.<br />
It sends my heart up to my throat. My smile vanishes, and I start to<br />
shake. The whip falls from my slackened grip, and I turn away, eyes closed and<br />
breathing shallow. I can’t do this. He’s 1200 pounds of sheer muscle, and I’m a puny<br />
190-pound teenage boy who, when push comes to shove, can no more control this<br />
horse than I can swim across the Atlantic Ocean. Who am I kidding, thinking that I<br />
can somehow ride this creature, can take charge and order him around<br />
Something soft touches my right hand, and I yelp and whirl around. Gypsy<br />
has come to a stop directly behind me, his muzzle down at the level of my lowered<br />
palm. It’s the same hand whose wrist had been shattered a month ago.<br />
Tentatively, I reach out and stroke his forehead. He huffs contentedly, and I<br />
take a deep breath. “Okay,” I say, my voice still trembling, “let’s get this show on the<br />
road.”<br />
I lead him to the arena, where Rachel is waiting. By her expression, I can tell<br />
she knows what’s going through my head. “You’ll be okay,” she tells me. “You have<br />
to get back in the saddle if you’re ever going to conquer your fear.”<br />
I nod but don’t speak. I don’t think my throat will allow speech.<br />
I tighten the girth so that the saddle won’t slide when I mount and then I<br />
pause. Take a deep breath. And another. I look at my horse. He looks at me. I don’t<br />
move. There is silence. I turn my head to look at an ordinary patch of dirt along the<br />
rail. The spot where I’d been painfully acquainted with the earth. It had just been a<br />
stumble and nothing more. But I’d departed from the saddle. Was I about to depart<br />
from it again<br />
And would I depart from more than just the saddle this time<br />
I look back at Gypsy. He’s watching me, apparently wondering why I haven’t<br />
mounted yet. I take another deep breath, which does nothing to calm my frayed<br />
nerves.<br />
And then I’m on his back.<br />
Everything goes smoothly. We walk around the arena at a leisurely pace.<br />
Rachel calls out directions to me: “Heels down. Remember to look up at where