A Little to the Left

Delilah was in a mood last night— a good one, it seemed to me. I had gotten to the yard really early, a full hour and quarter before the start of my lesson. It’s mid-term break here, and without all the mums ferrying the kids to and from school and activities, there was little traffic, and I got to my taxi rank in a trice. I thought I’d kill some time in the nearby mall— and got inside the doors about fifty feet before I stopped dead. What was I doing in here? Why would I waste my time wasting time when I could be hanging out with the horses?

So, very early. It’s different vibe on a Tuesday night as compared to a Saturday afternoon. Saturdays are bustling, with multiple lessons going on, and livery folk preparing to go to shows, or coming back from shows, and oftentimes the cool, cool polocrosse crowd mill about, ahead of a match.

Tuesday is very much about the people who… I was going to say really belong there, poor wee me. But it is true. The riders who are there are all minding their own mounts, and even though everyone knows me, I sometimes feel like a trespasser.

The Eve of The Eve of All Hallows

I remember last year that one of the girls who used to ride on Tuesdays mentioned how awful it had been, riding on Hallowe’en. This was on a night in November, when the winds rattling the corrugated steel roof of the indoor arena had the horses going completely mental; at one stage, Argo was going large on the right rein— and in the blink of an eye, he leapt straight up in the air and swung around to face the centre of the ring. I didn’t fancy a night of spooks, in more ways than one.

About halfway throught the lesson, Nikki remarked on how quiet it was. Generally, the celebration of the Celtic New Year [Samhain (pron. sow-en, in the pagan calendar) starts about a week early, demonstrated by loud bangs emitting from all over the city, fireworks exploding over north and south side alike, with charming young boys flinging snappers down onto the pavement in O’Connell Street, and laughing when people jump in alarm. Yes, very charming.

Right. Almost Hallowe’en, still feeling unwell, and to be frank, unexpectedly rattled from the fall off Tango on Saturday. Not so much by the physical aspects of it— although no one needs a sore bum— but rather the mental aspects. The fact that I’ve sorted out exactly when I know he’s going to refuse is sort of not so helpful. Primarily because I don’t know that I can get the big guy to either keep going or not throw me. My imagination went a haywire, picturing the myriad ways in which I might deal with that tell-tale little canter, and many of the ‘home movies’ went badly splat. I know better than to creatively visualise a disaster; this is the first time I’m feeling like there’s so much I don’t know, and can’t manage, that I should maybe—

Nope. No way. Not going there. Out of the question.

Say Ahhhhhh

Woke up with a sore bum and sore throat. I know which one worries me most.

I used to take the common cold for granted, muscling through work days, skipping the doctor, dosing myself with over-the-counter remedies, letting it run its course. Now, I don’t mess around, and if it hadn’t been a Sunday on a bank holiday weekend, I would have hied me to a GP as soon as I rose.

I will not miss a lesson due to flu. Or bronchitis. Or anything.

Be Careful What You Wish For

I reached my arm around the edge of the door of the indoor arena. The goal: to sneak a peek at the list for the ride. Emma would probably scold me if she saw me at it, but she was busy with the noobs, and I had a feeling…. I had a feeling.

I edged the clipboard around, and, hiding it from the young girls who ride during the same hour, squinted down the list.

Oh. Oh, no. Oh, man. I knew it.

It was going to be me and Tango.

I hadn’t had him for three weeks. He’d been in a couple of lessons, and after having had a chat with Anna, and after having watched Val struggle with him last Tuesday, and largely succeed, well… I had sort of asked for it.

Thanks, Universe. Hey, how about, oh, maybe a million euros— since you seem to be listening.

The previous hour ended, and the usual scrum of wee ones mobbed the instructor, silently hoping and and often vocally begging for their favourite ponies. The kids sorted, I edged up to Emma. And I whinged. A little. And as I suspected, she was having none of it. It was time to Tango, and I wasn’t so sure now that I could make him go.

Twice is Not Enough

When I started riding thirteen months and three weeks ago, the sheer indulgence I felt going horseriding once a week was eminently satisfactory. Less to do with cash flow than fitness, it was just right, just the right amount of time in between, and frankly, for someone with magpie tendencies, exactly the right amount of commitment to gauge whether or not I was going to stick with it.

Then I went to the States on holiday, and had to make up the two lessons I’d missed.

Pipped by the Post

Ach. On the back of my musings about shopping for tack online, comes the order I placed to the UK about a month ago. A month? Hang on…

The Head on Me

I’m not as resilient as I used to be… Was out socialising until 2 a.m this morning, on a school night! And I not only had to go in to work, but I also have to do a freelance gig this evening. Blaaaaaaaaaaaaah. I’m blaming the lack of sleep for my foulness of demeanor [four hours, oh I want to cry], because I don’t think I drank that much. Uh. Which probably means I did. Definitely more than was good for me.

I’ll never forget my first hangover on horseback.

Long Day’s Journey

I need new gloves. I had two pairs of summer weight, ripped the palm out of the first pair, and holes are springing up all over my second. I do have a pair of heavier ones, but I’m not keen to go back to them. They’re too heavy, and now that my hands are [slightly] more sensitive, I don’t think I’ll be able to feel the bit as well as I ought.

For such a horsey nation, there is an utter absence of horsey shops in auld Dublin town. As I don’t have a car, this makes online shopping my raison d’etre. Which is okay… but whilst I’ve been lucky in finding jods I like that I can order without fear, I’m starting to get fussy about my other bits and pieces.

I want a fancy arse pair of leather gloves. I admit it. Nice, soft, leather riding gloves. There was a pair I had my hands on at the Dublin Horse Show in August [a post in the making, I'm still trying to get my breath after that extraordinary display of all things equine], but my Mastercard was whimpering, and I didn’t pick them up.

So, no car, which makes shopping impossible, and my journey to the stables, to one who cares far, far less than I, sometimes astoundingly arduous.

Body Language

What do I know, then? As I mentioned in the previous post, I was struck by the fact that I didn’t really know that I know how to jump. The mechanics had obviously been taught to me, and I was obviously doing it, but how do I know it? How did I know anything about all of this?

What I know: I know that my heels are down now. I know that my hands are in the proper position, and fairly light. I know that my chin is down, that my back is generally straight. I know that I’m getting longer in the leg in the canter. I know that I’m rising properly in the trot. I know when I’m on the wrong diagonal. I know these things because: no one’s shouting at me about them anymore.

If no one’s shouting at me about them anymore, then I must know what I’m doing. My head wants to know how I know that I know this— my head is fairly shouting at me now, replacing my instructors. Well, busy brain— it must be because my body knows.

85cms High and Rising

‘Well done!’ calls Sharon, as Rebel and I canter back to join the ride. We’d just taken a straight, looked like it was about 60cms [1.9 feet]. Funny. I’d just been thinking that I didn’t have a notion what I was doing.