You'd think that would have been enough to make me steer clear of them for life. But in 2007 I decided to go on a horse riding expedition. Willingly. For fun. And even though I am allergic to nature and most forms of exercise I was also blindsided by brochure headings advertising "majestic beach views" and "picturesque national parks". In hindsight, maybe the Shetland pony also kicked me in the head and this was just a very delayed concussion.
Arriving at the horse ranch the scent of 'eau de manure' floated through the air, which was already an awesome start. Then the blind date portion of the day began where my friends and I were matched up with a horse depending on our level of riding expertise - or severe lack thereof (I don't think the merry-go-round at the zoo counts). Recalling my knowledge of My Little Pony, I expected my horse to be called something gentle like Cherry Blossom, Flutterby or Buttercup.
My horse's name was Jet.
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| Hi, I like long walks on the beach, eating carrots & crushing people's souls. |
Ignoring the alarm bells wailing in my head, I went outside to listen to the safety demonstration (which should have just been "HOLD ON FOR DEAR LIFE AND DON'T DIE") before waiting in line to meet my doom. One by one we all clambered onto our horses and tried to find our butt groove in the saddle. I've never sat on a big lump of coal before, but I imagine it's just as comfortable. With one last longing glance towards the safety of the car, we were off.
Much to my surprise, the first quarter of the trek was actually OK. Our group had formed a line and we snaked through an open paddock at walking pace. 'Too easy' I grinned to myself. 'How have I not joined a rodeo circuit before?'. But if you guessed I started to brag too early, then you would be correct, sir. As we hit dense bushland, I soon discovered that we were supposed to trot through a tiny, jagged pathway. It was like trying to guide Godzilla across something the width of a toothpick. Clutching onto the reins I gritted my teeth and attempted to recreate the trotting rhythm the instructors had shown us. It was then that I realised my runners had no grip whatsoever in the stirrups.
I ended up riding that horse like a bucking bronco all the way to the beach, sighing in relief each time we eased back into a walk. But the nightmare didn't end there. Out of all the days to go riding we had chosen a rare time when there was a king tide. Basically that meant there were big-ass scary waves overlapping all of the sand and the horses freaked out like woah (but funnily enough, they did not 'woah horsey'). Even my adventure-loving friends had gone pale. Just as I was wishing I were on a seahorse, the instructors yelled for us to turn around and head back.
Resuming my earlier panic, I consoled myself with the fact that we were nearly home. What I didn't count on was the lead riding instructor suddenly screeching at us to canter the rest of the way. First of all, WHY?! Second of all, so this is what it feels like when doves cry. Living up to his name, Jet took off at a million miles an hour and I could feel myself comically tipping sideways like some sort of cartoon character. Accepting my fate, I let go of the reins and fell to the ground with a big thud, bursting into shocked tears like a toddler. Jet had happily galloped away by then, minus one rider, so they radioed their most trusted farmhand, a lovely little old man (one hundred and fifty if he were a day) to come and collect me in his banged-up ute that he could barely see over the dashboard of whilst I nursed my injured thigh, elbow and ego. Needless to say I turned into the human bruise for a good fortnight, and although that sounds like a cool, albeit gross, superhero name, it's not something I'd recommend.
As the old saying goes, "If you fall off the horse, get back on". But in all honesty I relate more to this one: "If you fall off the horse, STAY OFF THE HORSE AND FIND SOMETHING LESS FRIGHTENING TO RIDE. LIKE A SHARK. OR A DINOSAUR. THE END."
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