Horsekeeping (29 page)

This time Bobbi giggled like a debutante escorting a triumphant Jane out of the ring, and we celebrated royally on Jane's behalf, last place or no.

“That is a beautiful pink ribbon, Janie,” I cooed. “You were fantastic.”

“I even bounced a little, but then it hurt my bottom.” She vocally dramatized the jerky motion: “Ugh, ugh, ugh—did you see me, Elliot?”

“Yes, Jane. You did great.” He winked at me. “It's hard to post.”

“You did great, Jane, just perfect. We are so proud of you.” Scott squeezed her tough little leg as he, Elliot, Bobbi and I escorted Bandi and his charge to the barn, a winner's circle of love.

Scott and the kids left, having had enough about three hours ago. I stuck around to see Bobbi ride Bandi in three more open course jumping events. My back was killing me from standing and anxiety, like a dried old newspaper crease it felt ready to crumble to dust, but I wanted to see the whole show through. During her warm-up, I looked over just in time to see Bobbi hopping back up on Bandi.
Did she have to adjust her saddle,
I wondered? Not likely. I had seen her adjust everything—girth, straps, saddle, pad—even talk on the phone, all without dismounting. My heart sank. Bobbi rode the course and took red (second).

“He didn't dump you, did he?”

“Yes he did, the bad boy. After the jump he decided to go left. I planned right. I went one way and he went the other.” She still seemed surprised.

“Are you sure you're OK?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. I landed gracefully. I should have been paying more attention, but he's been so good at the jumps. . . .”

“Did he not listen to your aid?”

“It's not that he didn't listen, because there was no aid given. He should have continued straight until I sent him right.”

“So he didn't spook?”

“Nope. But he's strong and sometimes gets his own ideas.” Throwing a novice like myself is one thing, but dumping the expert Bobbi is quite another. Had we bought a lemon? Was he too good to be true? Is this his issue? Could I live with it? Was I recklessly endangering my daughter?

Bandi and Bobbi did well through the next two courses, though she had “a good talking to him” after another jump, strongly pulling him up and making him go right, which, like Melville's Bartleby, he clearly preferred not to do. They took two pinks. I reminded the disappointed and flustered Bobbi that we barely knew Bandi and that she had only ridden him about three times, preferring me to do the riding while I was still around weekdays for the summer. There'd be plenty of time for her to fine tune him once I returned to New York. “I'm probably
un
-tuning him,” I consoled. We decided that he did well, given all the change he'd faced in the previous two months, and is a very eager, willing jumper—not easy to find. Bobbi gathered up her red and blue ribbons for our trophy case in our new barn, but wrinkled her nose at the pinks—“I don't keep
those
”—so I took them for Jane.

By 3:00 the show ended, but the day was far from over. Bobbi had to get Toby home and look after her other horses. I untacked Bandi, gave him a shower and let him have an hour or two in his paddock before
dinner. I cleaned my saddle and bridle and reorganized. Seriously wiped out, I headed home at 4:00. Fried by eight and a half hours of standing and worry, I had no appetite and had a hard time relaxing on the evening drive back to the city: usually Scott complains because we're all fast asleep. Deep down I was pleased about my win and that I hadn't chickened out, but the surface static of worry tuned out a purer satisfaction. I had my blue ribbon and silver plate, and a sleeping Jane clutched her handful of pink ribbons all the way home, but still I felt conflicted: joyful at Jane's and my success yet queasy about my fall and Bobbi's, all courtesy of one ratty Bandicoot. Was it all too hard? Even when it goes well? Did it make sense to own and operate a stable and not ride?

The next day I awoke still rattled. I hoped my Monday morning yoga class would sort me out and help me conquer my fear about riding again, or having anyone I deeply care about ride at all. It was a back-bending yoga day, my most challenging. During the preparatory poses, I grew increasingly nauseous. Michael intuited my discomfort and said “That's it for you, hit the showers.” In yoga that means Supta Baddhakonasana, a passive, restorative pose I gratefully reclined into for the rest of the class. Still, I felt lousy all day. Michael explained that any trauma, like a fall, is subversive for the body, and that arching backwards in particular releases built-up toxins from the liver and internal organs. I guess I had toxined to the hilt over the weekend, a horse bender.

 

 

THE NEXT WEEKEND Bobbi was judging a dressage event far from home. I faced riding alone, me and Bandi, or not at all. My window of opportunity was Sunday, high noon. The barn was quiet, and in solitude I tacked up Bandi. As we exited the barn door rain started but stopped before I could cop the wet as an excuse to cancel. Bandi was as mellow as he has always been, up until the weekend of the show. Grateful, I still realized that my rides on this animal, maybe even any animal, forever
would be different. I know that I am not the exception to the rule, and neither is Bobbi. If we ride, we will fall off, will and skill notwithstanding.

Is my fear overplayed
, I wondered? Am I a coward or is riding a crazy idea? Should I fight against my aging body and mind's tendency to avoid risks that seemed miniscule when I was younger? Maybe this is wisdom talking? Sitting, trotting, cantering and jumping on the slippery back of a one-thousand-pound prey animal, hard-wired to flee danger justifies caution, no question. And I bet I could spend a lifetime finding that truly bombproof horse. Those “safe ones” don't have any “go” left in them, a frustration of another kind. And, dollars-to-donuts, it will still find enough energy to spook.

My internal debates churning, I gathered power in numbers. Plenty of people ride, and plenty deal with spookier and naughtier horses than Bandi could ever be. And check out those cowboys on the broncos; in comparison this is child's play. Like so many aspects of living, it's a mind and confidence game as much as one of skill. Live in the moment, keep loose and confident, take falls in stride, leave anxiety at the door, don't anticipate the worst, expect the best, and accept whatever happens. Become a monk in a saddle. Can I get there? Right now, any jig on Bandi's part makes
me
want to bolt for the hills. That Bandi immediately senses my unease renders me more uneasy and
vice versa
into a vicious cycle, a closed loop of haywire circuitry. But if I cave now, next thing I know, I'll cower against more fears—give up skiing (knee and head breakage), tennis (wrist and elbow breakage), yoga (back breakage), driving (full-body breakage)—and I'm an old woman with a death grip on a purse taking baby steps to the drug store on my one outing of the day, my cane thrusting, my paranoid eyes darting around for muggers.

Where's the middle ground? Does equestrianism ride this envelope or limn lunacy?

Maybe I should equate the devastating quadriplegia-inducing fall with the statistically more likely car accident. I don't think about a crash
every
time I press the gas pedal. I know many couples who fly separately to ensure one survives to parent even though highways prove more dangerous than runways. But all of these scenarios are unlikely. I may break a collarbone, or twist my spine a bit, but probably won't kill myself. I will emerge braver, more confident, able to leap tall fences in a single bound, “Look, out in the ring, it's a bird, it's a plane, it's Roxanne Bok, no longer lily-livered, but eager, strong and not shaking like a leaf.”

Or, I could just quit, responsibly accepting riding as self-indulgent when I have two youngsters to raise. But what about the kids? Once I fell off that likelihood for them loomed real and inevitable. Cars we must contend with, unless you're Amish—but a ton of irrepressible muscle and energy with a small, obstinate brain and no automatic transmission or front and side airbags, we can skip.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Devil Is in the Details

B
Y NOVEMBER, winter nipped at heels and hooves and “finished” remained a dirty word. The barn and outbuildings were all re-built and painted, although there was no end to the hanging of hooks and racks and shelves and myriad doohickeys necessary to organize a functional animal- and equipment-filled space. The main barn was a gut job in the end, and when we stripped down an un-insulated building with a dirt floor it begged the question of what was saved. Not much: inside, all surfaces now shined with golden new wood patched between the few stately old pine planks that remembered history and experience. Scott still joked that we could display the few bits of original lumber on one wall in the tack room, and his crack wasn't far off.

Painstakingly, all thirty-seven stall floors were dug out to a depth of two feet in order to excavate the accumulated manure packed down from years of poor or no maintenance. We pitied the determined, brow-mopping guys who, with pickaxes, chipped away at this compressed “concrete” for weeks on end. But now cement floors with thick rubber runners span the formerly dirt alleys, and a stone base under a cushiony mat carpets each stall. New “touch slide” doors with black coated bars and working hardware replaced the rusted, bent metal on all doors and windows. Footing beams throughout were replaced where rotted from inadequate mucking and drainage. Toasty warm tack and viewing rooms now boasted clean, damp-proof tile floors. The
piece de resistance
, a heated indoor ring, while not huge at 80 x 150 feet (the ideal is at least 100 x 200), whet our riding appetites with mostly patinaed old wood that warmly glows in the morning and evening light, lovely new-paned windows that preserve the old barn look, and no dented metal anywhere in sight.

We resisted the lure of the increasingly popular steel barn, an economical and perhaps greener route, though a material colder in temperature and atmosphere. The new roof is asphalt shingle—a
lot
of asphalt—in keeping with the softer, quieter to rain and hail, and no doubt leakier standard. However, we did yield to one newer technology. Eschewing the dusty, must-be-watered-regularly-or-you'll-choke-to-death dirt footing, ours is “dust free,” a secret concoction of wax and sand and who knows what else that took three days with a special churning vehicle, not unlike a mini-Zamboni, to install.

“Is it a softer landing for us?” I inquired after hearing the price.

“Unfortunately it's probably no more cushiony than grass,” Bobbi shook her head.

“Well, buy me that Velcro saddle, then,” I joked as I wrote the check.

The out-building foundations had been shored up with one hundred and twenty-six bags of concrete, refurbished with new wood and the same green roofing and brown paint trimmed with cream to match the main barn. Gary, our contractor, was rightly proud of his work. He reveled in our weekly tour, and Scott and I delighted in exploring each transformation, ostentatious or modest, the three of us lingering to drink it in. He was a rugged fairy godfather to our big pumpkin, and I appreciated the magic craftsmanship that resulted in barn doors with hidden hardware and grooved wall panels that joined with invisible seams.

“You do beautiful work, Gary.”

“You've allowed me to do my job,” he graciously replied.