As a teen I rode horses on well worn trails.  They were very tame horses.  Older, I convinced my husband to go trail riding one fateful day.  He swung onto his horse like a cowboy.  My horse thought my blonde hair was hay, so we were delayed for a time.  I finally ended up in the saddle and we went off.  By “we” I mean my husband, his horse, me, and mine.

I was giving my husband professional sounding instructions as we started on the trail.  I let him lead and I followed.  I was concerned that my butt would appear to be the same size as my horse’s.  His horse walked through the woods on the much traveled trail.  My horse kept leaving the trail to eat clover in gullies alongside the trail.  My husband disappeared from view.  The horse and I did circles, on the trail and down into the clover many times.

I finally ended that activity by actually using the reins and clucking like a duck.  My horse decided to catch up to my partner on his horse.  We did, then all Hell broke loose. My horse could reach around with its neck and bite me on the knee.  After several bites (which was its warning to me) it suddenly turned around to go back to the barn.  I was not prepared for this activity.

It started out on a fast trot and I bounced around on the saddle.  I finally fell off the horse with one foot stuck in the stirrup.  The horse dragged me at a fast clip through clover and thorns.  I panicked.  I yelled “STOP” and it was a miracle.  We stopped.  I hobbled aboard the horse once more.  As soon as I was in the saddle the horse broke into a gallup.  The trees and the trail were a blur.

I saw the barn ahead and was glad.  The horse slowed to a bouncing trot as it entered the barn.  It headed straight to it’s own stall.  I felt relieved until I noticed that the door to his stall had a top half and a bottom half.  The horse’s half was fine, but my half was not fine.  I had no choice:  “Fall off the horse or slam into the top half of the door”.  I fell off the horse, and both feet came out of the stirrups.

One of the workers happened by to see this activity.  “Why did they put you on “George”?  He’s already been on the trail twice today!”  My jeans were torn and my ankles were swelling.  I pulled myself up to a somewhat normal stand using a leather strap that hung by the stall.  “George could have killed me!” I hissed.  My hair had been ratted by being chewed and dragged.  I was bleeding.

I saw my husband saunter into the barn on his horse.  He got off with the ease and grace of a jockey.  The man who worked in the barn vanished into thin air.  My husband’s ride went easily into its stall.  I was alive!  I shook from head to toe.  I was bleeding in places where the sun never shines.  “What happened?” he asked as he looked me over in the dim light inside the barn.  Once back at the house I stripped down to let him take stock of my injuries.  My pride was gone at that time.

I, personally, love horses still.  But, since that day I have never tried to ride one.