Sixteen years ago, that same day would find me flying over jumps in my English saddle, reins drawn up short and legs tight to the horse's flanks, or racing around barrels in my Western saddle, lying low over the horse's neck with the reins loose at his ears, heels pounding against his sides as he took his head for the straight stretch. I exhilarated in the freedom of speed and the knowledge that I was young and invincible.
Last Saturday, for the first time in ten years I approached one of Dad A's horses, Ranger. I was nervous. What would I remember? How would I feel once I hauled my butt into that saddle? Comfortable? Foreign? Would my limbs remember what to do?
But I surprised myself. As I settled in and adjusted to the sensations that used to be so familiar, I felt my spine legthen and straighten. My heels pressed towards the sandy ground, and my hands settle somewhat quietly around the horn. I was by no means 'back in the saddle' so to speak. While the basic movements and reflexes are still there, I am sloppy and unconfidant. Ranger, acting as lazy as I have been, did not respond well to my haphazard commands. But this has only made me determined to whip us both back into shape. We can improve together--me on my consistancy and him on his desire to move when I ask him to.
And hopefully, with some work, I won't be in nearly as much pain next time...oy, I'm getting old.
Not too pretty...
Chloe looks like a natural