My son has begrudgingly accepted that I’m not going to stop riding, regardless of his pleas. For that I can thank my old trainer, the charming Snowden Clarke, who had coffee with him the other day in Los Angeles.

“He convinced me that you need to ride horses like a crackhead needs the infernal release of crack cocaine,” my son instant-messaged me.  “I’m going to keep trying to convince you to stop, but it’s basically a Beckett-like procedure at this point.” (This is what happens when you send your child to the University of Chicago.)