Riding is an empirical art. When we witness that rare round or freestyle, we know that we’re watching something beautiful. But how do we know?
“One of the most dramatic demonstrations of concern and affection for GMHA took place following the flood of 1973,” wrote former Green Mountain Horse Association President Eileene Wilmot in Green Mountain Horse Association, 1926-1990s. “We all met to view the disaster and destruction, some of us with faint hearts. I never will forget Wilson Haubrich, who quietly said, ‘We have 120 children arriving in two days; we must get this fixed.’ Friends and members came down from the hills and up the valleys… In two days we were ready to receive the children.”
In London, 1961, authorities announced the discovery of a clandestine Soviet spy ring. In Liverpool, little-known skiffle group the Beatles first gigged in the Cavern Club’s cellar. And in Leeds, an outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease left sportsmen dismayed that the annual three-day event at Harewood House, home to the Earl of Harewood, would likely be canceled.
Stand beside the finish line of any racetrack in the world and dare yourself to remain unflapped. I’ve tried; it’s futile. The pack rounds the turn, and involuntarily your pulse quickens, eyes darting from hooves to outstretched necks to flying manes and tails as the hijinks of the bettors beside you intensify, the final moments igniting in a blaze of speed so fast it almost takes your breath away. You ask yourself: horsepower? Have I just felt the physical effects?
You can’t deny that there’s something a bit magical about a merry-go-round.
Sure, now that I’ve grown up it’s not as fun to ride one of the dancing horses that seem to plunge and leap as the carousel spins around to outdated organ music, but when I was a kid? Oh man. I always wanted to ride the prettiest horse I could find, preferably on the outside so I could grab the ring as I went flying by and throw it at the opening a few feet further down the track.
I was one of those kids who’d snoop for Christmas presents every year. By the time I was 10, I knew every single hiding place in our house—from my parent’s closet, to the craft room, to the downstairs coat closet way back behind the moving boxes that had been there since before I was born—it was pretty hard to keep a secret from me!
“Many kids would rather ride on the back of a horse… than pilot a spaceship to the moon.” – Walter Farley
I must have read Walter Farley’s Man O’War a million times when I was a kid. I pored over the pages so much that by the time the book finally found a more permanent home on my bookshelf—its spine worn and creased in comparison to the shiny hardbacks that flanked it—it was easy enough to tell which one was my favorite.
“I'm really thankful to have a couple of days off for Thanksgiving to RIDE my horse!” Susan Lee, Advertising
The inspiration for this blog burst into existence like a bright pop of a camera flash, illuminating the dusty corners of my desk and shedding light on the struggle I’d had with trying to think of what to write about for Thanksgiving.
I have an image of wild horses in my mind—the beautiful mustangs gallop freely across the grassy plains, tossing their manes and playing in the streams. The young foals dash madly about their mothers’ legs and risk the ire of the alpha mare and stallion. And although my perception of the horses that roam our countryside may be correct, I’ve got one small detail wrong.
Unfortunately, they aren’t truly wild. Almost all horses that live in the wilderness today are descended from domesticated horses.
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