This will be an unusual blog post for me.  It has nothing to do with horses or endurance or riding.

It has everything to do with families and grieving and loss and the life lesson having to do with learning to deal with the cards you’re dealt regardless of how fervently you wish you’d gotten an entirely different hand.

I’ve had plenty of death in my life, and I can’t count the number of times I’ve counseled friends and family, perhaps having the good fortune of having dealt with less of it, this simple fact:  People deal wildly differently with grief.  And that it pays to give the grieving a wide berth and to learn that their function (or dysfunction) has little to do with you, the other poor fool grieving somewhere adjacent to them.

Yes, well, as oft is the case with glibly handed-out advice, it’s a lesson the deliverer is still in the process of learning.

I hesitate to write about this lesson publicly, but then realize that those who have handed out the hurt are unlikely to be aware of it, so far am I from their radar screen, a limb neatly trimmed off the family tree by virtue of my mother’s death.

My mother’s death when I was seven left me with a chasm in my psyche.  A hunger, of sorts, to fill my heart with the essence of her, to KNOW her in the only way I could figure out how.  Through those who knew her and loved her.  Simple, right?

Not so much.  When an exceptional woman and mother and teacher and friend is snatched from this life unexpectedly, the emotional shrapnel is deep and scattered and leaves the victims who surrounded her with a variety of symptoms and scars.  For many of those who loved my mother, the answer was to close down, not speak of her, leave the scars and wounds untouched for fear of opening them again.  And who am I to judge that response?

But it left this person yearning.  Clinging to words and memories and little glimpses casually dropped as though they were pearls.  Little pieces of the mother that I had never had the privilege of coming to know as so many daughters know their mothers, the very essence of what makes their mother the woman, the wife, the friend, the artist, the teacher, the daughter or sister that she is.  And far too afraid to beg those who loved her to share that.

I am sure that I acted out in a million different ways, all of them unpleasant at best.  Angry?  You bet.  I’m still pissed to have been robbed of that person in my life.

So when someone would offer me a peek, I would listen earnestly, but not too earnestly, not wishing to upset the applecart, not wanting to pry, not caring to open a wound that was perhaps on the verge of healing.  Almost.

And oh, but I wanted to know her.  Wanted to know her and imagine her as she aged, wondering what she would have been like as a fixture in my life as I grew older, and with her two sisters, who physically resemble her so closely, it was as if she were almost there.  Almost.  The pain and pleasure it would give me to see my mother’s sisters, the very definition of bittersweet.

But that was me, and that was my way of coping.  Clinging to my relationship with my mother’s family, hoping and praying that they would want to keep me close in the same way I wanted to keep them close; to hold my mother’s memory alive, to see her and feel her and know her through our intrinsic similarity. 

Wanting them to grieve and handle the loss in the same way that I did.

Ah, but that life lesson, the one so casually imparted to others about the vast differences in how others grieve.  About our need to respect that and understand it, and most critically, to not take it personally in the least, lest it tear your heart apart.

For my mother’s sisters, I think I am a painful reminder of their profound loss.  I can see in our shared features the passing look of pain when they see me.  I know it too well.  But for them, and I can only guess this to be true, the pain outweighs the yearning, the need to know, the desire to remember.

And so, slowly over the years they’ve severed the branch from this part of their family tree.  I search in my heart for the thing that I did, the hurt that I caused, the extended hand that I did not take, or the hand that I did not offer, but in the end, it’s not about me at all.

It is about them, and their own pain and loss, and their need to heal those wounds in the way that causes the least suffering in their heart, free from the reminder of the sister they might have had if the driver of a car had not failed to stop at a stop sign that night.

In my less emotional moments, I actually have the clarity to see these things for what they are, and to cherish, in the oddest possible way, the gifts that these losses afford me.

I am blessed to cherish life, every minute of it, to know in the most profound way that there are no guarantees of a tomorrow.  I’m gifted to realize that it is profoundly critical to love those whom you love, to tell them you love them and to keep them close to your heart.   That we are blessed with the gift of choosing our friends, and how doubly blessed we are when those whom we dearly like and love and know and share our daily struggles with are also those to whom we are related.

Life is so very, very short.

And as my brother, years ahead of me on the way to learning this life lesson said to me yesterday, “you know, Patti, it’s not being related to someone that makes them family.”

Almost thirty-seven years from that car accident, and I think I am finally catching on.

I worked hard this week to shower my three horses with benign neglect.

This close to a 100 there is really no point in “conditioning” them.  They are either fit or they are not, and my preference is to take them in to a ride super well-rested and with a nice opportunity to heal any sub-clinical soreness or injuries. 

I resolved that I would not make a decision about which two horses to take until all the puzzle pieces started to fall in place.

The forecast is showing VERY Ned-friendly weather (i.e. cool) so taking him is a no brainer.

Rich came thru his surgery quite nicely so it looks as though staying home to care for him will not be necessary (although I’m sure it is what a Good Wife would do).

So the decision hinged mostly on how Sarge’s feet looked (he ripped off a front shoe on his last conditioning ride) after his reset, and how soundly he trotted afterwards.

Tom did a lovely job with Sarge’s feet; we elected not to pad him for Pine Tree as he ripped up a bit of side wall on both the inside and outside and we didn’t want to add any extra play in that space.  We then headed out to trot him.  Sound and even on a longe circle, sound and even out and back, and pretty durned good even after a flexion test on both hinds.  Thumbs up, Sarge is going to Maine.

Which allows us to wait on resetting Ace rather than trying to squeeze in another shoeing before Vermont where he will (hopefully, fingers crossed) be going for the 100.

Will Sarge get through his first 100?  Ned didn’t, nor did Ace.

So as Julie Suhr told me before Ned’s first hundred several years ago (paraphrasing) — “you just ask that ultimate question, and you ride that day knowing that if the horse says it is too much on that day, on that trail, you simply stop and call it a day.”

I would so much rather ask and find out the answer is “not today, but please try again another time” than to never have asked the question at all.

If nothing else, I am going to learn so very much about Sarge on Saturday.   And really, isn’t that the Ultimate Goal anyway?

Happy trails.

–Patti

I apologize again for being so silent for so long. 

I was emailing someone the other day, one of my birth mom’s dear friends in fact, who had sent me a note, and telling her that no one told me, as a teen, that those were the good days, where funerals were few and far between.  No one told me that at some point I’d find myself edging in to the bittersweet days where my parents were aging, my friends were getting the diseases of mid-life, and where there were far more funerals than weddings on my calendar.

I told her that I would be making an announcement to this effect to my nieces, 14, 13 and 11.  It was only about five minutes later that, over my initial righteous outrage, I realized the futility of such a conversation.  They would not “get” the magnitude of the speech — what, my nieces rolling their eyes at me?  again?!, and why interfere with the joys of the teenage years, where the dramas are limited to cleaning one’s room, failing an exam, boys on whom you have crushes and what clothes to wear.  I imagine this is why no one ever took me aside to have a similar conversation.  What a waste of breath.

Some wisdom is best earned over a long period of time.  I will stick with telling them, frequently and with great verve, that life is not, in fact, fair.

One of my favorite declarative statements (and I have plenty of them!) is that, being self-employed, I either have not enough money, or not enough time.

I have a new local consulting client.  To say that they are keeping me busy would be an understatement.  They are keeping me, and FOUR OTHER CONSULTANTS with whom I work gainfully laboring on various compliance and safety projects.

That Dodge pick-up will be paid for in no time.

I am being diligent about not neglecting my already-existing clients.  You can’t add a massive number of hours and energy to your workload, not sacrifice your quality control, without something falling to the wayside and for me, it’s been me.

One afternoon, on a weekend just a few weeks ago, with a massive to-do list sitting before me, and having sacrificed several weekends and evenings to consulting work, I said to Rich, “It doesn’t matter what I do, whether I work or ride or do paperwork or laundry or exercise or go to meet a girlfriend for lunch.   It will be the wrong thing, because that time slot could have been filled with something else.  Anything else.  I cannot possibly get it all done.”

I’m coping.

As with most life events, I realize there is a life lesson in this one for me.  The lesson that I cannot fix what I did not cause, that there is little point in caring more about this or that than my client does, that no one will take care of you unless YOU take care of you, and that, as always, there is nothing more healing than horses.

One evening, after a drainingly long day during which I vascillated between feeling homicidal and suicidal, I told Rich that I *wanted* to do evening chores.  It seems so silly, but I turned up the Top 40 tunes on the barn radio, grabbed a pitchfork, gave peppermints all ’round, nuzzled several noses and cuddled with a barn kitty or two, and felt entirely, amazingly renewed.  There is nothing like the simple act of shoveling shit to help me find me.

When the going gets rough, the horses are there.

While I haven’t taken the time to write about it, we had an amazing time in Vermont doing the 50 mile ride.  Rachel and Ned and Ace and I got around the 50, breaking no land speed records, and getting sprinkled, misted, rained, poured and whatever other adjective describing liquid precipitationed-on you can imagine.  It was a wet weekend.  Our friends Gene and Dale came out to crew, and the miracle of the weekend was that despite the absolutely horrific weather, I cannot recall laughing so hard or so often in a very long time.   My friends are incredible.

Sarge and Rich did not get around.  Sarge had a cut on his forearm from several days before that had more trauma below the surface than was immediately apparent, and at 25 miles he was NQR.  Before, during and after the ride, he had moments of uncomfortable wrinkled-nose not-eating displeasure, seemed a little colicky, and so we’ve concluded that he probably has ulcers.

We are doing a one-horse study on our theory with Gastogard this month to the tune of nearly $1K.  (Sigh.  Thank heavens for the new client.)

Still, we are conditioning for the Pine Tree 100 with Sarge (Rich has agreed to lend him to me) and Ned (Rachel willing to pilot him around, despite the big lug pretending he was near exhaustion in the VT then pulling her arms out as he approached camp at the finish).  I’m saving Ace for the VT 100, my all time favorite ride.  Thank heavens they are all seasoned beasts with an amazing fitness base.  We are doing what we can to keep all of them legged up.

Best to go in to a 100 underconditioned and well-rested than the inverse.  I keep testing that theory, and it keeps holding true.

I’m sitting here in a hotel room, traveling for work, grateful for some captive time where the laundry, the vacuum, the kitchen and a couple of my client’s work is out of reach.  It’s given me the time to share all of this with you.

Life is good.  A little too much loss of late.  Which, somewhat strangely, makes the days seem that more precious.

Happy trails.

When I looked in the direction of the heavens in late December, when we found our Dodge truck on a sales lot, and told the powers-that-be that I needed more consulting work, I had no idea how quickly and in what volume that prayer would be answered.

Old clients, new clients and one BIG new client means that squeezing in riding has been a challenge.  Never mind housework.  Forget relaxation like reading or writing or watching reality TV of questionable taste.

Around the same time, I agreed to pick up chairing of the AERC Ride Managers’ Committee, which means, at a minimum, a monthly column for Endurance News.  These between new rules and discussions and any ride manager drama.  I’ve managed to fly under the radar screen on drama and did manage to get my first article submitted.  On time.  Just barely.

So you’ll pardon the lack of blogging, I hope.

The boys are well, fit and ready for the Bare Bones 50 in Vermont this coming Sunday.  Rachel is riding Ned and we will have to figure out how to either keep up with Rich and Sarge, or send them on their way and lag behind.

First ride of the season, way late for us, but such is life.

First 100 next month, we hope.

Life is good, just too busy to write about recently!

–Patti

… or so I’m told, you forget the pain.

So my husband and I, after two years off, are resurrecting the Allegany Shut Up and Ride endurance ride.

October 1st.

30/55/75 mile distances.

I sent in the sanctioning applications today.

Hope to see many of you there!

–Patti

PS  Back to my insane work schedule for the month of March.  Goal = survival.  So far, so good.  <smile>

No one was more shocked than me that I was doing pretty well with my treadmill routine — alternating jogging with maximum incline (walking) intervals.  That 5k in mid-March was looking very doable.  

I did a bit of reading about couch-to-5k plans and the cautions about orthopedic injuries, but I am a sturdy sort, and feeling quite solid, so figured I wouldn’t encounter that issue.

Who’da thunk such dedicated plans would go awry from a blister?

But alas, a fun little snowshoe jaunt around the farm with a small group and the wrong choice in shoes left me with a nasty deep blister on my right heel.  With work travel the next few days and needing to tromp around a plant in my steel-toed shoes, I can pretty well piece together what happened from there. 

Crookedness.  Or as we say in equine biomechanics, “compensatory lameness.”

Hindsight is an amazing angle from which to view such things.  You know, AFTER they’ve gone downhill.

Now, a smart girl would have used her forced-by-blister-treadmill-downtime to work on other fitness activities, such as yoga or weight training, but instead I skipped that and pushed to get back on the treadmill just as soon as the blister was adequately  healed.  (And a big thumbs up to Bandaid’s Blister bandages — these are da bomb … )

But something felt “off.”  My left calf felt tight, my hips felt wonky, I was asymmetrical all over and just generally sore.  Still, I pressed on through a walk/jog routine (was that a twinge on the inside of my left knee?  nah!) and spent a bunch of time stretching afterwards in the hope of loosening up.

Two days later, I couldn’t ignore the left knee twinge.  I shortened my treadmill workout a bit, lowered the incline, put the kibosh on the jogging and decided to listen to my body.

I had just become the equivalent of the endurance rider who says “gee, Smokey felt a little NQR on his left front during that 15 mile conditioning ride; I bet what would cure him is a fast 10 miles tomorrow!”

Duh.

So I’ve got an appointment with a local myofascial release therapist and may squeeze in a trip to the chiropractor too.   No further knee twinges but I’m smart enough about being middle-aged and chunky to have quit at the first sign of a repeat twinge.

I haven’t entirely slacked off.  Still riding where I can (if you can call it that, it’s really short trudges through deep snow but very pleasant and a good workout for the horses even if it is a passenger and scenic-viewing event for us), doing a bit of yoga, lots of stretching and a couple of fairly short snowshoes here on the farm.

But any of my horsey friends would tell you that I am a LOUD advocate for rest when it comes to our horses.

Have been blessed to not have that apply too much to the human part of it, but I am hoping to turn a tiny subclinical owie into a non-event before resuming my 5k training. 

Hoping to hit the treadmill for a little jogging and moderate incline climbing tomorrow.   If all the body parts hold up.

Happy trails.

Well, I know better than to establish any hard and fast resolutions for the New Year, so I am going to keep it simple.

I am going to try to do better.  Do better with my eating, my activity, my management of my business, my role as a wife/sister/daughter/aunt/friend, my writing, my riding, all of it.  Just a smidge better all around.

Eat less, move more.  (It doesn’t get more simple than that.)  But I am a goal-oriented girl, so I am thinking I might find a spring 5K to get around just to keep me focused on the treadmill.

There’s little excuse to hibernate in the winter, between the treadmill, the weight bench, the snowshoes and the barn full of never-ending chores (never mind my house, which could always stand a good cleaning).

I’m vowing to ride every day that we get temps above 20 and a wind chill that’s not cheek-numbing.  In other words, if I can inhale without my boogers freezing, I’m in.  One horse, Ned, is shod.  One barefoot boy is tough as nails (Sarge) and I’m going to get a set of Easyboot Gloves for the other (Ace).  I’ll just ride whoever fits the footing best. 

I have an article coming out in Endurance News this month (January, 2011).  Some days I am all charged up about selling and writing a book –and yes, in that order, as I found out about publishing non-fiction during the last year– other days I sort of shrug  my shoulders and figure that there are a whole lot of people on the planet with more fascinating things to say, and a whole lot more style in doing so.  We’ll see where that one goes.

With our new (to us) truck, we’re saddled with (no pun intended) payments, so I’ve been a diligent little business owner during the last few weeks, contacting new/old/dormant/prospective clients and begging a bit of work in the hopes of getting ahead a bit financially.  It would stink to have that nice truck in the driveway and not the means to get out and compete much this year.

Lots of challenges.  None of them insurmountable in the least.  It is a good place to be, and I am thankful for that.

It was 50-some degrees here in WNY yesterday.  Unfortunately, it was also pouring, which left time only to free longe each of the three boys between deluges. 

This morning the temperatures had dropped by over 20 degrees, but with the snow melted and footing still semi-manageable, I gave myself a pep talk and decided to dressage school Ned.

It is amusing to me that Ned, at nearly 17, is still the horse that I have to talk myself into riding when it is brisk and he is well-rested.  Fear is an emotion that is quick to learn and slow and difficult to extinguish.  And believe me, when he was 4 and 5 and 6, fear was not an unreasonable emotion to have when one contemplated riding Ned.  Naughty and athletic and hyper-reactive, he was (and is, to this day) the only horse I’ve ever ridden who has dumped me with such frequency and ease.

So today, I tacked him up in dressage-wear, bribed him hopefully with peppermints, and did my best to not piss him off before mounting.  There are a million ways to piss off Ned, from how you groom him to how you place the saddle on his back, to how you bridle him and tighten the girth.

Apparently I passed muster with the big guy, because I was treated to one of the softest and nicest rides I’ve had in a very long time.  With the chill in the air, we walked only a few laps of the ring before Ned brought his nose deep and plunged upward into a trot. 

Now, before you obedience/submission/DQ militant types get in my grill, I’m the first one to say the “right” thing to do when offered an unsolicited upward transition would be to fix the gait for a moment, then ask for the downward transition as a correction.

Hmm.  Well.  Ned has taught me, for well over a decade, that what is “right” may not work for him.

Case in point.  Back in the day when I still taught riding, I had a mentor who “bribed” her horses with sugar cubes.  A bribe for taking the bit, a bribe for a tightened girth, a bribe for standing quietly at the mounting block to be mounted.  I pooh-poohed my mentor on this one.  *My* horses would behave because that was the expectation, that was the correct behavior, because there were consequences for failing to comply.

I mocked her, I admit, using a baby talk voice (yes, she did that too, something I pledge I will not succumb to) — “Okay Teddy, I’ll give you a cookie if you promise to be a good, gooooood booooyyyyyy.”

That conviction served me well for a number of years and for several horses that I trained.  Until Ned.

Who resolutely fussed and carried on during grooming and tacking up.  Who could go from “whoa” to “upward launch” during mounting.   Who could be just plain dangerous.

It got to the point that bribing him, despite my convictions, was the safer path to follow.  I’ve bribed him into a million different positive behaviors.  It does not stop him from being naughty; nay, he’s still got a dozen tricks up his sleeve and an opinion on everything, but it has saved my ham royally.

Ned will stand anywhere, and I do mean anywhere, to be mounted.

Bribery.  A lost art.

Okay, back to my ride.  So I acquiesced to the unrequested launch into trot, resolved my wobbly outside hand and rode boldly into the gait.  Ned, to my surprise, wasn’t the least bit slow or stiff or uneven.  So around we went, trotting, for a good 15 minutes, changing bend and direction and the engagement of his trot, while I enjoyed mightily:  A.) feeling warm, B.) Ned’s gentle snuffling snorts in rhythm with his gait, and C.) the opportunity to focus on my equitation as Ned quietly stayed round and soft and working buoyantly from behind. 

“Right shoulder back” is what Rachel told me when we rode 50 miles together in New Jersey in November, so I focused on that every time I changed anything — bend, direction, tempo.  “Right shoulder back.”

Yep, that resolution.  To try to do a little bit better.

And Ned was so responsive, so generous, that then I could focus on lowering my heels, riding long through my leg, steadying my contact (“right shoulder back”) and looking up and around rather than at Ned’s mismatched ears.

Down to a walk, with lots of pats and Ned so generous in his submission (something that stuns me to write, even as I type it) that I simply basculed my contact and kept him in a nice deep, soft contact.  No sense giving it away when the horse was offering it up on a platter.

I’d planned to quit then, but thought, oh, what the hell, the big boy probably needs to get a few canter bucks in to crack his back.   Who am I to deny him that joy?

First request to canter through sitting trot.  He missed.  I forced myself to simply wait, change nothing, stay upright, offer the inside rein and ask again.  Cantercantercanter, soft and forward and round.  Same in the other direction.   Lots of good boys and focus on a following rein (“right shoulder back”) to reward his generous reach.

Transition to walk.  Patpatpat.

“What a gooooooddddd booyyyyyy!”  (Yes, it is conceivable that a little baby talk tone snuck in there.)

This horse humbles me. 

When he was five, I recall worrying over his soundness, knowing that he’d need to last a long, long time in order to make up for his youthful naughty behavior.

It seems we’re reaping what we’ve sown.  This guy gets better and better.

Like him, I’m planning to do the same in 2011.

I realize that most folks go with tradition and begin thinking of resolutions and such as the current year closes out and a new one approaches.

For me, however, it seems the year is based on the ride schedule.

As the Mustang Memorial ride wrapped up in mid-November and the snow began to fly in our neck of the woods, I wrapped my brain about the ride season that just ended and the new one coming.

I don’t think this is unusual for riders in the Northeast Region, nor for endurance riders in any part of the country where ride season hibernates for the winter months.

For me, it means thinking of the ways I will try to stay reasonably fit (or horrors, gain a bit of fitness) during the non-riding months.  It means planning healthy meals that will require more preparation than plucking and rinsing lettuce out of the garden and tossing part of some poor formerly-living beast on the grill.

It means finding out when the 100s will be in 2011 and how I can best schedule each of the three boys to compete in one (or more than one, if the fates will allow).

It means <insert cheering crowd noises here> a new-to-us truck to replace the Ford that has left me stranded in several states along the east coast while hauling to or from an endurance ride.

It means shaking the trees to find new clients or old clients with new work to pay for said, aforementioned truck.

It means getting back to the days where I have plenty of down time looking out my window at wooly horses and feet of snow and swirling winds and re-re-re-contemplate submitting a query about a book deal.

It is the time of year where we all, horses and riders alike, rest and recoup and recover from the tiny injuries and insults of the previous competition season and begin dreaming of the next one all over again.

More soon on all of the above.

–Patti

Sometimes life gets just a little too stressful.

As a self-employed consultant, when there is work available, I work.  There are enough lean times that I rarely turn down work, and sometimes find myself with too much travel, too many clients all needing assistance “urgently”, and too many technically demanding training programs to deliver.  A classic symptom for me is that disturbing moment where I find myself standing in a hotel elevator with the little key card in my hand and absolutely no recollection of my hotel room number.

I get homesick, miss all of the critters, miss sleeping in my own bed, miss my routine on the farm, miss my husband.

Work has been that way lately.  Back to back classes scheduled, such that one weekend was simply an exercise in driving home, unpacking, doing laundry, repacking and hitting the road again.  A non-weekend, of sorts.

In the middle of this hectic schedule, my friends Rachel and Pam and I started plotting a way to get ourselves to the Mustang Memorial Ride in New Jersey. 

The Mustang ride is a bit of an enigma.   The trails there, while lovely, are miles and miles of the same scenery — pine trees, sand, more pine trees, more sand, sand moguls, pine trees, puddles, sand.  Did I mention the sand?  So to say that the views from the saddle are not awe-inspiring is a bit of an understatement.

That flat sand has a way of taking a toll on horses and riders.  The lack of change means that everyone can get very sore from the repetitive and sustained nature of the effort.  No hills or turns or terrain changes to challenge different muscles, so one has to mix it up themselves.  Posting, then half seat, then sitting the canter, then in two point trotting, watching that each trot diagonal and canter lead is worked evenly over the course of the ride.

Throw in the fact that the weather is almost always inhospitable means that one would think this ride might have trouble attracting riders.

However, it is the last ride of the NE Region’s season.  The camp is lovely.  The hospitality is terrific; the volunteers cheerful.  And knowing that we’re on the cusp of a long winter, it seems to attract riders from all over for one last chance to hit the trail before hibernating for a few months.

Like me, Pam has been stressed by running her own business, a dairy/equine veterinary practice, and an upcoming three month trip to Australia, where she will be working on her husband’s family’s ranch.  Every time we exchanged emails, me from the road, her in the evening after a long day making vet calls, we both lamented our own stresses.

Still, we were determined to go to the ride.

Even when our Ford F-450 sang its swan song.  Another thunk which led to another trip to the service shop where the transmission was pronounced “toast.”  RIP, you big *(&#@ lemon.

I called Rachel when I got the news about the truck.  “Let’s not give up yet.”

Somehow I was able to wrangle my brother in law’s F-350, swapped our plans so that I would haul my two horses in the 2-horse trailer to Pam’s (where we would transfer horses and stuff to her 4-horse trailer) and head to New Jersey the following morning.  My friend Gene agreed to let me bunk in his trailer.

We.were.still.on.

I had two blissful days of no training, no work and a single focus of getting all of my stuff and the horses to the ride so that I could enjoy the company of my friends and horses for the last ride of the season.

Pam, in the mean time, continued to be buried with work.  Rachel, too, juggled work and finishing up the last work on the barn they built this year, so that her horses can come live at home within the next few weeks. 

We were all shoehorning this ride in between a whole lot of “too much.”

With my down time, I made lists, and like any good girl of Polish heritage, started cooking and baking.  Pie for the farrier (who squeezed in Ace’s last minute reset when I didn’t like the balance of his feet), pie for the neighbor who would feed the horses (since Rich was also out of town for the weekend for a conference), cookies for my house/dog/kitty sitter, cookies for Gene and Dale, cookies to share at the ride, soup for the ride.

I was a happy little homemaker, launderer, horse-stuff packer, checking things off lists and looking forward to the weekend.

When I get enthused like this, I tend to like to share my planning, so I sent daily emails to Rachel and Pam, of things I’d planned to pack, buy, bring, and of course, what I had baked.

At some point, wanting to ensure we would have all necessary utensils and such to heat and serve the soup, I emailed Pam to ask if she had bowls and such in her trailer.

I think that was the day she wrestled around in a stall attempting to shove a cow’s uterus back in to its body. 

Her reply?

“I can’t even THINK about bowls!”

Poor Pam.  I packed the bowls.

I love it when a good plan comes together.  All the logistical mud-wrestling worked out seamlessly.   

As the miles passed and we drove toward New Jersey, you could watch the stress leave Pam’s face.  Her speech slowed –well, a little anyway — I still like to describe her as “having been shot out of a cannon.”

The laughter went on all weekend.

Like any ride where riders and horses of various levels of experience share miles and miles of trails together, as well as close quarters at a campsite, there are always bound to be some mishaps.

Pam got to do a little hike back to camp a few miles from the start after having retrieved a horse that had bolted near the start.  So she and her mare, Prin, got to do a few extra miles to tack onto their 30 mile LD.  But Pam had a perfect ride, staying ON the mare and having a truly harmonious ride; the mare is clearly ready to move up.

I brought Ned for his friend, Rachel, and got to enjoy watching the two of them enjoy one another all weekend long.  Ned has discriminating taste, and he clearly finds Rachel to his liking.  He gets dreamy-eyed and nuzzly when she grooms him and totes her around like his own tiny little perfectly-balanced jockey.

It had been a couple of months since Ace, plagued by multiple hoof abscesses from a rocky ride in WV in August, had competed.  He came back in fine form, however.  He felt strong and cheerful and pleasantly “up.”

Ned had a little bit of heartburn about the juggling of the order of the loops since the last time he’d done a ride in New Jersey.  He tried to tell us in various subtle and unsubtle ways that we had the first loop all wrong, and only acquiesced when we were within spitting distance of returning to camp.

As I told Rachel, you could almost hear Ned saying, “hey, you’re totally going the wrong way, you idiot, but at least you’re a featherweight!”

We got chided, once again, for not riding hard enough, when both boys pulsed down with pulses in the area of 44.  The pack was well ahead of us, but I was convinced that a lot of horses would be slowing down.

The second loop of the three loop ride was the one both Ned and Ace had done previously as a final loop, so as I anticipated, they had a real change in attitude heading out on to the white loop. 

Both boys were on fire, passing horses and asking to canter.   We moved right along at a pace that was faster than the first loop; this loop went rather quickly.

On the third loop, we followed a couple of horses, as we were unfamiliar with this new final loop, finally dropping back and relaxing when we figured we were about 4 miles from camp.  We were disappointed to find out, however, at a water stop, that we were, in fact, still 7 miles from camp.

I think we were all a little tired.  The sand takes its toll on everyone, Ace and Ned no longer had horses in view to chase, so we alternately trotted and walked the boys in to camp, with me worrying that Ace felt uneven behind, or might be getting tight.

This happens to me at virtually every ride, and almost every time it turns out that I am suffering from Lameness or Metabolic Distress Paranoia.  Once Ace smelled camp, he perked right up, felt absolutely strong and even behind, and vetted through with all As.  (But not before I wound myself up into what would appear to have been a Xanax deficiency.)

When will I learn?

Much celebrating upon our return.  Our friend Gene’s mare had been pulled at the first hold, but was now perfectly sound, so that was a bit of bad news/good news.

The weather had been glorious.  Clear and cold in the morning, but warm and sunny and surprisingly still for NJ, where there seems to be a perpetual wind.  As the sun went down though, the temperatures dropped quickly, so we got all of the horses and ourselves bundled up for post-ride munching and relaxing (horses and riders) and laughing and consumption of adult beverages (riders only).

As always, what is said in ride camp stays in ride camp, but it is safe to say that the conversation ran the gamut of serious to inappropriate to candid to downright bawdy.  My cheeks hurt, literally, from laughing.

In the morning, we lingered over Gene’s amazing Keurig coffee, and reluctantly packed up to hit the road.

For my boys it was a six hour haul to Pam’s and then another three hour haul home.  I had Truck Rigor Mortis when I arrived home, settled the boys in and watched them have a long, satisfying drink before tucking in to their hay.  Perhaps because it was so painful to move, I spent a few extra minutes in the barn, listening to them munch contentedly, seemingly unaffected by their rigorous weekend.

All that planning and driving and moving of stuff from here to there and back again.  It was all well worth it. 

I’m back on the road again for work, and will admit that I got out of my car a little gingerly after several hours of driving a couple of days ago.   But this trip is different, having had my soul fortified by the love and generosity of good friends, and miles and miles spent on the trail with my favorite horses. 

I feel renewed.

Sayonara, 2010 Ride Season! 

–Patti

Not too long ago, a friend and I were talking about the upcoming WEG ride.

She remarked to me about “the level of horsemanship” it takes to compete at this level, and I must admit that I found myself cocking my head and biting my lip about the (likely unintended) implication in that statement.

Did it mean that FEI riders display a level of horsemanship that exceeds those of us competing at the grassroots level of endurance?

To me, FEI success does not in any way, shape or form equate to superior horsemanship.  Clearly the two are not mutually exclusive either.

Lest anyone believe me to be anti-FEI, I have friends I greatly respect who were, or are, or aspire to be FEI-level competitors, both in dressage and endurance, and I do not begrudge them that level of opportunity or competition in the least.

But to me, success in our sport lies more in the horsemanship than in “winning.”  And one of the beautiful things about AERC riding is that, as my friend Randy Eiland likes to say, it is a huge umbrella under which we can all enjoy our sport.

To me, success is longevity.  It is a horse that, despite its limitations –for I haven’t seen a perfect specimen yet and certainly have never owned one– continues to compete year after year.  It is a rider that, despite their inadequacies (I have a laundry list of them) continues to seek to improve, to be a better and more knowledgeable horseperson, to be an outstanding steward for their horse.  It is riding within one’s own means, no faster or more often than the horse is capable of, and knowing, on a given bad day, when to say when.  It is giving the horse a rest from competition and conditioning, and erring on the side of caution, rather than attempting to eke out one more ride.  It is not about the completion rate or the number of Top Tens or Best Conditions, but about the grace with which one competes and cares for their horse.

To me, that is horsemanship.  To me, that is success.

So what separates riders competing at the grass roots level from those competing in FEI?  Without being an FEI competitor, I think I still have adequate insight to surmise what some of those qualities might be.

One is resources.  Not everyone has the financial freedom to obtain a passport for their horse and compete in far-off places to qualify, nor to secure a crew willing to assist in such a daunting endeavor.  Not everyone can take the time from work, or a business, or their family or farm to to be gone for the periods of time required to compete.  Not everyone has the horse, or the means to obtain a horse, with the physical ability to compete at a high rate of speed over a 100 mile course. 

Another is passion.  Riders competing at the FEI level have a passion for the sport that goes beyond just AERC’s motto of ”to finish is to win.”  In FEI, to win is to win, and I don’t think that message should be lost.  If your goal is simply to get around the course with all As on your vet card, regardless of time, clearly FEI competition is not in your immediate future.  That passion may extend to the desire to compete on the behalf of one’s country, to represent “the best of the best.”

In July, a friend and I took my two horses to Ontario to compete as open riders in the Canadian National Championship 100 Mile Ride.  This was an FEI ride, and there were riders from as far away as Texas and competing for nearly a dozen different countries at this ride.  We were in a tiny minority there, having traveled a mere four hours, simply wanting to finish the course without a tangible goal with regard to our completion time; most riders were there to achieve a COC (Certificate of Completion; currently 13 hours and 20 minutes).

While I have not completed dozens and dozens of 100 mile rides, I have completed seven, and this was, by far, the easiest 100 mile ride I’ve ridden to date.   A forgiving course with a variety of very manageable terrain, well-marked, even at night, cool (but not cold) temperatures and low humidity; I could not have been more tickled with the conditions.  Both of my horses completed at around midnight with all As and CRIs in the neighborhood of 52/48 all day long.  We kept a pace of 8 – 9 mph all day long, without any significant change in speed until nighttime fell.  For us, it was the perfect ride.

And yet all day long we were chided about “getting our money’s worth” from the trail.  Not by the veterinary staff or the volunteers, who I think were delighted to see two horses cheerfully competing well within their abilities and with plenty of gas left in the tank, but by other riders, who seemed stymied by our slowness and did not seem to appreciate that a riding time of 15 hours and change was a rather respectable time for a horse completing its first 100 mile ride, and that AERC allows an entire 24 hours for completion.

But we had achieved our goal of “to finish is to win” and I couldn’t have been more proud.  For me, it was the culmination of more than one item on my Bucket List.

Only 9 of 21 FEI horses completed that ride, if I recall the numbers correctly from the awards ceremony.

You can draw your own implications, as I have, about what can change when the motto is “to win is to win” rather than “to finish is to win.”    

Over an easy course on a lovely day.

Do I think that passion and resources equate to horsemanship?  Not even a little bit.

Do I think that passion and resources AND horsemanship make the ideal FEI level competitor?  Absolutely.

But it is a fine-line balancing act that I have no desire to attempt to walk.

Happy trails.

–Patti