HotToTrot
Well-Known Member
...Tokyo.
When I bought Parrot, I cried. I cried because, in truth, I didn't want another horse. I wanted Vito. But if I cried when I bought Parrot, then how much more I cried when I had to let him go.
It's hard to say, really, who opened the door. It was either Vito, or my husband, but after they'd opened it, at the end of that long, hot summer, three years ago, They both stood back and they looked at me. They told me that if I walked through it, then they'd be right behind me. On the other side of the door, there lay a dream. The dream was Intermediate, the dream was FEI eventing, tailcoats and being told off by Jane Holderness-Rodham. When Vito hurt his tendon, that horrible day last year, I thought the dream had ended. In fact, it hadn't ended at all; it had taken a new turn. For Vito gave me not only experience and tangible skills, he also gave me confidence. The confidence to go out into the market, to buy a three-star horse and to say that I could ride him.
I never meant to ride Advanced. More pertinently, perhaps, I *was* never meant to ride Advanced. Advanced isn't really for people like me. It's not for people who can't really ride very well, for people who flop about in Chelsea Tractors, changing their wheels in Premier Inn car parks at the drop of a hat, people who might, without a moment's warning, suddenly whip their boobs out in the middle of an unsuspecting collecting ring and start feeding a superfluous child.
I have not found it easy, this game we call Eventing. Not for me a swift ascent through the ranks of BE on wings of ease, but more a trudge, a slog, a battle grimly fought with the only weapon at my disposal; a stark determination, to do the best I could. But I was not alone in my fight, for there in the trenches, shoulder to shoulder with me, stood Vito and Parrot. Two horses whose loyalty to me was never once in question, whose confidence in me would not be shaken, even when I had no confidence left in myself. There were more of them, too, more trench rats, without whom I could never have done the things I've done. My unhorsey parents, my equally unhorsey inlaws, none of whom had really every been near a horse before I entered their lives, but who were perfectly happy to drive to an arbitrarily designated field a million miles from anywhere useful, and wrangle with unco-operative children, fix ancient trailers and buy cake when all else had failed. My jumping trainers, of course, whose patience was endless and whose advice and guidance invaluable. It's a funny relationship, isn't it, that of a riding trainer and rider. In the strictest sense of the word, you wouldn't say either of my trainers were really my "friends". For example, they've never held my hair back whilst I've been sick on the pavement outside a shady south London nightclub. They don't know whether I prefer chocolate cake or cheesecake. (That's a trick question, by the way. I operate a very strict policy of non-discrimination and cakes from any background and denomination are eaten with equal opportunity.) But in that very narrow sphere of my life, that which lies between the red and white flags, they know me better than anyone, better than I know myself.
And then, of course, there's my husband. Maybe it was the fact that the end was nigh, maybe it was the bottle of fizz we'd opened, for no apparent reason, but he looked at me, he stretched his legs out in front of him, crossed his ankles as blokes do, and he started to talk. He said the things that we both think, but which, bound to silence by our unspoken code of conduct, neither of us have ever said out loud. "I'm glad you're giving up" he said, matter of factly. I dropped my eyes for a second and nodded, because I knew exactly what he meant. My husband is, and always has been, my biggest backer. When the loony-train of eventing pulled out of town, I didn't need to invite him jump on board as a passenger, because I found out that he was already on board. He was stoking the fire and driving the damned thing.
It's a subject that causes anyone with an ounce of feminist blood in their body to flare up in indignation. It's something discussed at length on internet forums and blogged about by those annoying types who write stuff about the kids and their boobs, and maybe even their horses, and who bang on about themselves to anyone who'll listen. "Well of COURSE he should look after the kids" they screech. "They're HIS kids, too. Well of COURSE you need to be able to Do Something For Yourself," they'll intone. "YOU have a right to a life, too." Let me be clear. The lengths my husband has gone to to facilitate my eventing go far above and beyond what anyone could expect of any other normal human being. He studies the BE calendar as we plan our holidays and weekends. He has the kids, every morning, every weekend, whilst I ride. He has made it his business to know the BE rule book, inside out and upside down. So when he said he was glad I was giving up, I understood. He has backed me, supported me, and wanted me to succeed. But. But.
The same thoughts have flittered in the dark fringes of my mind from time to time and I've pushed them away. Never admitted that they exist. Sometimes, people call it. "I gave up eventing" they say. "When I had kids. Just too dangerous. What if something happened to me?" I try hard not to ask myself the question when I hear that. Because if I ask the question, then I acknowledge its existence. I validate it, just by thinking it. I can't give you numbers or statistics. I can't tell you, in precise terms, how dangerous (or otherwise) eventing is. But I can give you names. I can tell you about Olivia Inglis, Jordan MacDonald, Ben Winter, Polly Phillips, Caroline Pratt, Franciso Seabra and many, many more. And I won't, will not, answer the question. I won't commit on whether I think it's an acceptable or sensible risk to run. I'll hedge my bets a little and I'll say that it's two sides of the same coin. If my kids can inherit one thing from me, then I don't want it to be the ability to speak multiple languages, or to be good at cycling, or whatever it may be - I want it to be courage, determination, and the refusal to be deterred by mild inconvenience. (And, of course, the ability to count as far as "one", or even "three".) And isn't that the same thing that made me go eventing, the same thing that makes me run the risks that I won't talk about?
For now, though, I don't have to answer that question. It's been neatly sidestepped, avoided, and I'll slip quietly away from the world of BE, taking with me fantastic memories of two phenomenal horses.....
Sayonara.
When I bought Parrot, I cried. I cried because, in truth, I didn't want another horse. I wanted Vito. But if I cried when I bought Parrot, then how much more I cried when I had to let him go.
It's hard to say, really, who opened the door. It was either Vito, or my husband, but after they'd opened it, at the end of that long, hot summer, three years ago, They both stood back and they looked at me. They told me that if I walked through it, then they'd be right behind me. On the other side of the door, there lay a dream. The dream was Intermediate, the dream was FEI eventing, tailcoats and being told off by Jane Holderness-Rodham. When Vito hurt his tendon, that horrible day last year, I thought the dream had ended. In fact, it hadn't ended at all; it had taken a new turn. For Vito gave me not only experience and tangible skills, he also gave me confidence. The confidence to go out into the market, to buy a three-star horse and to say that I could ride him.
I never meant to ride Advanced. More pertinently, perhaps, I *was* never meant to ride Advanced. Advanced isn't really for people like me. It's not for people who can't really ride very well, for people who flop about in Chelsea Tractors, changing their wheels in Premier Inn car parks at the drop of a hat, people who might, without a moment's warning, suddenly whip their boobs out in the middle of an unsuspecting collecting ring and start feeding a superfluous child.
I have not found it easy, this game we call Eventing. Not for me a swift ascent through the ranks of BE on wings of ease, but more a trudge, a slog, a battle grimly fought with the only weapon at my disposal; a stark determination, to do the best I could. But I was not alone in my fight, for there in the trenches, shoulder to shoulder with me, stood Vito and Parrot. Two horses whose loyalty to me was never once in question, whose confidence in me would not be shaken, even when I had no confidence left in myself. There were more of them, too, more trench rats, without whom I could never have done the things I've done. My unhorsey parents, my equally unhorsey inlaws, none of whom had really every been near a horse before I entered their lives, but who were perfectly happy to drive to an arbitrarily designated field a million miles from anywhere useful, and wrangle with unco-operative children, fix ancient trailers and buy cake when all else had failed. My jumping trainers, of course, whose patience was endless and whose advice and guidance invaluable. It's a funny relationship, isn't it, that of a riding trainer and rider. In the strictest sense of the word, you wouldn't say either of my trainers were really my "friends". For example, they've never held my hair back whilst I've been sick on the pavement outside a shady south London nightclub. They don't know whether I prefer chocolate cake or cheesecake. (That's a trick question, by the way. I operate a very strict policy of non-discrimination and cakes from any background and denomination are eaten with equal opportunity.) But in that very narrow sphere of my life, that which lies between the red and white flags, they know me better than anyone, better than I know myself.
And then, of course, there's my husband. Maybe it was the fact that the end was nigh, maybe it was the bottle of fizz we'd opened, for no apparent reason, but he looked at me, he stretched his legs out in front of him, crossed his ankles as blokes do, and he started to talk. He said the things that we both think, but which, bound to silence by our unspoken code of conduct, neither of us have ever said out loud. "I'm glad you're giving up" he said, matter of factly. I dropped my eyes for a second and nodded, because I knew exactly what he meant. My husband is, and always has been, my biggest backer. When the loony-train of eventing pulled out of town, I didn't need to invite him jump on board as a passenger, because I found out that he was already on board. He was stoking the fire and driving the damned thing.
It's a subject that causes anyone with an ounce of feminist blood in their body to flare up in indignation. It's something discussed at length on internet forums and blogged about by those annoying types who write stuff about the kids and their boobs, and maybe even their horses, and who bang on about themselves to anyone who'll listen. "Well of COURSE he should look after the kids" they screech. "They're HIS kids, too. Well of COURSE you need to be able to Do Something For Yourself," they'll intone. "YOU have a right to a life, too." Let me be clear. The lengths my husband has gone to to facilitate my eventing go far above and beyond what anyone could expect of any other normal human being. He studies the BE calendar as we plan our holidays and weekends. He has the kids, every morning, every weekend, whilst I ride. He has made it his business to know the BE rule book, inside out and upside down. So when he said he was glad I was giving up, I understood. He has backed me, supported me, and wanted me to succeed. But. But.
The same thoughts have flittered in the dark fringes of my mind from time to time and I've pushed them away. Never admitted that they exist. Sometimes, people call it. "I gave up eventing" they say. "When I had kids. Just too dangerous. What if something happened to me?" I try hard not to ask myself the question when I hear that. Because if I ask the question, then I acknowledge its existence. I validate it, just by thinking it. I can't give you numbers or statistics. I can't tell you, in precise terms, how dangerous (or otherwise) eventing is. But I can give you names. I can tell you about Olivia Inglis, Jordan MacDonald, Ben Winter, Polly Phillips, Caroline Pratt, Franciso Seabra and many, many more. And I won't, will not, answer the question. I won't commit on whether I think it's an acceptable or sensible risk to run. I'll hedge my bets a little and I'll say that it's two sides of the same coin. If my kids can inherit one thing from me, then I don't want it to be the ability to speak multiple languages, or to be good at cycling, or whatever it may be - I want it to be courage, determination, and the refusal to be deterred by mild inconvenience. (And, of course, the ability to count as far as "one", or even "three".) And isn't that the same thing that made me go eventing, the same thing that makes me run the risks that I won't talk about?
For now, though, I don't have to answer that question. It's been neatly sidestepped, avoided, and I'll slip quietly away from the world of BE, taking with me fantastic memories of two phenomenal horses.....
Sayonara.