Lessons Gerry Taught Me

After a brisk yoga class to stretch and strengthen my sometimes reluctant body, I made a beeline for my Tuesday lesson with Gerry.  He's the handsome chestnut thoroughbred who's won my heart over the past four months.  He hangs with his buddies on a quaint horse farm nestled behind a hillside fence of bright fuchsia bougainvillea in rural San Marcos.  The two-lane highway that leads to the farm is a welcome respite from the craziness of everyday life.  White-topped greenhouses sprout between the rolling hills where long stretches of fencing form a peaceful setting for elegant thoroughbreds and their equine cousins.  My lessons are held in a dusty corral backed by tall palms and bougainvillea plants, the California version of the Kentucky horse farms scattered along highways where I grew up.  This would be my last lesson in a series of eleven, but at the time, I had no idea that it would be the most dramatic and surprising lesson, forever etched in my memory. 

When I found him, Gerry was following another horse around the exercise ring.  It's like a wooden merry-go-round with live horses, their heads bent down as they circle the ring in time to the cranking of the wooden frame and its heavy metal parts. Each horse is attached behind a bar that serves as a spoke in the large wheel, turning at a steady pace to keep them moving.  The soft dirt cushions their feet as muscles warm up and loosen for lessons or riding events.  A helpful worker released Gerry from the ring and handed his leash to me.  With the leather strap in one hand, and my other hand tightened on Gerry's halter, I led him down the narrow, gravel driveway to the stable for grooming.

A very mellow horse, Gerry stands about fifteen or sixteen hands tall.  His glossy eyes followed me as I fastened his halter to the cross ties for grooming.  Occasionally, he would shake his head to whisk a pesky fly away, but mostly, he stood in quiet contemplation while I brushed and massaged his coat.  The hoofs are the hardest part of grooming, because Gerry's heavy foot rests on my thigh while I bend over to dig the debris out of the shoe. When that job was finished, I positioned the smooth, black leather English saddle over the blanket on Gerry's back and buckled it to the girth underneath, on both sides of Gerry's sizable belly.  Next, the halter comes off and is replaced by the bridle.  Fitting the bridle is tricky, since one hand places the bit in Gerry's mouth while the other hand pulls the bridle with all its straps over a massive horse head and ears. It would be less than honest to claim my skills fully developed in this maneuver.  In fact, when I fumble the bridle, a friendly horse handler is usually close by to rescue me.  With the bit in place, my nimble fingers fastened the thick, supple leather of the brow band, throat latch and nose band.  The latter has to be tight to make sure the bit stays firmly in place.  Gerry's tack completed, I clicked the helmet strap under my chin and led him to the mounting block.
 

Since this was my final lesson of the season, I was eager to master my new skills with confidence --to  maintain the correct posture, hand movements and leg signals. Gerry and I ambled along the rail and drew smaller circles in the middle of the dusty ring.  After a few minutes, my teacher, Sara, stopped us and placed a crop in my left hand, with the length of it running behind  my left leg.  I'd never held a crop, and didn't know why we were using it now, but followed her order to continue as before.  
 

Gerry obviously knew about the crop.  He felt the gentle tap of the crop on his rear haunch and immediately interpreted it as a command to pick up his speed, which came as a total surprise to me.  It felt like we were in a full gallop in a 50s cowboy movie.  I flopped up and down in the saddle as he paced double time around the ring.  Totally panicked, I'd be eating dirt soon.  I yelled for help and braced my thighs against his body.  At the same time, I had to maintain my posture in a firm and upright position for posting up and down, which meant the rein had to wind through my two fingers, and my hands had to extend in front of me, not toward my waist.  All this while the balls of my feet pressed into the stirrups with my toes pointed up.  Too much to master.  Nearly impossible for such an inexperienced rider. 

Desperate, I grabbed the horn at the front of the saddle as an extra safety to steady myself.  Gerry continued his fierce gallop while Sara screamed at the top of her lungs.  Finally, her words became clear.  She was telling me to drop it! She meant the crop, right?  My fingers opened and released the leather grip while both hands pulled on the rein.  I shouted:  Ho!  Gerry stopped immediately, just like he'd taken off.  Relieved and struggling to get my breath, I tried to calm down while my heart pounded nonstop.  

So, what happened?   Sara explained that she wanted to wake Gerry up, because he was moving in slow motion, thus the crop.  The great adventure that resulted was both scary and thrilling -- a Disneyland E ticket ride, courtesy of Gerry.  What I thought was a gallop was only a canter, Sara said.  She applauded my performance, noting that my posture and handling were perfect!  So I did achieve my goal for the last lesson, just not as I'd planned.  When I thought about it later, I remembered another lesson with Gerry, the mellow thoroughbred that delivers  not-so-mellow surprises.   At the mounting block for my second lesson, we stood next to a bougainvillea bush where bees buzzed in and out of the fuschia flowers.  Spooked by a buzzing critter, Gerry stomped his left foreleg down, right on my left foot!   I belted out a loud OUCH as my hand grabbed for my foot.  Thank goodness I wore new boots with hard steel toes that day!  They saved my throbbing foot from a much worse fate.

In eleven short weeks of English riding lessons, I learned a lot.  But most important, Gerry taught me that gentle, 1,500-pound thoroughbreds can surprise you when you're least expecting it. And that it's not a bad thing to end riding lesons while you're still safe in the saddle -- rather than sprawled in the  dirt.  Thanks for the memories, Gerry, all of them. I'll visit, soon, I promise.