I watched as she dismounted, passed the chestnut colt off to the waiting groom, and mounted the next colt, this one a dark bay. It was only after a third colt had been worked and sent back to the barn that she saw me. Her eyes narrowed, then brightened, then narrowed again, and her strides ate up the distance between us.
"How long have you been standing there?" She asked in a voice that implied some general misgivings about my being there, but a reluctance to blow me off entirely.
"A while. Your concentration is impressive, and also scary."
She rolled her eyes. "What are you doing here? If I wanted to talk to you, I'd pick up the fucking phone."
I winced, slightly stung by her words. "You don't mean that, Amber."
"You're right. I don't." She removed the helmet, shaking out her sweaty hair. "But you can't just show up here, Lawrence. I'm trying to look professional. How do you think this makes me look? Like I've got a needy-ass boyfriend who can't live without me for a few - "
"What's wrong with having a visitor on your lunch break? They do let you eat, don't they?" I raised an eyebrow expectantly.
She finally smiled. "Of course they let me eat. But I'm not sharing with you."
We sat on her tailgate, and I watched her eat faster than should be humanly possible. After her last bite, she chugged the remainder of the water bottle and threw it, and the sandwich wrappings, into the depths of her pickup. "What's new with you?"
"Not much. Just trying to fix the busted horse and train the crazy one."
She snorted. "How's that workin' for you?"
I ignored her sarcasm. "Elle's getting longer handwalks now, and Harry's coming along amazingly well. Except he did dump Erica last time she worked him."
"Erica?"
"Lou's sister. She's helping me out as a favor to him. I was really struggling with Harry, and she's provided some much needed input."
Amber chuckled darkly. "Screwing her yet?"
Valid question, I guess. "No."
Her eyebrows shot upward. "What, she's not hot enough or something?"
"It's not like that. She's very professional."
"Oh, bullshit."
"She is. And we're just friends," I quickly added in a less defensive tone.
"So were we." Amber smirked. "And I guarantee you her motivation has nothing to do with her brother, or your nutty little black horse. They're just convenient excuses."
I didn't respond, and stared out at the racetrack in moody silence. I heard Amber laughing quietly into her sleeve, and turned back to her. "What?" I snapped.
"It's just..." she dissolved back into laughter. "You're getting all bent out of shape because I said this chick wants to have sex with you. It's really ridiculous."
I sighed quietly. "I guess you're right."
"You guess? Jesus, I'm worried about you."
"I'm okay, really." I hesitated. "I just...I lost someone I now realize I maybe cared about because I..."
"Couldn't keep it in your pants?"
"Yeah." I smiled. Surprisingly, I felt better after making the declaration. "So how's your love life?" I asked, to be fair.
Amber shot me a loaded glare.
"That bad, huh?"
"The worst. You know that's why I can't stand you. You've got girls hanging all over you, more than you know what to do with, and I can't find a single one."
"Well, if I come across a lesbian, I'll tell her where you live,” I offered helpfully.
"Please. Because as far as I know, I'm alone in this world. You know how I’m supposed to have gaydar? Well, I apparently don’t have it, because all I can tell when I look around is that girls are pretty and they're all fucking you."
I fought back a smile. "Sorry."
"You're not sorry, and you know it."
"No, really, I am."
"Shut up."
We lapsed into silence for a while, both contemplating our fucked-up lives, I guess. Finally, I said, "Your job looks like a pretty good gig. When I finally got to ride some real horses, I still had to clean up after them."
Amber brightened instantly. "These horses are awesome. They're drugged to the hilt and dangerous as hell, but they're awesome. I wish I could say the same for my employer." She frowned.
"Worse than Wilson?"
"Clint makes Wilson seem like the life of the party." She gave me a meaningful look.
"Oh."
"Yeah. And Wilson's a curmudgeon, sure, but he's a good horseman. He cares about his animals. Clint's running a business. The horses are there to run for him until they drop." She winced at her own words. "And he won't listen to his riders. I tell him such and such horse is off, and half the time he runs it anyway."
"Nice guy."
"And the thing is, I spend most of my time worrying about the horses I ride. These are babies, and what they have to do for a living is just scary. Whenever they race, I can't eat all day long. I'm the kind of person who can't stand to watch a horse race on television. And I just think, What am I doing here? But I'm making a living, working with horses, and riding! I'm not shoveling shit anymore. But in some ways, this is worse." She ran a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry, I had to get that off my chest. I don't have friends here. None of Clint's other workers would sympathize with some bleeding heart horse lover. I know you do."
I nodded. I did.
Amber stood up abruptly. "C'mon, I want to show you something."
I followed her to the barn, where at first my eyes struggled in the darkness, but soon focused on a horse being saddled in a stall. It was a filly whose golden chestnut coat was accented by a flaxen mane and tail. As she nickered at us, I saw her eyes were large and could only be described as kind. Her head was refined, her neck long and slim, set high into her shoulder. Peering into the stall, I could see her legs were straight, and they tied in well to her body. They were also slender, reminding me of a deer's. Everything about her screamed "beautiful". The second word that came to mind was "breakable."
"This is Soiree For Two," Amber whispered. "She's the sweetest thing. You'd never know she was a racehorse."
I glanced at Amber, recognizing the expression of a person madly in love with a horse. "How old is she?"
"Three and a half. I wish Clint would give her more time to mature." Amber sighed. "I feel like she could really come into her own in a year's time. But Clint won't wait. He never does. He just picked her up a few weeks ago for practically nothing. She’s a claimer; she’s already been through most of the trainers around here. And she races in a week." Amber paled visibly.
I thought back to a time when I was looking at international polo prospects. I had handed a stack of photos to Wilson, because I knew I could trust him to be brutally honest. And even though his typical comments when looking a horse over were limited to "Not a bad prospect", or "Looks okay to me", I knew he had a good eye. He couldn't fault most of the horses, but there was one gelding more refined than the others. He was beautiful to look at, and I'd found myself drawn to him. Across his photo, Wilson's scrawled comment had read, "Too fine-boned. Won't hold up under pressure."
I looked at the filly again. She stood perfectly still, even as the groom tightened her girth with a sharp tug. I imagined her packing a novice around the dressage ring, or over a small course of jumps. Not galloping full-tilt over pockmarked dirt.
"My break's over," Amber hissed. "Thanks for coming all this way."
I smiled at her, and headed back to my truck. I saw her mount up on Soiree For Two, and they headed onto the track.
Amber urged Soiree into a gallop, and I started my engine, hoping fate might be kind to Soiree's legs and Amber's heart. I wasn't naive enough to think it would be.
Erica
We show to win, not to have a relaxing good time.
That was what a clinician once told me, when I said I struggled with show nerves. She was tough, and anyone who rode with her had to be. Many people I knew said they would never ride with her. They said she was abusive, a bitch, that her conduct was
unconscionable. Interestingly, she rode with kindness and finesse. She loved each and every horse for what they were, found their talents, and made them ten times the animal they once were, in about ten minutes.
To their riders, she showed no mercy. You either wound up crouched in a fetal position, bawling your eyes out while she berated you, or you endured the torture and she allowed you to soak up a bit of her training philosophy and become just infinitesimally closer to the rider she was. Sometimes both. Sometimes the riders would grow numb to her taunting voice, or become just a little angry, and would raise their tearstained faces, square their shoulders, and get on with it. It was always exciting to see this happen.
Over the years, I rode in as many of her clinics as I could afford, and audited the ones I could not afford to ride in. If I had done my homework since the previous clinic, she would go a little easier on me, but if I had slacked off, I faced her wrath like you wouldn't believe. Her clinics were typically small. Most of her business came from auditors who had a desire to see the carnage, not to learn. This made me sad and angry, because I learned the most from her. When you pleased her, and earned a comment (spoken in a calm voice) like "Not bad", it was the most hardcore drug ever invented for a struggling huntseat rider.
The un-aptly named Carol Lamb never reached the top of the training game, mostly because her methods scared people away. Many criticized her for those methods, but they worked. My teaching methods might be vastly different from hers, but I was infinitely proud to say that I rode even slightly like she did.
I was trying to channel her as I soothed the adrenaline-charged creature I sat on. The large grey gelding was having a hard time dealing with the showground atmosphere. I had lost count of how many times he'd spooked, and in the warm-up ring I could barely keep him in a straight line for two strides in a row. As the loudspeaker shouted my number, the gelding snorted and bounced in place. Nerves raged inside me, threatening to cloud my mind and bind my muscles. I took a deep breath. What would Carol say?
We show to win, not to have a relaxing good time. Just get on with it.
And we trotted into the ring. My muscles stayed loose, my hands were light. Sunday Amigo might be a basket case, but it wasn't because of my riding. We made our courtesy circle, and cantered toward the first jump. Amigo gawked at the brightly painted rails. These aren't exactly like the jumps at home, his tight muscles told me. I think they might be dangerous.
"Silly boy," I murmered. "It's a jump! What fun!" His ear flicked back in my direction, registering my relaxed, happy tone.
The takeoff was a bit ugly, but I didn't hear a rail fall. The second one was a little better. I kept talking to him, and his confidence increased each time he made it over a jump without being eaten. As we trotted out of the ring, he was fairly relaxed. I jumped off and showered him with affection as my dad unbuckled Amigo's girth. "Nice job," he said to me, pulling the saddle from the gelding's back and sprinting over to his waiting mount.
I stood with Amigo, waiting to see my dad ride in on Color Me, a flashy sabino Thoroughbred. Like Amigo, he was an investment horse we were training. Crayola, as we called him, was a supremely confident jumper. His coloring didn't hurt, either. In an earlier century, spotted horses were considered substandard, but in today's world, color sold.
"Erica!"
I turned to see a pretty blonde mounted on a black mare. "Jennifer, hey."
We'd grown up in rival training barns, and often saw each other at shows. Unlike many of the local "huntseat princesses", Jennifer was gracious and extremely nice. She never got nasty when I beat her in a class, although that happened infrequently, especially in equitation. She was tall, slim and long legged, and she just looked good on a horse. Most of my friends were like that; beautiful without trying.
"I saw your round on that gelding," Jennifer said, gesturing to Amigo. "You did an awesome job, Erica. He was a total spazz in the warm-up ring."
"Yeah, sorry we almost ran into you that one time. He thought he saw a rabid squirrel."
Jennifer laughed. "It happens to the best of us. Remember when that crazy stallion took off with me and tried to breed Ben Miller's mare? I just about issued myself a lifetime ban from horse shows." She rolled her eyes. "But your round was actually decent. Congrats."
"Thanks." I scratched Amigo's withers. "He just needs more exposure. He was starting to enjoy himself towards the end."
"Well, I'd better get my game face on. I'm next, after your dad."
We watched him ride in on Crayola. The eye-catching gelding cleared the fences decisively; no rails threatened to fall. He extended, collected and switched leads with flair. My dad was a minimalist in the saddle, never drawing my eye away from the horse's performance. As Crayola galloped away from the last fence, applause flooded my ears. The gelding pranced from the ring, his feet barely touching the ground. Their round had been flawless, well under the time limit.
"Wow," Jennifer exclaimed. "That's going to be tough to beat."
"Just focus on the jumps, you'll be fine."
"I know." She winked at me and trotted through the in gate.
I watched her ride, rooting her on but also knowing she probably couldn't touch my dad's time. Jennifer's round was clean, but she accumulated a few time penalties. Her mare wasn't the speediest. The other riders had no better luck than Jennifer did. No horse could best Crayola, and the large blue ribbon was pinned on the gelding's bridle. We celebrated for about .5 seconds and then rushed off to prepare for our next class.
The show was winding down, and I was exhausted, fueled by adrenaline and junk food. Our barn had done well; several of our horses had increased in value. I'd made my last frantic tack change, mounted up on my final horse and completed my last circuit of the warm-up ring, and now I sat on the back of a stout bay gelding, waiting to go in the ring. I was riding the horse to show off his talents, but as far as the judge was concerned, all eyes were on me. And that was what had the butterflies filling my stomach even as I was tired enough to fall asleep at the reins.
Huntseat equitation. My Achilles' heel.
I heard the loudspeaker say my number, and I rode into the ring. My concentration could not falter; even as I supported the gelding's jumping efforts, I had to focus on my movements more than his. Heels down. Back straight. Eyes up. Every stride. The gelding's pace remained even. It was his job, as an equitation horse, to help me out by remaining solid and steady. It was my job to be perfect. My tired muscles wanted to fail me, but I was fighting through it. Just a few more fences. My calves were quivery, my stomach muscles felt like I'd done about five hundred crunches without stopping. As the gelding cleared the final fence and cantered away from it in that same perfect rhythm, I smiled. I'd done it. My toughest class, at the end of a long day. And I'd done it well.
I dismounted, cringing as my tired feet slammed into the packed soil. As I unfastened the girth, my dad lifted the saddle from the gelding's back. "Well ridden," he said with a smile. He knew how brutal equitation could be.
I was done for the day. Thank God. However, the class was not. My rivals were gathering like enemy forces, and I was intimidated. I knew I'd done my best. There was nothing I would have changed if I had the opportunity, no bobbles I would have edited from my round. But I had a sinking feeling that my best would not be good enough.
Jennifer rode past me with a bright smile, mounted on her black mare. Point N Shoot might not be the most successful jumper, but as her name implied, she was the quintessential eq horse. There were other fierce competitors lining up to ride in, but Jennifer, with her rider's body and her pushbutton horse, was nearly unbeatable in equitation.
I tried to stay unemotional as I watched her flawless round. But the feelings of jealousy crept in nonetheless. When she rode out of the ring and high-fived her friends, including me, I smiled and congratulated her like nothing was wrong. And nothing was, really. Our rounds had been equally good, but she had the advantage of aesthetic appeal, and she would win. I had accepted this
long ago, and it was not Jennifer's fault that she was beautiful and slim and I was not. But that didn't make it hurt any less.
I watched the other riders. Most of them made mistakes. None of their rounds could match Jennifer's, or mine. And as I waited for the results, I made a terrible mistake. I got optimistic.
Well, I'm bound to get second place, I speculated. That's not bad at all, especially since Jennifer is the undisputed equitation queen. I can't complain about placing second to her.
And I wouldn't have complained, if it had actually happened.
As the results were read from last place to first, I was startled to hear my horse's name in fourth place. The riders who had beaten me, with the exception of Jennifer, had good rounds but made small errors. I watched them ride in to collect their ribbons, trying to keep my mouth from falling open. Was the judge blind? A quick glance to my dad revealed he was thinking along those lines as well.
He shrugged his shoulders. "That's horse shows."
I walked in on foot to get the ribbon, since my mount was already in the trailer, and tried not to make eye contact with anyone. Jennifer was grinning as she patted her mare, but as she saw me her face fell. I took the ribbon I was handed and attempted a fast exit, but Jennifer steered her horse away from the group of riders and quickly overtook me. I tried to smile at her in a remotely genuine way. It wasn't Jennifer I was upset with. But she was a painful reminder of everything I was not.
"I'm sorry, Erica," Jennifer said in a low voice. She looked like someone who was anticipating being snapped at.
"S'okay, Jen," I said with forced calm. "You deserved it."
Jennifer didn't miss the implication. "I know, yeah, I saw Caroline's round. She had some leg slippage on a couple fences. You were solid the whole time." She bit her lip, and I guessed she was a little uncomfortable talking about this. Jennifer was the kind of person who wanted to see the best in everyone, including horse show judges.
Abruptly, I felt bad for pulling her into this. She didn't deserve to have her day ruined. "Enough about my crappy luck," I said, managing a smile. "Go have fun! You kicked ass today."
Training Harry Page 6