The Headless Horseman Rides Again
March 21, 2000
6:51 a.m.
This past Friday, I went horseback riding for the first time since I was a kid. We took off Thursday night and drove down to Lexington to spend some time at the Horse Park. It's a really fine place, and a great way to spend a day or two. Lisa's back was bothering her, and it was a bit cold. So she didn't go. But Brigid was not to be deterred, so I went with her. We walked up to the barn, where we had to sign away our life on a sheet of paper that reminded us that at any minute horses were likely to bolt and drag us across the bluegrass and that if this were to occur, it wasn't their fault. There was another family of three kids and a set of parents. The other parents put helmets on their kids, but didn't take them for themselves. I always wonder about that. I got into the habit of wearing a helmet whenever Brigid and I go out riding bikes because if I'm not wearing one, what kind of example is that, huh? So I got a helmet, too. It was a cool hunk of plastic with a little visor and everything. Quite sporty. Brigid got a horse named Digger. It was white beast that made her look about six years old. It trotted occasionally with her on it, a fact that Brigid really liked. I got Ichabod. Or, maybe back in the paddock, Ichabod lounged around afterward saying that he god me. Whichever. Ichabod is a brown horse. A sturdy looking creature if there ever was one. Right away, Ichabod and I made a deal. I would be nice to him and pet him on the shoulder whenever it appeared like he did something I wanted him to do, and he would get me back here in the same number of pieces as I started with. Once that pact was sealed, we were ready and off we went. It was a beautiful day, if a bit brisk. I talked to one of the women who rode with us. She had grown up around the park and seemed to really love it. Digger seemed frisky at times, and would jog around a bit, rising Brigid off her seat in little hops that made me thing of Calvin and Hobbes rolling down a hill in the little red wagon. But Brigid loved it. Ichabod, it turns out, is an "outside the box" thinker. He doesn't seem to want to follow in line with all the other horses, a fact that at first embarrasses me a bit. I tugged on the reins to get him in line, and he went there for a minute, then was back outside the trail a minute later. I tugged on the reins again, and he looked up at me with one of those deep brown eyes that holds the world's secrets. "Remember our deal?" that gaze seemed to say. So, I pretended to tell Ichabod where he wanted to go, and we plodded on, and I got to keep all my extremities just fine. I don't know what it is., but there's something about riding a horse that makes you go a bit country. Maybe it's the feeling of the earth that comes with them, the sensation of power. Or maybe it's just the smell of manure. [grin] Whatever. The horse in front of Brigid got going quick and there was space to be made up. I almost yelled up at her "Yee bitter citch up there, girl." But I caught myself just in time. It was over before I realized it would be. It's incredible how quick time can pass. The ride was nearly an hour long, but it was over like that. Brigid got off. I got off. I patted Ichabod on the shoulder and told him he was a good horse. "Did you have a good time?" I asked Brigid. She nodded. "I'm cold." So we walked to the museum, and met Lisa. Brigid told her all about the ride. After the day was over we went to the hotel room, and went swimming. (We would spend the next two days swimming, and me resting my sore butt in the whirlpool). Brigid bought a collection of plastic horses at the gift shop, and spent the rest of the weekend playing with them on and off. And on the way home, she reminded us that her friends were taking riding lessons.  You're no Headless Horseman, Ron Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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