RIDERS - A FAMILY
AFFAIR
Making Do Means Using Your Kids!
(Or... I Never Asked Them To Do Anything I Hadn't Done)
By Alexander Del Castillo (with comments by his mother).
If you've read my Mom's book, you might recall a vignette involving me and
a colt named Epidemic. The gist of the story was that my size, strength, and
eighteen year old hubris were no match for that animal's brute power and single-mindedness.
While it is true that the horse loped back to the barn riderless and I limped
back with "pieces of a tree sticking from (my) clothes," I feel that some
of the details of the events leading up to that very low point in my equestrian
experience might prove enlightening or, at the very least, entertaining to
the aspiring Backyard Trainer.
First of all, I was nineteen. I know that because I was back home after an
academically unremarkable year and a half at Tulane and awaiting processing
into the Navy. I was less than thrilled with my achievements (or lack of any)
of late and chaffed at the prospect of living at home and working for my mother.
Ironically, just about the only thing I took pride in was my ability as a
horseman. Mom, my brother Nando, Victoria my sister, and I had not yet come
across a horse that was our match. We regularly trailored and broke horses
that other "experienced" trainers had long since quit. Occasionally,
one would come along and defy the collective abilities of my family and any
of the girls who rode for my Mom. It was at this point that I was usually
called upon to show the animal the way of virtue.
By the age of ten, it was clear that a combination of genes and nutrition
had made my prospects of ever being a jockey somewhat less than bleak. Mine
was a physiognomy more suited for carrying heavy loads or digging fence post
holes (that, alas, is another story). Nonetheless, having pretty much grown
up on horseback, I was a good rider and was from time to time tasked to break
problem horses of some of their nastier habits. These habits included but
in no means were limited to bolting, bucking, rearing all the way up and over
in order to squish the hapless rider (another horse, another story), and just
plain running away. This is the story about one who ran away.
I was big and strong and used it to my advantage, but never considered myself
stronger than the horse. I was smarter than the horse, though only marginally
so or I would not have mounted many of them. I used that small advantage along
with my size and persistence to convince the animals that I was stronger than
they were and resistance on their part was futile. The patient application
of this philosophy over time enabled me to cure Mom's problem horses of their
vices. MOST of the time anyway.
Epidemic was not your typical thoroughbred. Whereas most of Mom's charges
exhibited the graceful, long boned physiques that have characterized the breed
since the time of Eclipse, Epidemic seemed born of an earlier, less gentile
era. Muscle and sinew thrust out against taut skin that seemed barely able
to contain the power of the animal. Half again as large as anything on the
farm, the horse looked better suited as a knight clad in plate mail than a
jockey in racing silks.
That morning Mother and I had a rather heated disagreement over who should
clean some tack. I felt Nando, who had soiled it in the making of a Mountain
Dew commercial, should share in the chore. Mom disagreed, saying that my pay
as wrangler in the filming covered such things. I guessed the "star" couldn't
sully himself with such drudgery. As if it wasn't bad enough that I had been
relegated to saddling and cooling my younger brother's mounts. Suffice it
to say, I was less than pleased with my ever expanding job description (which
incidentally, would involve fence post holes on at least one occasion), especially
since I'd already been paid. Each additional job lowered what had been a very
enticing hourly wage. But I digress...
Anyway, I was muttering and grumbling unprintables as I scrubbed the muck
from a saddle when the sun went out. Or so it seemed. The local eclipse had
been performed by Epidemic, who gazed curiously at me. I noted the unbroken
ring of white around the animal's irises; eyes open too wide, as if constantly
in a state of surprise. I've found that to be a common trait among many equine
psycho cases. The horse was blithely unaware of my mother, who struggled vainly
with his reins and hadn't yet noticed me or the fact that Epidemic had effortlessly
dragged her some hundred feet from the wash racks to where I was working.
As I watched her struggles, an evil smirk crept over my face, and I forgot
whatever I might have just learned about Epidemic's mental state. Mother finally
looked up, and noticing me, her face darkened for an instant before it settled
into a pleasant, though somewhat strained continence and she said brightly,
"Oh! Hi Alex, I see you've met Epidemic," as if none of the morning's unpleasantries
had occurred." He's got a bit of a mind of his own," she continued as she
straightened out the reins in her hands, regaining her composure and a modicum
of control over the animal who, for the time being seemed content to munch
on the grass at my feet, casting a wary eye on the conversing humans. I decided
to take the preferred olive branch - no good came from fighting with Mom.
I could see where this was headed and wasn't particularly averse. Besides,
it was an excuse to take a break from those cursed saddles. "Big sonuvagun,
looks like he should be pulling a beerwagon or something," I said. "Has he
got any speed?" I asked. "Seems so, but he's rough. Goes where and how he
likes. The trees, the road, the usual hot blooded teenager stuff. But now
the girls are afraid to ride him." she replied. "I was going to get Nando
to take him for a few turns around the grove but I haven't seen him since
he left to get those promo shots taken for the modeling people, so I guess
I'LL just have to give him a try. Can you give me a leg up? I'm not as flexible
as I used to be."
Sheesh! First the peace offering, then the dare, and finally... the coup de
grace... guilt! Where do mothers learn to manipulate their progeny so? "Of
course," I said, "Crimeny Mom, just give me the brain bucket and a leg
up, I never was that flexible and whatchamajiggit here is as tall as me."
Epidemic grunted as I placed my left foot in the interlaced fingers of Mom's
hands, jumped with my right, and heaved my bulk over the animal's back. As
I got situated, feet in the stirrups, reins in my hand and all that, Epidemic
continued to chomp placidly at the bahia through his bit. The sudden addition
of some 260 pounds to his back affected him not one iota. I noted this as
I surveyed the view from my new perch. Mother's face was cast in our shadow,
and her familiar expression issued the same tired and dire warnings about
the horse and the trees and the road which I usually got once she had succeeded
in getting me in the saddle on one of her nut cases. Only this time, there
seemed to be an edge in her voice. Maybe she was still mad at me from this
morning and only being nice to get me to ride her monster. As I contemplated
that possibility, my observation of the horse's unnatural strength went the
way of the one about his eyes. I don't suppose it would have mattered if I
had put together the signs I saw. Things would have turned out the same anyway.
So, with a "click click" of the tongue and a squeeze of the legs I set off
to exercise Epidemic. Only he was having none of it. Not only that. I don't
think he was AWARE of any of it. Save for the sounds of chomping and the occasional
head jerk as the horse pulled at the grass, I might have been on top of a
statue out in front of a library for all the response I was getting. Mom just
smiled and said something about the horse living in its own world, apart from
the rest of us! After two or three bouts of clicking and squeezing, and even
a couple of kicks, it was clear that I wasn't even a nuisance to that beast!
I heaved at the reins, intending to jerk the brute's head from the grass and
get his attention. NOTHING! In fact, he almost pulled me over his shoulders
as he stretched to reach for more grass! Mom smiled on - mutely, thank God.
Okay, it was time to augment my strength with the brains I was supposed to
have! Sure the animal was strong - VERY strong actually. But I knew how to
apply my comparatively meager strength for the most effect. Again, I held
no illusions about our relative strengths, but I figured I could probably
use most of mine to AT LEAST MAKE HIM AWARE OF MY PRESCENCE!. Making him do
MY BIDDING was another task entirely, and I chose not to contemplate how I
intended to do that just yet. First things first.
I choked up on the left rein with both hands, settled my weight into my legs
and feet, and gave a mighty heave. Epidemic's head came up and around slowly
and he regarded the strange troublesome creature on his back with his crazy,
all-around white eyes. I thought I saw a glint of comprehension before he
turned his head forward (almost taking me with it before I had the good sense
to relent) and started trotting off towards the road in front of our ranch
that led to the grove where Mom exercised her horses. I gathered the reins
and my composure, hoping to at least look like I was in some semblance of
control. Looking over my shoulder I caught a glimpse of Mother, who seemed
to be smiling. Hands full of reins and mindful of the ride ahead, I smiled
back, half-triumphantly and half-nervously, not stopping to consider the knowing
look that framed Mom's grin, or its ramifications.
Mark Twain once wrote that if horses knew their strength, men would not ride.
Having been acquainted with one who did (yet another horse and another story),
I heartily agree with Mr. Twain's thesis. I do not think Epidemic knew his
strength, not because he had been conned by clever riders like me (in fact,
he never was), but because he had never met his equal. To my knowledge, no
man or artifact or object of nature ever came between that horse and his goal.
His strength was such that trees and fences and gates and, least of all, men
were never obstacles or even factors in whatever passed for reasoning in his
pea brain. Epidemic pretty much did as he pleased. Most of the time it pleased
him to munch on the grass in the pastures and sometimes it pleased him to
run. The rider was of no consequence to the horse save in the rider's capacity
to SUGGEST to Epidemic that it might please him to run, as I had just done.
I began to come to these realizations as Epidemic trotted ever faster along
the shoulder of the road leading to the grove, under no guidance from me.
Beneath me, tree-like legs pistoned up and down from a barrel chest. Between
the reins a neck as thick as my own body arched, holding a huge head whose
mouth I was beginning to suspect as being completely devoid of tactile nerve
endings. In as much as I had, after great effort, some success in my ability
to move Epidemic's head in the general direction in which I wanted to go,
I began to form my riding strategy around that small advantage. It was a two
step plan:
1) Stay on horse.
2) Attempt to point horse in direction (i.e. away from trees) such that Step
1 remains possible.
After only one close encounter with the white board fence in front of the
house (which, by the way, led to the aforementioned post hole digging later),
I seemed to be executing my plan pretty well. Epidemic was strong, and not
exactly Mr. Ed in the brains department, yet at least he wasn't malicious,
and, like I said before, he did not really pay much attention to the rider
one way or the other. Basically, I just turned his head in the direction I
wanted to go and, bless his big heart, he usually followed it. The main flaw
in my system was that though I could more or less control the horse's direction,
I had not attempted to do so beyond trotting speed and really had no empirical
data on the feasibility of traveing at higher velocities. I also had not given
a lot of consideration TO STOPPING! As it was, steps 1 and 2 were keeping
me pretty busy. I guess I figured if worse came to worst, Epidemic would eventually
tire or get hungry. Worst would be a lot worse than I had anticipated.
Finally clear of the road and the fence, I pointed Epidemic down the row in
the grove that served as the first straight-away of mother's exercise track.
It ran slightly downhill towards the lake, and was some thirty feet across
flanked by orange trees. Near the turn, the grove stopped and ample room was
provided for a wide right turn into the next straight-away along the beach.
I let Epidemic "have his head" as they say, and he took it and his
body away down the row so fast that I was almost left sitting in midair, sans
horse! Fortunately, I managed to grab a handful of mane and claw my way back
into some semblance of a stable riding position. I glanced past my knee and
saw hooves exploding through the loose sandy ground of the grove. I felt the
horse's strides lengthening as he accelerated. Finally, looking up from the
violence of those flashing hooves, past Epidemic's outstretched neck, bobbing
head, and pinned ears, my path through the grove was an indistinct blur. The
trees were green walls. Their ripening fruit extruded into orange streaks
by our ever-increasing speed. In time with my mount's stride, I crept further
forward, my head way up on his neck, my legs locked in a death grip starting
just aft of his withers. I finally drew a breath past gritted teeth and looked
through squinted eyes at the turn into the lakefront stretch as it drew nearer
at an impossible rate. I thought to myself, "Yee-haa".
Here was the reason I continued to ride. Even though it involved so many chores
and inconveniences, nothing gave me the rush that I got from steering over
one thousand pounds of living, breathing flesh, blood and bone around that
course. Later in life, I would feel the same way piloting my sailboat through
heavy weather, the heaving sea beneath my feet and howling wind in my face
taking the place of the horse between my knees. The thrill was not from mere
speed or raw power (my motorcycle was three times faster with presumably one
hundred odd times the power of the single beast I now rode) yet riding my
bike at the edge of the envelope only struck me as stupid. Ironically, mother
was concerned for my physical well being when I rode the Kawasaki, Not so
much with the horses. The only thrill on the bike was the artificial rush
of going fast enough to scare the hell out of yourself. Anyone can twist the
wick and hold on, the results are predictable and were made possible by someone
else's understanding of thermodynamics and mechanics. The interaction between
a horse and rider is more sublime. There is usually some art there when it's
good.
It was not going so good. "Yee-haw" begat "Whuh-oh" as Epidemic and I careered
towards the turn. Oblivious of his rider, the horse was beginning to cheat
into the turn, a fact made all the more poignant to me as leaves and branches
slashed across my body, punctuated by the thumps of unripened fruit bouncing
off my helmet and shoulders. I knew I had to take action lest I be scraped
off by a bough. Cheating into the turn is natural for most horses, not just
head cases, so I was mostly annoyed at the interruption of my reverie rather
than apprehensive. I knew the usual counter, taking a little outside rein
and cueing with my legs (inside knee forward, outside knee back), was a little
too subtle for Epidemic, so I decided to go with Plan B, which had yet to
fail me. Plan B, made possible by my size and strength, was to choke up on
the outside rein, dig in with outside foot and haul the offender's head around
and back towards the center of the course. A little heavy handed to say the
least, but those branches smarted. So I set my foot, got some rein and hauled
around, all the while maintaining my balance as the horse tried to run out
from under me and the trees tried to snatch me. But something was wrong, the
pull was too easy and I suddenly was reeling from that same feeling one gets
when he steps into an unexpected hole. I found myself twisted sideways on
my mount, reins against my chest. I was barely hanging on, with my right hand
buried in Epidemic's mane and my right knee hooked over his withers. THE SADDLE
HAD SLIPPED and I was sliding down towards the same thundering hooves I had
just been admiring.
"Should've checked the cinch," I hissed through clenched teeth as I heaved
myself back over the withers - saddle and all - at once proud of having recovered
from my slip and annoyed at having made it in the first place. I ignored the
fact that I had lost my right stirrup in the slip. Mom had taught us never
to rely on them anyway and I had more pressing matters to attend to, the stirrup
could wait. Buoyed by my recovery from my gaffe, I redoubled my efforts to
regain control of the horse. Stirrups or not, I clenched my legs around him,
dug my heels in and got a death grip on his mane with my right hand. Epidemic
got the message, but the wrong one. I felt him dig in, stretch out and angle
even tighter into the turn. The branches were getting thick now, and disconcertingly
close, they bothered Epidemic not a whit. My revised plan was pretty simple;
lean down and become one with the horse and hold on for dear life. It had
worked in the past, eventually they all tired, or at least got hungry I thought
and hoped. I figured as long as I stayed low enough, I'd make it through wherever
the horse thought he could run. I neglected to consider the fact that this
particular horse did not really think much, especially when it came to running.
The beginning of the end came with a crack, as the top of my helmet struck
an arm-thick branch.
The horrible instant following the crack during which I was wondering how
much of the crack was orange tree branch, and how much was my neck was curtailed
by my feeling of being knocked back and up. The horse was bouncing under my
tail bone in a way that was completely unnatural and, for what it was worth,
my sensation of it reassured me that my spinal cord was still intact. I saw
a quick montage of images: tree, sky, tree, horse, earth, and then black as
I struck the ground.
"Badadump, badadump, badadump," was what I heard as I regained my senses.
Damn horse. The sound of Epidemic's hooves faded, leaving me listening to
the pounding of my heart. "Well," I thought, "that's a good sign," as I began
to take stock of my condition. Fingers and toes wiggled OK so I decided to
try my eyes. I opened them and saw nothing. Shocked, I gasped, and got a mouthful
of sand for my trouble. My head had been buried up to my shoulders in the
soft sugar sand of the grove. Upon extracting my head and sitting back, I
found I could both see and, with some effort, breathe. Looking back up the
course, I surveyed the scene of my demise, noting the fresh tracks and broken
branches. I sat near my apparent point of impact, at the apex of a confused
furrow in the sand, some twenty feet from the nearest hoofprints. Except for
the tuft of mane still clenched in my right hand, there was no other sign
of Epidemic. Damn horse!
As I labored to trudge through the same viscous sand that Epidemic and I had
so recently flown over, the galvanizing effect of my adrenaline started to
wane and the pain began to make itself known. The usual stuff - neck, shoulders,
back - was there, and though the pain was unpleasant, it did not really bother
me THAT much. I'd been thrown before. That was the price one pays for miscues
or inattention to a high strung mount. You "walk it off" and get
back on the horse like the old saying goes. This time there was a different
kind of pain, really more anguish. If it had any physical manifestation at
all, I would attribute to it a slight discomfort in the pit of my gut. It
was not just the usual shame or embarrassment one felt after being bested
by a horse. I came to realize that the uncertain, queasy feeling I was experiencing
started when I first lost control of Epidemic and it was exasperated by one
thing I had worked so hard to deny. For if I would have accepted it, it would
have meant conceding that I had no business being on that horse in the first
place. The fact of the matter was, I WAS NEVER IN CONTROL of Epidemic. I had
never been so impotent or inconsequential to a mount, and THAT shook me. It
SCARED me. Fear was one feeling I was loath to ever feel around a horse. Horses
can sense it in their riders and it emboldens them. Sure, I'd been apprehensive
before, about bucking or biting or being thrown. But I could usually counter
those behaviors and carry on. I could do NOTHING OF THE SORT with Epidemic.
He would do as he pleased and I was like the saddle - just another minor bother.
I shuddered to think of what might have happened if Epidemic had actually
decided to cause me harm. Cognizant of (though not at all comfortable with)
my newly realized stature in the world of horses and men, I plodded on through
the orange grove, wondering if I would indeed get back up on Epidemic and
thinking about the lesson I had just learned. Damn horse.
COMMENTS! You can see that my Sonny Boy should have
been a fiction writer! Surely it wasn't that bad to be careening through the
woods with an uncontrollable steed. But there are lessons to be learned here.
Keep rank horses in a confined area UNTIL YOU KNOW YOU CAN HANDLE THEM. Horses
like Epidemic should only be handled by professionals and they may decide
that this kind of horse is too dangerous to train. SAFETY MUST BE YOUR NUMBER
ONE GOAL. I would know better than to try and train a horse like that today.
At the time, we were younger and less experienced. Since I've been preaching
that horse training can be a family affair, I'll see if my other son will
write an article for the next newsletter. Of course now that they're over
twenty one, they may be planning to charge me with child abuse! Seriously,
all of the children have come back to me as adults and assured me that the
experience of having to work together and keeping the farm going prepared
them for the real world. They learned responsibility early and shouldered
it well. Feeding three times a day (rain or shine), walking colicky horses,
mending fences and maintaining trucks and trailers, breaking and training
the youngsters, being humiliated time and time again when we would lose -
all of this went into the fabric of their childhood. It gave them a good perspective
on life. YOU DON'T WIN ALL THE TIME. BUT WHEN YOU DO WIN... WHAT A HIGH! And
they know from experience that you've got to be in the body of the race to
have a shot at winning! Editor - Mom