Girlish Dreams

Is there anything more depressing than a trail ride? Straddling an overweight horse with ill-adjusted stirrups and a beaten spirit for a trudge through the brush makes me delirious with frustration. Horses were not made for trail rides. The reason every little girl draws and dreams of horses is because of the beauty and freedom these powerful animals represent. But often her first experience with the real thing is on a trail ride where those idealistic fantasies are smothered as she sits horrified watching the horse in front of her defecate lazily on her steed's proud nose.

As you probably guessed, I was one of those horse-crazy little girls. I wished on every bright star in the sky for a horse when I was young. My indulgent parents took pity on me and boarded an ill-tempered pony one fall so I could realize my dream. But it turned out that Peppermint the Pony had unplumbed mental illnesses that involved eating his own poop and lashing out at every living creature within 100 feet. After recovering him from various neighbors' half-eaten flower beds and acquiring delightful bruised tailbones from his incorrigible bucking habit, my parents sent Peppermint packing back to the barn to disillusion some other bright-eyed little girl.

But hope is a hard thing to kill. I scrimped and saved and a few years later proudly presented my parents with $90 to help pay for riding lessons at the local stable. Now keep in mind this was Connecticut where English riding is the vogue so I obligingly donned the geeky hat, uncomfortable stirrup pants and joined a beginner's group lesson - eager to become the next Atreyu or Alec. Class after class we rode slowly around an indoor corral on those mind-numbingly slow horses. English riding is founded on looking snotty so we spent weeks just walking the horses to perfect our ridged postures and upturned chins. After what seemed a lifetime we moved on to trotting. But our instructor made us post to prevent us from having to feel the crude back of a horse under our privileged white bread butts so it was as exciting as doing squats for an hour.

I was going nuts. This was not what I had anticipated when I handed my hard earned $90 to my dad. Where was the abandon? The glamour? Or at least the sun? Every day of class I would look wistfully out the large dusty windows of our indoor arena at the lush New England forest and dream of dashing my horse out the door and into the trees, helmet akimbo. But somehow self-control won out and week after week I grimly trotted around that dim ring. On the very last day of my 6 month long enrollment, the instructor allowed the one boy in the class to try his luck at cantering. The rest of us watched fascinated as he glided smoothly past us hugging his legs tight to his horse and bent low over its neck. I have never been so jealous of anyone in my life. Never.

We moved to Texas soon after and I was shocked to learn that some of my new friends owned horses of their own that they rode at their pleasure. At 13 I found myself one beautiful twilight in the wide open Texas brushland on a mangy mustang who didn't care if I slouched and would rather I didn't post when he trotted. (Alas, to this day I can't break the habit!) My friend and I were late getting back to the house and she suggested we make a break for it. "But I've never run a horse before..." I said. She gave me a disgusted "don't be stupid" look and told me just to kick the horse and hold on. Which I did. Suddenly I was flying over the brush towards the sunset with the wind in my ears and a grin wrapped clear around my skull. My grip on the reigns was treacherous and one of my feet had popped out of the stirrups but panic and rapture glued me to that horse and got me home safely. Despite the short ride, I kept my wings all evening. Sadly, we returned ho,e the next day and I wasn't able to relive the previous night's magic.

I have since gone on one million and one "trail rides" and feel ripped off every time. After that amazing yet brief experience of elation in the Texas brushland, I've never been satisfied with anything less than a gallop. But most of us modern schmos will never get that opportunity. My husband's family even owns horses but they live on a side of a mountain covered with rocks and running is considered too dangerous. But those horses sure know how to walk. Whoo-ee! Nothing as exciting as a nice walk on a horse! (Can you smell the sarcasm?) Nope - I'm done with walking horses. I'd rather not ride at all than be stuck on a trail ride. Besides, I can walk faster than most horses so why bother getting my legs all saddle sore? It's like going back to soft serve ice cream after you've tried Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia. Utterly pointless.

I'm not too old yet and may get another shot at glory on a horse, but I'm not holding my breath. Unlike on those darn trail rides where if you don't hold your breath the inner membranes of your nostrils are fatally seared. So next time we go to Cancun together and you think the "trail ride up to the ruins" expedition looks like fun, count me out. I'll be back in my hotel room scribbling pictures of sausages resembling horses running the range beneath perfect rainbows and puffy clouds. You know - the real thing.