Long time gone

Before last night, it had been a month since I'd gotten into the saddle. I had a chance to ride in Arizona, when work dropped me at a resort with riding among its recreational options, but the horses were unimpressive and the ride would've been bland for the price (walking only, doubtless head-to-tail, one hour). I stopped by to check out the facilities, which consisted of a dusty trailer, a picnic table, a horseshoe pitch, and an open lot. If the definition of injustice doesn't include housing 30 horses on a bare dirt lot with run-in sheds and water tanks, while not one hundred feet away sits an emerald-green golf course watered to within an inch of its life, I want to know what it does include. Also, that kind of course in a desert feels like a particularly blatant misuse of a scarce resource, but then again I took a luxurious bath and looked longingly at the pool so I don't really get to soapbox.

ANYway. Horses. Week the first, I was hacking sick instead of hacking out, week two we got a super-slick coating of ice that would've made driving the twisty roads up to the stables a dance with skiddy death, week three class was canceled for sport (Pat has season tickets to something), and week four I called in panicked about packing for an early-morning flight the next day. Et voila, a month was gone. I hate missing riding; it's my mental reset, an hour or so when I know that I will be happy regardless of any frustrating things that might happen or any wild freaks by my partner.

Lear was off the roster last night, so I went for Grayson, the groundmannerless App who is much easier to ride as long as you know how to manage his homi- and equicidal impulses—very jealous of his personal space is Mister Grayson. We did fairly well together—perfection is beyond us—and even managed to get in a canter where he picked up his weaker lead, by dint of bending him almost in half before cuing him forward. If you can see past his flashy black-and-white leopard spots, he's very well configured, but as a schoolie he doesn't always get pushed to work correctly, so one side is weaker. He seems to enjoy dressage, although there's always a shaking-out process in the first few minutes when he decides whether he'll take you seriously. The fact that I get on carrying the whip goes a long way toward expediting his decision.

After class, I watched one of the barn staff work with Lear. She's phenomenally fit and a beautiful rider (she'll shortly be taking off to work as a student trainer at a Grand Prix barn, and while I don't know much about the dressage levels, I do know that that one's impressive), and she's brought Lear along a treat. Now that she's leaving, she worries that he won't be given enough training, so Pat and I floated the idea of having me work more often with the big galoot. I am not half the rider she is, and the work would be on my own rather than in class, but it could help keep his body and brain engaged enough to prevent him from getting spastic with the more feckless young hunter students. Any benefits to my riding would be purely coincidental.

I don't feel for Lear the affection I feel for Doc. Wary respect and willingness to be pleased when he tries are about as far as it goes. He's filled out and become quite handsome, but I still can't connect with him on a warmer level. If he goes for sale, I won't be eyeing the price-tag; in the meantime, get what you can. Pat says we work well together and that we even look good together, so that's as much as I can expect.