Horses, Capoeira, and Cycling

For my ninth birthday, my grandfather gave me a beautiful two-year-old Appaloosa mare. Anyone who was a pre-adolescent girl is probably familiar with the love affair many girls have with horses and ponies—so this gift was a young girl’s dream come true. Little did I know at the time (or for many years to come) the profound effect this love affair would have on my life.

With input from my mother, the mare was named “Pillbox.” She was black and white with large black spots similar to a pattern used on the pillbox hats that were popular in the 1960s. After quickly learning the willful ways of this feisty mare, she was simply called “Pill.” A feisty, untrained horse is a lot to handle—especially for a nine-year-old girl. Thus, she was taken to a trainer to be “saddle broke.” (As an adult, I find it interesting, confusing, and disturbing that “breaking” a horse is the term used for training.)

In multiple sessions during that cold Montana spring, I witnessed the trainer slowly preparing “Pill” for the acceptance of a saddle. Her resistance was obvious, as I watched the trainer use a subtle combination of quiet patience and absolute authority. I was fascinated with this process, and though the authority the trainer exerted over “Pill” often hurt my juvenile feelings—I somehow understood the necessity for such command.

Once “Pill” was willing to deal with a saddle and rider on her back, it was my turn to learn to ride her. This was where my love affair took a turn toward the frightening:

It was a cool morning in early April when I was to mount “Pill” for the first time. My stomach was twisted and all I could hear was my heart pounding as the trainer helped me up into the saddle. It took me less than sixty seconds to find myself sailing through the air and landing hard in the dirt. I was not hurt, but the near immediate ejection and fright left me choking back tears that I was too embarrassed to let loose.

I had hardly settled in the dirt, when the trainer turned to me and barked, “Get back over here and get on. NOW!” I had not even a second to feel sorry for myself, wonder what happened, or wonder why I was getting back on the bucking bronco that had just thrown me. I was back in the saddle and scared shitless.