Why I Don't Ride Horses.

There’s a certain amount of humility that’s forced upon you when you fall off a horse.

I’ve always been an awkward girl, completely gawky and unable to shift the simplest movements in anything other than an uncoordinated mess. Walking was difficult; running was impossible. Riding a horse was something that was so implausible that in its implausibility it had become plausible. It was a paradox that swallowed me whole and spat me on top of a horse, terrified and clinging to the saddle horn.


Every time I rode, I would be hit with the same pattern of emotions. The fear would be immediate, followed shortly after by a rush of adrenaline. This adrenaline- quite possibly the worst feeling to ever course through my veins- would consume me, leave me heart pounding too fast and my thoughts too slow. I would be hit with another round of fear, which I would simmer in until the ride was over.


Samantha, one of my closest friends, loved her horses. She pet them and fed them and rode them daily. She knew all their names and would go outside to care for them even if it was raining. While I knew this was mandatory when owning animals, I still found it difficult to remember to give Laurence fresh water each day, preferring to spill water bottles on clean floors when he complained (yes, Humane Society, I have overcome this stage in my life). Samantha, however, would fill up tubs of water for seven horses two times a day, and still care for her deer and dogs and cats.


Along with having to help with the occasional horse fence, being a friend of Samantha’s meant learning how to ride a horse. Or, in my case, pretending to learn while really just clinging on for dear life, crying desperately if the animal went faster than what I could walk myself. This was a fairly well thought out plan, and had as many benefits as it did issues.


One day, however, this neat little world we created for ourselves shattered into one, bloody mess. We were riding with two other friends who understood what to do to understand the beasts, and as usual I was lagging behind. I always preferred one of Samantha’s older horses, Lucy, who would rather eat than move and could only force her body to move a tedious speed similar to my own. She ran down hills and walked slowly uphill, and never moved half as fast as what I could handle. It was lovely.


Unfortunately, my group with the skills despised how slow we maneuvered ourselves. Sighing, they stopped their horses while mine continued at her slow pace. I hadn’t quite learned to make them stop. Devin, the lone boy we were riding with, stopped my horse by a mere look (he might have done more. My memories have become slightly exaggerated with time). Quickly motioning at me, I slid off. Dismounting was the one thing I had down to a science. I loved to feel the ground, steady, beneath my feet.


“Why don’t you get on Dixie?” Dixie was a 15-hand Paint that was unruly and terrifying. I swallowed.


“Lucy’s fine by me,” I wasn’t begging. I wouldn’t beg. He raised an eyebrow, and I changed my mind. I would beg. “Seriously-”


“Just ride Dixie,” Samantha said.


I nodded, shaky, and allowed them to help me up. She was so much taller than Lucy, already anxiously stepping back and forth


I stayed behind them, hoping Dixie would understand to do what her horse pals in front of her did. They started riding, and Dixie ran on her own accord, much faster than I’d ever expected. I could barely breathe.


I didn’t think life could get much worse than that. I was clinging, my fingers digging into her skin as I shook. The saddle was swaying back and forth, not tight enough, not right.


I looked up, and noticed that they were far ahead of me. “Hey guys!” they didn’t reply. “Hey! This saddle is really loose!”


They yelled things that were supposed to make me feel better, but really only made my fear more prominent.


And then, in one swift motion that I barely noticed until I was one the ground, the saddle slid under the belly of the horse, and I was flying through the air.


I knew I was going to die. I accepted this fact every time I sat on a horse, and this ride was no different. I wasn’t surprised to feel myself flinging through the air at an unnatural velocity. What I was surprised about, however, was the way my body was moving. I was soaring through the air, rolling and doing summersaults my body couldn’t do with its normal maneuvering.


When I landed, I rolled a few more times, my arms flung around my face to protect it. I hit a hard patch on the ground and eventually my rolling stopped. I lay there, flat on my back, hearing my friends calling for me. I couldn’t talk, not yet, but was breathing fairly evenly.


“I’m alive,” I muttered, slowly sitting up. My body protested. My friends were staring at me, their eyes wide and their mouths quirking. I glared at them, and they started laughing hysterically.


I was bleeding, my skin was on the rocks around me, and my friends were laughing.


That was the last time I ever rode a horse.