The Horse Path

A few reflections on (surprise!) horses, and (God help me) emotions

For some reason, I have a lot of memories concentrated along one particular stretch of Pimlico racetrack; not even the track itself, but what we called “the horse path”, which, as the name implies—er, states outright, really—was, you know, a path. For horses. Specifically, a longish stretch of sandy dirt laid over the blacktop of the parking lots, threading the barn area and out to the racetrack itself.

I may have been the only freelance rider I knew who preferred riding on the “old” side; there were also barns on the opposite side of the track, the “new” side. I’m not sure what year that side was built; it was plenty older’n me anyway, but the “new” side it would remain, in relation to the original, the old, forever and ever, amen. Most freelance exercise riders (those who got paid per “head”) preferred the new side, because the barns were nestled right up against the track itself. A rider could make a better hustle over there, getting on more horses in a short amount of time.

I, however, was, and am, thoroughly my father’s daughter, particularly when it comes to Opinions about horses, and I have generally been willing in my life to make less money in exchange for greater job satisfaction, if I have to choose. Anyway, I wasn’t freelancing to hustle, just to avoid having an official “boss”. I liked the free part of freelancing; if a trainer got too lippy with me (as horse trainers are apt to do at times), I could just tell him or her to get bent and pick up more work for someone else. I never once actually did that, sweet young lass that that I was, but the knowledge that I could do it at any time was very comforting to my authority-averse soul.

Anyway, the horse path. Opinions. I liked the path because it was more fitted to what a horse is; a creature, not a machine. That stretch of dirt was a kind of liminal zone, for before and after the actual “training” (though with horses, as with children; if you’re interacting at all, it’s best to remember that in a sense you are always training, whether you’re mindful of what you are teaching or not). In theory, at least, there was a rule that the path was just for walking (a rule we all bent from time to time when trying to squeeze in one last set before the harrow break, just kinda casually trotting the last little stretch, no big thing). Still, as a rule, thems the rules. That longish walk was an opportunity to make the acquaintance of a new horse, or to feel out the mood and physical state of an old friend for a bit, before we officially got underway.

The leisurely saunter back was even more important, in my view. I didn’t like the assembly-line energy, the rapid handoffs of the new side; like me and the horse just swept onto the track, trained, and then hurtled back straight into the hands of their groom or hotwalker, while I jumped off and basically, turned around and got an immediate leg-up onto another horse. I liked a little time to just hang out with my coursers, thanks; giving them a little slack in the reins and encouraging them to relax, while we ambled back…admittedly, most racehorses are none too amble-y, but they can steadily grow more relaxed even as they are strutting and bouncing a bit on the way home. They’ll drop their heads, gently mouthing their bits, and their stride will get bigger and looser, and you can feel their back relaxing and swinging more freely under the saddle. Eventually, perhaps they’ll take a lovely deep breath that comes out like a contented sigh or snort, a sound that always made me smile with satisfaction. There’s not much better than hopping off in the barn and seeing that happy, relaxed look in a horse’s eye; the look of a horse who is enjoying their life and our working relationship.

There it is in a nutshell, I suppose; for me, that long path made the difference between a horse as a “head” for $15 and a horse as a kind of working buddy. It gave me all the more time to strike up a rapport and relate to them more like a trainer; thoughtfully, patiently, with an eye toward their good, both then and there at the track, and, thinking ahead, for their possibility of a second career later. It was obviously beneficial for them to learn how to relax and just take a stroll with a rider. Racehorses are very fit, and generally, they are positively crackling with energy, like at any moment they may start sending off sparks. Getting them to relax required some intentionality; it went against the grain, you could say.

Sometimes, there were literal sparks flying. I mentioned that the path was just overlaying blacktop; there was a big parking lot on one side, and sometimes, when horses got squirrely, they would wind up departing the path and skittering across the tarmac, which was less than ideal for many reasons. For one thing, horses are absolute sillies, and a horse who is already overreacting to something (possibly just the voices in its head), doesn’t tend to calm down when suddenly every step is loudly clattering and sending sparks flying from their shoes. They also tend to slip and fall when doing acrobatics upon a paved surface. To make it even more fun, if there were other horses anywhere near on the path at the time, the racket tended to alarm them and set off a chain reaction, which, of course, just propelled the original trouble maker into further ever-escalating hysterics. And so on. Oh, and remember, this was a parking lot, so, there were of course cars. Thus there was the added challenge of trying not to careen straight into one of those. And yes, a thoroughly freaking-out horse absolutely will run straight into things. Or sideways into things. Or backwards.

Come to think of it, maybe I can sympathize a bit after all, with why some riders didn’t care for that path and would just as soon shorten the time they spent navigating over and around the blacktop and cars. It was admittedly dicey at times, with certain horses.

I liked it, though. And most of those dicey times worked out just fine. 9 outta 10 of us were (at least) pretty good riders, and usually the very silliest of horses were being ridden (thankfully) by people who were considerably better than pretty good. Those were the guys who would often be laughing and singing in the very midst of the wildest near misses, and while I personally was not one for belting out songs before other people, I would laconically mutter “whoops-a-daisy!” or somesuch in the midst of a rodeo, which works just as well and is an attitude I learned at the racetrack. Watching the insanely good riders out of the corner of my eye taught me a lot. That particular demographic was pretty much all men anywhere from ten to thirty years older than me, and they tended to whoop and yell encouragement at us younger riders (especially the girls, needless to say) when we were the ones having some excitement. Some of the newer girls disliked that; I didn’t, it was all in good fun and there’s nothing quite like the camaraderie of an older man yelling “ride ‘em, cowgirl! yee-haw!” at you when you genuinely have your hands full, making you laugh, even while his horse is erupting in the other direction. I suppose if you’re disinclined to laughter, it may have been less helpful, but thankfully, a disinclination to laugh has never been among my (many) personal flaws.

There’s a paradoxical trick to controlling a panicking or near-panicking, explosive horse, especially in a delicate situation like that with hazards abounding and other people to consider; you have to gracefully accept a certain lack of control, or you will lose all control. Very similar to the way you don’t fight for control of a car that’s skidding on ice, you could say. If a horse, for example, starts leaping around and plunging sideways and you’re headed right for a car, frantically attempting to wrench them off course will just make them go faster and harder, in a flight mode reaction to you now as much as whatever set them off in the first place. Best case, they slip and fall down in the struggle on the blacktop before they get the opportunity to body-slam a car or a building, though you’ll probably both get hurt in that scenario, too.

This is why singing and laughing helps; or at least a general nonchalance, allowing you to employ a casual course correction, executed more like friendly authoritative advice than genuine concern, with a manner that implies nothing that is underway is actually a big deal. Horses are very much like children in this respect; they need you to be unflappable. You need to pay close attention, but relaxed, like. Utter insouciance is the ideal to aim at; think Tom Bombadil with the hobbitcidal Old Man Willow or the barrow-wight. That’s the correct energy to bring to riding racehorses.

As to the how of that, well, I dunno, you just kinda look more towards where you want to go and not too hard or directly at the stuff you’re about to smash into if you can’t get this horse under control, and you guide them as strongly as you can before reaching the tipping point of counter-resistance, which you just have to feel out. So you roll with it, and it’ll be fine, 9 3/4% guaranteed. Occasionally, it’s not fine, but what good has worrying ever done any one? Usually, it’s the worriers and control freaks who get in trouble here, fighting their horses instead of doing this other thing.

Sheesh, this is starting to sound almost…Zen. I am not Zen. That’s not my point at all, but I’d go so far as to say, that the deemphasizing of one’s emotional state is genuinely wise. Which brings me to my actual train of thought here, in writing about the horse path and all the fun and excitement of dodging cars.

We live in a bit of a strange time for the management of feelings, it seems to me. On the one hand, we’ve never talked about feelings more (I, for one, would like that to stop). There is a lot of encouragement to dwell upon, examine, and even “trust” or “follow” our feelings, whether it’s actively nursing our grievances, or literally building an identity out of our desires or how we “feel” about our bodies. At the very same time, we’re encouraged to cauterize so much of what was once, aptly, called “proper” feeling; like, say, bonding with someone with whom one is enjoying amorous congress. Etc.

Since my teens, with all those times on the horse path, learning how to steer confidently but with a light hand, I’ve thought that this is really a rather helpful analogy for controlling my own…((shudder))…feelings. That initial surge of emotions that rush in when life happens, they are no more perfectly under my control than a combustible horse, but in both cases, I do have the obligation and (happily!) the ability to respond skillfully, appropriately, to steer away from danger and keep my eyes on where I want to be. Horses and feelings both tend to sort themselves out after a bit with a confident rider who doesn’t ignore them but doesn’t pay them too much mind, either. And in both cases, singing, laughing, joking around with others, and graciously accepting a bit of well-meant grief from your elders can help.

Look at me, writing a reasonable length essay. Thank you, gentle readers, for indulging my whimsy. I hope that one or two of you may actually find this imagery oddly helpful, as I do! In any event, I needed to dust off my quill and write, so, this is what y’all got today off the cuff.

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For once, I wasn’t directly inspired by a song for this piece, but here’s what I was listening to as I was wrapping up, current mood. Along with this. And one more.

…one more. Ok bye now.