Lodestar Eventing

Getting Ready To Throw A Tantrum

The time has come for Monster to repay her dues. I remember when she was the newbie to the mean streets, being shepherded round by the Naughty Pony. She soon went on to solo outings, and apart from a few tantrums on the Ribble restraining wall brought on by the sight of bad golfing slacks – and frankly who can blame anyone for that – she has turned into a bombproof little mare. She has literally ridden and jumped alongside the M6 on Boxing Day meets.

The Naughty Pony is no more. So it is now up to Monster to shepherd the rookie, Mabe. Or that’s the idea. Stroppy mare has other ideas.

What’s the secret of comedy? Timing*.

Lull rider into a false sense of security by mooching along, head in the air, wandering vaguely in whatever direction your head is pointing, looking in awe and wonder at the countryside. Cars, walkers in dodgy short/boot combinations, cattle byres, complete with sprightly bullocks appearing out of nowhere, all taken in her stride.

But lo! What is this beastly piece of wriggly tin roof fly tipped down a narrow and muddy bridleway. This is the perfect point to start napping. Back into Mabe who thinks that if Monster is scared then it must be bad. This is no time for pissing about, especially when the stick you didn’t bring because you never need it is back in the trailer.

Cue muddy boots and jeans for the sake of 100 yards of snorting and stroppy behaviour. Once back on dry land she’s as good as gold again, and no-doubt pleased with herself for causing maximum inconvenience.

Witch.

* there are those who suggest “schadenfreude”. They may have a point.

Scopey

Should she do dressage, showjumping, or even a bit of eventing? It’s nice to have the luxury of tough choices sometimes.

This was an impromptu jumping lesson, and not too shoddy for a young ‘un.

Can I Eat That?

Well, the six weeks are up. The good news is that the final diagnosis was only, “only!”, a thoroughpin — another new word for my vocabulary — and Monster can be brought back into work. She has to be brought back gently mind, so the rest of the season is a write off, but at least we’re mobile again.

The bad news is that I’m currently working two hundred miles away from stables so only get to ride her at weekends. Her first hack after receiving the all clear and once the roads were sufficiently clear of snow and she was up for a proper canter, even her hunting bit was barely strong enough. That’s a horse that doesn’t know what is good for it!

Still, only seeing her at weekends she’s not quite so aloof as she can be when I see her every day. The first weekend back after five days away and I was on the receiving end of a properly pleased whinny when I shoved my head round the stable door. She’s even condescending to be groomed!

My Trek is written off, my Pompino has a shagged rear wheel (yes, still), my Hunter (the bike) is going through a puncture spate to match the last days of the dog and his wheelchair (if you were at SSUK 07 you’ll know).

I’ve also been very slack about bike riding this year, just 700 miles. But if I want at any time between Kirsty and I there are enough bikes in working order that I can get out for a ride. Only laziness and availability of alternatives is stopping me from setting to the inner tubes with the Tip Top or rebuilding a wheel, the work of but an evening, with beer.

But now it turns out that Monster has a “bog spavin on her hock”. This means two things.

Firstly the horse world really can compete with mountain biking for impenetrable jargon.

Secondly the bloody thing can’t be ridden for 6 weeks. I could get a custom frame built and made up in less time. Provided it’s not a Hunter or a Jones, obviously. The decision whether to ride or not is out of my hands. Like a child hoarding toys, when you can’t have something what do you want? That’s right, what you can’t have.

Just as cycling is always better larking about with mates so is the horse riding and this is the time of year to be enjoying riding – start when crops come in, stop when lambs come out. When the bloody thing comes right the first two weeks are ‘light work only’ i.e. on my own, and by then the season will be over. We’re missing Boxing Day, and at least three meets in what I like to call hedge country. A joint favourite of Monster and I.

Kirsty used to have a horse that went lame, and I was always sympathetic, but now I know just how frustrating it is I realise that my sympathy always fell short of the mark.

She not that sympathetic that I can call on Mabel as a second string though. Mabel is too young and inexperienced to borrow, so pleas of “oh go on, let me take Mabel, we can do a non-jumping meet, we’ll be good” are falling on deaf ears. Actually even if she did call my bluff and say I could take Mabel then I might have to do an about face, because, well, she’s just not Monster.

I always used to offer her Monster to ride when her old horse went lame, so right now I fully understand why she used to turn it down. It’s not like a borrowing a bike. No matter how old and worn and just right and yours a bike gets it’s still ‘just a bike’.

Half the fun of riding a horse is riding “that” horse because you know that you’ve forged a relationship and it’s going to jump that hedge because it’s you that have asked it and over the years it has come to trust you and you’re actually a team.

I always used to say last winter that even when I was riding the horse every weekend I was still a cyclist underneath. Now I’m not so sure. At least I know which meets will be good to follow by bike – I’m not fast enough across country on foot or shanks-pony to lay the trail – so maybe I can still go up and watch and crave sympathy from 40 odd people.

That said, ‘throwing a horse over a hedge’ and ‘throwing a bike over a hedge’ convey the same intent, but you just know that one is a lot less glamorous and far more literal than the other.

Monster is obviously pissed off too. Here I am a forty-something man having to cuddle and re-assure half a ton of meat to try and cheer the bloody thing up!