My Cowboy Days Are Over

“Do you remember the first time?” That’s the question Jarvis Cocker posed. While he may have been enquiring about a rather different life event the sentiment of his own response, that he couldn’t remember a worse time stands for my equine experience.

My first horse ride was also my last. It was a riding centre in the Lake District and, in our mid 20s, we were the only adults in a horde of excitable children. My mate, who had ridden as a child, suggested it after seeing a leaflet.

I was introduced to horse; it looked dangerous up there on its back. However, horse also looked old and decrepit, the lack of any visible exuberance was OK by me. I received various instructions to keep it in line, stop it eating those plants, be firm with it. Horse didn’t listen and we quickly came to an understanding; it would do whatever it liked and I would let it.

While riding the weather worsened with thunder and lightning accompanying the steady drizzle. The fact that it was June was of no relevance to the four seasons in one day weather system of the English Lake District. I was the only person that seemed worried by the downturn in conditions, the kids loved it, they weren’t as far off the ground as I was.

After 90 minutes of miserable traipsing around the lakeland fells we returned to the stables, my relief at surviving the ride was palpable. It was also premature. I had one foot out of a stirrup when there was one more rumble of thunder, one last flash of lightning and horse lost it. With a hitherto unsuspected turn of speed we were off, horse spotted an open gate into the fields and locked on course. Already in the process of dismounting I was left hanging over its side, one foot stuck in a stirrup, the other leg waving above me while my hands clung desperately to the saddle. Time slowed down, the whole course of events took a few seconds but I had time to process everything, the sense of danger sure sharpens the senses.

I noted horse’s intention and the gate post rapidly coming my way. It was a narrow gate and though horse would easily go through it I wasn’t sure my novel riding position would allow me free passage. Assessing the gap I decided whatever happened this was going to be painful but I’d prefer to take my chances with the ground. Freeing my foot I had a brief sensation of flying rudely interrupted by bouncing off the ground, into a wall and somehow, in one seemless movement, ending up on my feet shaking but amazed at the lack of immediate pain. Checking my body was unbroken the children stared on in awe at my impromptu stunt riding demonstration and my mate fell about laughing.

Other than the vivid purple bruising that appeared down my entire left side by the following morning I somehow emerged physically unscathed but the mental scars still linger. There’s no way I’m ever getting up there again. My cowboy days over before they ever began.

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