The Barn Horse – A Memoir

It’s a hot August day in an arena with no shade and no breeze, not unusual for the Texas arenas we have been traveling to and from over several years for amateur hunter/jumper competitions. Horse competition at this level is hot, dirty work for the rider and the rider’s family. The day was one of those days, made more difficult by the recent unexpected, heart wrenching loss of our daughter’s prize thoroughbred, “Aramis.” He was a grey, seventeen-hand tall, five-year old thoroughbred who we all loved dearly. Nevertheless, our family’s love of horses and Molly’s love of riding competitively have brought us to the arena today.

Molly, a high school senior, is coming off a near perfect state championship ride on Aramis, just a few short months ago. She is now atop “Warren,” a horse we rather hastily acquired after losing Aramis. I have confidence in Molly as a veteran competitor of more than seven years, even at the young age of eighteen. I am watching her and Warren warm up in the arena and Warren is a little sketchy. He is resisting Molly’s instructions much like he has over the last month of their working together. She and her trainer have spent many hours using proven training techniques to get Warren’s head straight, searching for that sweet, rhythmic cadence that marks the horse and rider partnership required of the best competitors. We all keep thinking, just one more training session, just one more and he will come around and become Molly’s partner. Maybe that’ll be this particular day.

I can feel the butterflies in my stomach, not the normal ones of “will she set her jumps properly, maintain the pace, stay on course?” These butterflies are more about, “will he follow Molly’s queues; is he ready for competition?” Worst of all, “Is this horse dangerous?” These feelings scare me.

During a break, I ask Molly, “Is everything ok? Is he ready?” She shows me a smile and a nod as she pats Warren’s neck and tells him the things a horse needs to hear to calm and steady themselves – the things that Aramis always responded to. I look at her closely for any clues of concern or lack of confidence on her face. I don’t see any, but Molly is a poker player, always has been. She is tough with a spirit that matches her mount. I sighed and thoughtfully decided to pass on telling her to stand down and take Warren to the barn. I convinced myself that Warren would be ok though it was now clear, he was not and maybe never would be, the horse Aramis was.

Anyone who has ever owned a horse or been around horse people for long, learns that some horses have a kind, even caring nature about them while others are more enigmatic, some to the point of having a bad attitude. A horse with a bad attitude belongs in the pasture or in the barn being taught how to behave without anyone on his back. This is what I am asking at this moment. “Does Warren belong in the barn or the arena with my daughter on his back?”

It is soon time for Molly’s ride. She enters the arena at a slow canter. A head jerk and a blow from Warren isn’t unusual. So far, so good, both rider and horse are moving steadily forward. They trot on at a good pace as she begins to line him up for the first jump. Warren knows the first jump is coming and I can see he is getting a little excited. Molly feels it and tugs gently on the reins to get him into position to take the first jump. They hit a nice stride and clear it cleanly. The same process follows for the second jump without any problem. They will need to make a slight right turn of about 45⁰ to get into position for the third jump. Warren does not want to take the bit as he skate’s wide losing time, but Molly gets him back online and they take the jump in stride. I really don’t like Warren’s body language at this point. He is fighting the bit, bobbing his head. If I could see Molly’s face, I would know more but I can’t get a good look at her face. I know that she knows she now has five-seven seconds to make up if she is going to win this thing, and I know her – she rides to win. If she were riding Aramis, I would be rooting for the win too, but she is not on Aramis. She is on Warren, and I am saying aloud, “be safe, just be safe.”

They are headed to the fifth of eight jumps. The first four jumps ease the horse and rider into the round. It is a junior level, amateur competition after all, so that is appropriate. The final, eighth jump is set up as a straight away, a kind of reward to the horse and rider. The fifth-seventh jumps are the toughest, the jumps that typically win or lose the competition.

The fifth jump is an offset distance, requiring the rider to either slow or speed the horse to adjust the stride as needed for the rail. They won’t clear the jump if they don’t change their pace. Molly chooses to speed Warren’s pace, no doubt remembering that five-seven seconds lost on the third jump. She makes the fifth jump without incident, but Warren is getting hot. She is now trying to slow him down as they round an obstacle to head to the sixth jump. “Oh God,” I think. “Slow down you bastard horse!” is what I am thinking. They clip the sixth jump rail but don’t knock it down. I don’t care about the rails anymore. I just want her to get safely through the round and off Warren’s back.

The biggest test now looms, the seventh jump. Another obstacle has to be circumvented after which the horse and rider must find the line and pace to approach the jump. This line takes the competition course very near the next door warm up circle which is full of horses and riders. At the worst possible time, a horse and rider come up the warmup circle fence line in the opposite direction just as Molly and Warren are at the nearest point to them. Warren responds to the provocation as if he had been spurred. Molly has used every ounce of her strength and knowledge to keep Warren under control and on course, and he now ignores the rein and bit and takes off, leaving Molly nominally in control.

I am watching my child on the back of a seventeen-hundred-pound bolt of lightning, oblivious to everything except its instinct to run as fast as he can. Knowing this is not going to end well, I squeeze between the railings midway on the side of the arena and take off in their direction. I see Warren crash into a railing where Molly’s leg gets smashed. She has held on and done her best to slow Warren but with the crashing of her leg against the rail, she goes down, slamming her head and helmet into a fence post on the way to the ground.

I am over her now and she is unconscious. My child lies in the dirt, torn and unconscious. Others stand around us but make way for the arena doctor. To my relief, she wakes up and looks around blankly. The doctor examines her leg and talks to her. A few minutes later, Molly insists that she is ok and wants to get up. She stands to polite applause from the audience.

Molly turned out well. She has some torn ligaments in her leg but no permanent damage anywhere. We sent Warren where he belongs – the barn and pasture. Molly will graduate from high school in a few months from now and will never ride again.