There are, indeed, heart stopping and heart breaking moments. When neither competitor Laine Ashkar or her horse Frodo Baggins got up after a crashing wreck,  everyone on the grounds knew the outcome for one, the other, or potentially both, would not be great. Frodo was euthanized that evening with an irreparable skull fracture. Last night at dinner we talked about the underlying tragedy of the sport—the riders, like Darren Chiacchia, who’s recovering from what may still be a life-changing injury, and Laine Ashkar, who’s condition is critical but stable—the extent of her injuries aren’t yet known, or at least not being told. The thing that gets us all, though, out here on the bluegrass hills of mares and foals and endless fences, the fantasy farms of my girlhood rolling out along every road, what really hurts are the horses that are lost because of a split second. The horses don’t make the choice to become a Rolex Kentucky (or Red Hills, or Badminton, or insert competition name here______) horse. He has a big heart (science proves it) that pumps his legs out of front of him (a cross country horse of this caliber eats the ground) and a mind so brave and freakishly fearless and most of all, a trust in his human that he’ll jump over an obstacle without being able to see the landing. Would you do that?

The riders make the choice for him. I’m bothered by that choice when a horse dies. I have always dreamed of coming here and I’m lucky enough to have done so—every horse lover should see these world class athletes at least once in their lives. I can see clearly the look on the face of each horse after navigating the Sunken Road, or the Head of the Lake, or the Duck Marsh—obstacles so complicated and famous that crowds gather early in the morning to catch the best spot on the grass. Their eyes are hooded a bit in concentration. Their ears zero in on each step. They look, well, supernatural.  The riders come few and far between—five to seven minutes if all goes on plan—for a 15 second pass by of hooves and breathing and a moment or two when everyone inhales and does not exhale until the rider is safe and away and there’s a cheer.

It is a cheer of relief; a cheer of admiration for the rider and a cheer of great love for the horse. After the event ended, I was homesick for my own, non-world class horses. I missed their salt smell and the green stains of their affection (or nagging) on my arms and shoulders. Losing Frodo made me want to find a horse, any horse, to hug. So the species knows we love them and that those that perish did so doing (to use a terrible cliché) what they loved to do. When I get home, I’ll head straight to the barn from the airport, and give my guys lots of treats.

She went off to camp for a month in January, with a friend of mine who’s a natural horsemanship guru around here. He did a lot of ground work with her, which has greatly helped the entire process. She stands tied forever, she’ll walk up next to the mounting block (or fence, or tree stump) and stand there, I can longe her at the walk and trot (although the canter is kind of an unbalanced disaster). So now I’ve ridden her about seven or eight times. I get on and just stand around. Then I ask her to walk (straight lines are still hard) and trot a little, and then I stand there some more. So far, she’s been really good.

Saturday I had the best ride yet. I probably sat on her for a half an hour, and we trotted quite a bit. My helper was riding my old horse, Volare, at the time, so Belle had some company in the arena. Although she still has a hard time going straight, I was very impressed with how she’s figured out how to balance under my weight.

I’d been told there’s nothing quite like raising, and then starting, and then riding, a horse you’ve bred yourself. Although there are plenty of horses in the world that need homes, and I wouldn’t recommend the breeding-your-own method to just anyone, it’s one of the more personally satisfying horse adventures I’ve had in the past decade.

It also brings home an important point for me. This year I’ve struggled a great deal in the show ring. Now it occurs to me that what I really love about horses and riding isn’t winning ribbons, but rather being a part of the process of bonding and improvement. Forget the show ring; I’m enjoying just working on my own. It’s a lesson that’s taken a decade to learn.

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/results.asp?WRD=Esterson

http://www.amazon.com/Adult-Longeing-Guide-Exercises-Independent/dp/1599211963/ref=sr_1_9?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1208183388&sr=8-9

Wow, what a ride writing a book was. When I pitched the idea, I’d already written one other book (co-authored, really). But this one was substantially more work. Although the romance of being “an author” is undeniable, once a book comes out, there some complicated emotions along with it.

Number one confusing feeling: Am I really an expert? Suddenly, you’re seen as one. So do I live up to those expectations? Who knows? I’m sure there are people mumbling about “what gives her the expertise to write a book?” After all, I’m not an Olympic level rider; I’m a better than average adult rider. Well, there are lots of people who are very good riders but not good writers. I’m a decent rider, with some knowledge, but I’m fairly confident about my writing skills. I’ve been making my living with words for a couple of decades. Writing about riding, however, is new to me.

Number two: Now what? I stressed over that book for almost two years, and particularly last spring when I realized I’d let a lot of time get away from me. Writers often spend a lot of time rolling their ideas around in their heads, which is what I’d been doing. So then it was fingers to keyboard (or, as my friend Paul, a successful nonfiction writer, likes to say, “Butt to chair,”) for four straight months. Now I find my mornings (which is when I do the bulk of my creative work) strangely empty. Is there another book in my future?

Number three: I’m supposed to be marketing my book, but I’m a little scared (see number one). What if it’s not that good? After you finish writing and see the final product, you’re plagued with doubt. Do you really want your name emblazoned across it? Do you want to be associated with the topic matter and be considered an “expert?” I guess I do, but I’m not yet totally convinced.

Number four: Okay, I’m a little bit proud of it. Just a little. I think it’s designed well and has useful information. My trainer Nicole read the draft and said it was great. So maybe it is okay. Maybe it’s better than okay. But I’m not going to spend much time looking at it, because I’m afraid that I’ll find some little mistake or problem that will be, frankly, mortifying.

With all that said, I have to encourage you to buy my book if you’re interested in learning some exercises for riders on the longe. It will make me happy next quarter when (and if) my first royalty check arrives.