Horses – the farther I get the better they look

Went to the county fair a couple weeks ago. I love those things. The animals, the rides and of course, the Holy Grail of fair food – the corn dog.

But today I want to talk about the Holy Grail of fair animals – the horses, of courses.

As I was wandering through the stalls eating my corndog (you have to put your sense of smell on hold to do this with any success) I couldn’t help but be impressed by the magnificent draft animals on display there. They loom over their stable mates like ancient kings, gazing down on the peasants in the courtyard below.

Personally, I’ve never been comfortable with any mode of transportation that doesn’t come with a brake and ignition switch, although there was a time (one time) in my life when I gave a horse a chance. That experience is why I now feel the way I do about them.

It was the summer of 1973, and I was dating a red-headed, freckle-faced farm girl named Beverly. Her folks owned a spread in what was then a rural part of Rockford. There they raised Arabians; a breed I have since learned is prone to going off the deep end for no apparent reason. (Breeders call Arabians “spirited.” I prefer the term “nuts.”)

I loved horses best from a distance even back then, but somehow Beverly talked me into actually climbing onto the back of a twitchy, nervous mare. I wasn’t crazy about the idea and could tell the horse didn’t like it much either.

It shifted from side to side, kicking up little clouds of dust as its steel-shod hooves thumped the earth in an anxious tattoo.

Bev mounted another, smaller horse, easing into the saddle with the familiar grace of long practice.

“OK,” she said. “To make him go, you just make a clicking noise with your tongue and shake the reins a little bit. You may have to kick him gently in the ribs, too.”

The idea of kicking – even gently – an animal that could crush me like a bug seemed incredibly unwise, but I continued to listen and nod as Bev showed me what to do with the reins to make the horse turn left or right, slow down, speed up, and so on. When she was convinced I understood the basics, we moved our horses out of the corral and into an adjacent field.

The sun was a warm, yellow marble suspended in a wide, cerulean sky. A temperate breeze blew across the field, carrying the scent of bayberry and cinnamon, August’s heady perfume. The field was alive with the somnambulant hum of insects going about business of their own.

Our horses plodded along at a sedate pace and I began to relax, to enjoy the experience.

And then the idiot animal spied an old tractor tire lying in the weeds, decided it was a rattlesnake, and shot off toward a nearby road (Northland Drive) at full gallop. My mind raced through the instructions Bev had delivered earlier. In my panic, I was making clicking noises, yanking on the reins, and kicking the horse in the sides – all simultaneously. In truth, its erratic behavior was due as much to “operator error” as to any inherent craziness on the horse’s part.

As I clicked and kicked, the horse dashed across the road. Car horns blasted, brakes squealed. I squealed.

The horse finally came to a rest in front of a small house on the far side of the road. I began my clumsy dismount, anxious to get back on feet I had some control over. I was halfway off the beast when a little old lady came barreling out of the house waving a broom over her head.

“Get that horse outta my yard!” she shouted, broom waving madly.

The horse complied by shooting back across the heavily-trafficked road as I hung off one side of the saddle, left foot stuck in the stirrup, right foot dangling madly off into space.

Horns blasted, brakes squealed.

Bev was waiting. As the horse cleared the road, Bev slid off her mount like a ballerina executing a flawless pirouette, and grabbed the flapping reins of my horse. The mare immediately quieted and I was able to free my foot from the stirrup.

I pretended my tears were caused by the wind, rather than terror. I’m not sure Bev bought it, but she pretended to.

In spite of it all, I still love horses. From a distance.

Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.