best laid plans

NBC is running coverage of the World Equestrian Games.

Right now, they're in the stadium jumping portion of three-day eventing, and it's hilarious. Many of the riders are so bad they can't get around a reasonably simple course without major faults. They lean on their horses' mouths. They hold their hands too high with reins too long. They lean way back and way forward with their toes down and lower legs flying out from the knee. They land on their horses' necks when the horse hits the ground. It's amazing. How do they get to this level with such bad form? How are they not embarrassed?

(Here are some pictures from a high-level event. The bad riding is indefensible.)

And don't even get me started on cross country. I'm grateful I missed that part. It should be outlawed until all courses have breakable fences, in memory of the really astonishing number of horses and riders killed on cross-country courses. A quick Google search for "eventing deaths" should give the curious all the information they need.

Back to laughing at the riders and feeling sorry for their lovely horses.

on board a borrowed pony, age 13 or 14
I have a thousand photos of myself on horses, but this is one of my favorites.

I was clearly outgrowing my jacket. It may have been my last green jacket; I wore green for luck until I was fifteen, when a trainer insisted I switch to blue like everyone else. My knee straps were a totally inappropriate unfinished color, I wasn't wearing gloves, my helmet was a pointlessly flimsy shell. And my hair was, as usual, in braids. I was so chic.

The pony was a sweet Arabian cross called Tina. She belonged to a friend of my sister who had no time for her. She was boarded at a little barn near Rock Creek Park. The place had, at one point, many more horses; entire sections of the barn were unused by the time I arrived, including a bunch of pony stalls that hadn't been touched in twenty years. One of the stalls still had a brass nameplate for a long-forgotten pony, and when the barn was finally slated for demolition, I went back with a claw hammer and pulled it off the door.

My teenage self would be astonished to learn that at 38, I still don't have a horse. Someday.

When Reese called today, I was trying to write and getting nowhere, rewriting an opening over and over, stuttering like a scratched CD. I unloaded my complaints on her ("Do you have the time to listen to me whine?") for a while, and then she said, "So what are you doing?" (This means, "... with me today? Or do you have plans?" Is this chick speak, a dialectic shorthand women understand, like men bobbing their chins at each other?) "Let's go horseback riding. It's beautiful outside."

It was. Today was an insanely beautiful day, exactly why October is my favorite month. There is no gorgeous like October in New England gorgeous. It was an excellent day to get the hell out of the city and check out some trees. And both of us enjoy the view from the back of a horse.

She drove, I found the horses. Despite my earnest conversation on the phone, making reservations, the barn supplied both of us with bulky western-style saddles, their default for trail riders. Sure, I talked a good game, but could I really ride a horse? Probably not, though I can. I don't blame her. I would put strangers in safer, easier saddles too after all the years I spent in stables. This is a litigious society. But I envied the teenager on the sleek 18-hand Selle Français and comfortable hunt-seat saddle who took us out.

The afternoon was fabulous, sun-struck and brisk and full of the scent of pine. I went last in our party of three and spent most of the ride with my feet out of the stirrups and holding the reins at the buckle. The horse knew where he was going and leg-yielded well, which was a pleasant surprise. I didn't have to do much but check out the foliage and take deep breaths of (presumably) clean autumn air and just be in the moment.

When we crossed the clearing for the power lines, I said, "On a clear day you can see forever." Amazing view. But my mind, unbidden, wondered idly where that quote was originally from and remembered that ozone smells like pine needles. So much for my Kodak moment.

We had a great time, though, and I got all nostalgic seeing the barn kids, the ones who live there, practically, although mom does pick them up eventually. I used to be one of those kids. When I was their age, I took lessons a few times a week and rode an impossible little chestnut for a couple who wanted their kid to "grow into" the pony. I was always at the barn. It was good to be back. You rock, Reese.

I crashed hard on the drive home, drowsy and cold. I was somewhat revived by dinner and later by an argument with Thomas at the video store over my fondness for Sandra Bullock and whether anyone beyond immediate family members should be allowed to refer to Sir Anthony Hopkins as Tony. I remind you, Thomas, that most of my rentals are beyond reproach. (We went through them on the rental database. Thomas is one of my favorite people. Why do my favorite people all move to Los Angeles?)

Today was a day to make a person glad to be alive.

Keith comes home tomorrow, though his itinerary is faithful to time zones and has him arriving in Boston two and a half hours before he leaves Athens. (I like that. The possibilities are endless.) I'm wearing one of his t-shirts.

"There must be some kind of way out of here..."