My friends and I decided to go horseback riding one summer day in 1984. We arrived at a ranch in the far west suburbs of Chicago, signed the waivers that said we knew we were taking a chance sitting atop these large animals (that move) and that we might die in the process, paid our fees, and were then assigned our horses.
Of course, before they assign you a horse, they ask what sort of riding experience you’ve had. I had to admit to “almost none.” They called up Laredo.
All my friends had saddled up already when they led Laredo out of the barn. He wasn’t as tall as the other horses, but he was respectably tall. His coloring was sort of a mottled gray and off-white. I was excited to mount my trusty steed – Laredo! – and hit the trail.
The staff members helped me up and immediately instructed me to sit forward in the saddle. “He has kidney problems, and if you sit too far back it makes him have to go pee.”
Fair enough, I thought. Wouldn’t want to make the ol’ boy uncomfortable. Further instructions were forthcoming.
“You see how he keeps turning his head over to the left like that? If you let him do that he will keep veering off to the left, so what you want to do is just kick his face there and he’ll straighten out. Not very hard; he’ll get the message.”
Sit forward, and kick him in the face – not too complicated.
And we were off, our trail guide leading the way with the horses at a leisurely walk.
The trail was marked at different points to let the riders know whether to walk the horse, or whether you were allowed to trot or run. The horses knew the routine and the trail to the point where you didn’t even have to give them instructions. We arrived at the first stretch where trotting was allowed, and the horses spontaneously began to trot. Trotting is very bouncy and uncomfortable if you don’t know to stand in the stirrups. I didn’t know.
Laredo and I fell behind a little during the trot, and I had a great view of all my friends as their horses broke into a run where the trail was so marked. It was a majestic sight, and I couldn’t wait – my stomach couldn’t wait – for Laredo to reach that threshold. We reached it, and on we trotted. I tried the old “Giddyup!” and “Come on!” and “Run!” On we trotted.
The guide and my friends had reached the end of the stretch for running and were gathered together in a little cluster. They had turned and were watching me bounce along. I yelled ahead to the trail guide, “He-e wo-on’t ru-un!”
“Say again?” yelled the guide.
I got nearer to the group and pulled back on the reins until Laredo slowed to a walk. “My horse won’t break out of a trot!”
“Oh, Laredo? Well, he’s kind of retarded. He won’t run. Okay, y’all, let’s head back!”
From where we were on the trail, my friends and their horses ran, then trotted, then walked back to the big white barn. Laredo and I trotted, then trotted, then walked.
Laredo. I’ll never forget that horse. Sit forward, kick face, won’t run, retarded. I was riding a glue bottle with four legs. And I was too naïve to ask for a refund.
Next time? “Lot’s of experience.”
