Equitation: the action or art of riding on horseback  
   -Oxford English Dictionary

The art? What do they know about riding horses anyway?

Here’s how one cowgirl learned to ride.  

When I was about 39 years old I decided I wanted to learn how to ride a horse. I had never ridden before (as addressed in an earlier story). One of my partners was a team penner and for some reason, I decided that was what I wanted to do. I was going through some kind of connect-to-my-American-heritage-pre-mid-life-crisis kind of thing and instead of getting a red Corvette I decided to learn how to work a cow. It made a lot of sense at the time. Now, thirteen years later, I would have a lot more money in the bank if I had just bought that Corvette.

Now if you believe in serendipity, divine intervention or predestination, what happened next shouldn’t be a surprise. I set the broken hand of a self-proclaimed rodeo rider who then came to owe me some money. Doctors do barter on occasion and this seemed a perfect opportunity for me. He could teach me how to ride a horse.  

Terrance owned what I would now disparagingly call a “back yard stud.” I thought he was a wonderful horse at that time. In retrospect I was crazy to get on him. Most back yard studs aren’t worth the hay they consume. Terrance literally kept him in someone’s back yard. We met every Saturday morning like clockwork at the grade school around the corner from his home. Terrance hung out with the celebrated Coffeys, rare black cowboys in the rodeo circuit, and sometimes they came around to watch, giving their input into how he should teach a white lady to team pen. In order to team pen I would have to be able to “haul ass down a fence line, stop on a dime and turn around and haul ass the other way.” There was no walk, no trot and no lope. Just haul ass.  

I don’t know what I was thinking at that time, because now I’m a very cautious rider; always wearing a helmet (unless competing, as helmets are not part of the cowboy culture), checking my gear twice and riding the “brokest” horses available to mankind. I climbed up on “Buddy,” hung on to the reins, as Terrance whacked the horse on his rump and yelled “yah.” We hauled ass down the fence line, stopped at the end of the school yard, turned around and hauled ass back to the starting point. This is generally not how someone learns to ride. There’s usually something about putting your heels down and getting balanced in the saddle first.

So that’s what we did six Saturdays in a row, after which, by previous agreement, Terrance’s debt was paid off and I knew how to haul ass on horseback. My partner warned me with some off color comment about not getting involved with anything that flies, floats or farts and then promptly sold me his team penning horse, after which he bought an airplane. I hooked up with his old team penning buddies and was on my way to working cattle.  

Terrance's hand healed up fine and eventually I lost track of him. About five years ago I ran into an old friend of his who told me Terrance had been killed in a motorcycle accident. By that time I had learned how to ride a reining horse and had started my happy pursuits in the working cow horse event. I don’t think I would have been there only ten years later if I had learned the art of horseback riding the conventional way; taking equitation lessons. I wish I had had the chance to thank him.

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