There must be some sort of equation that tells you at which velocity wind can be gusting before it is unsafe to ride your OTTB.
Although some might argue that it is always unsafe. But that is why Charles Owen makes such cute haberdashery.
Actually, the old boy was worlds better than he had been on the past two days, despite their warmth. Aren’t horses supposed to be easier when it’s warm – and they are, consequently, hot? I’m confused.
I cheated a little and lunged him in the corner where the Dementors hang out and smoke, so we got our spooks out of the way early and sans rider. And then it was just a matter of staying in the saddle despite the wind, which was blowing with somewhat overdone exuberance.
But here is a fun thing, which I discovered Final Call will let me do, that most horses do not tolerate. See, I have this very loud mouth. It is uncharacteristic for me. I am, in general, a quiet and reserved person. But when something happens, I just have to holler!
So we had been good and done our time. We had a nice flat-footed walk. We stretched our neck and back. We trotted. We did some bending. We started to play with turn on the forehand. Okay, way too much good dressage stuff. Time for a gallop. And actually, the up transitions were quite good. But I digress.
We’re cantering around the paddock, taking it easy, because it’s quite muddy yet again, and come up to a big wide puddle, more like a stream, or a small river, than a puddle, really. And didn’t darling Final Call jump that liverpool, and didn’t Mummy just whoop with the exuberance of it all…!
Lovely horse, he didn’t turn a hair, didn’t flip an ear. Most of my more energetic and entertaining spills have been taken because of my propensity for shouting at particularly exciting transitions, gallops, jumps, etc. Once I was riding a green pony for a buyer. The buyer, being a woman of great humor, insisted that I should canter the pony. I don’t like to be the first person to canter a green pony (or horse, for that matter) and demurred. But she insisted. It would be fun! He’d be fine! What a Sweet Nice Pony!
So I cantered the damn pony. I was 19 and easily shamed.
The little beast burst into a rollicking pony canter, head straight up and his furry little mane in my fingers. It was lovely – and I couldn’t help myself – and I whooped – “whoooo!” – and the Sweet Nice Pony did what any sane equine would do and bucked me straight off. Halt at X, indeed. I face-planted at X.
The best part of this story is that I got back on and did the Exact Same Thing a second time.
She didn’t buy the pony, which I felt was kind of dirty. I didn’t try cantering the pony again. I let someone else do it.
My whole life, I’ve been waiting for the horse that wouldn’t mind my shouting. And he doesn’t seem to mind my singing, either!