Mobile Peep Show

     I was reminded the other day, as I watched a Paso Fino and his rider shuffle down the side of the road, of a fascinating experience I once endured.

     Some years ago, as I blundered along the front side of thirty, I somehow found myself interviewing for a job at a Paso Fino farm. Why I thought this would be a good idea is beyond me.

     The Q&A portion of the interview went well enough. It was really the riding portion that had me concerned. What did I know about riding a Paso Fino? I can assure you nothing.

     The barn manager, let’s call him Bob, walked me down the barn aisle way and introduced me to my interview horse. Standing in crossties tacked up and ready roll was Sid, a five-year old, 14’3h, chestnut, Paso Fino stallion.

     Sid was detached from the crossties and as he stood only 14’3 Bob felt no need to mount using a stirrup or a mounting block, instead he sprung with ease from the ground onto Sid’s back. If Bob were hoping for the same kind of action from me, he would be sorely mistaken.

     Bob rode out into a largish field and gave me a quick tutorial. “If you want him to trot kick him in the shoulder.” That wouldn’t have been my first choice of places to put my leg but what did I know.

     “If you want him to canter kick him harder in the shoulder.” Again, not where I would have thought to “kick” Sid, but I didn’t even know a Paso Fino could canter, so suggesting an alternative to the shoulder kick, I thought, should remain unsaid.

     “If you want Sid to slow down or stop just pull on the reins like this.” Sid came to a screeching halt. I have never intentionally asked for a screeching halt and I was curious to know how I would fare.

     “Okay, Rebecca your turn, just jump on.” Bob truly believed I had the ability to leap on a horse from the ground. What Bob didn’t realize was that I only had the ability to knock over an 1100lb horse whilst attempting to jump on from the ground.

     “I think it would be better if I could use the stirrup. Is that okay?” I put my left foot in the stirrup, and as I swung my right leg over the saddle, Sid quickly shuffled forward. This darting shuffle of his threw me off balance and my natural instinct was to give a tug on the reins. Sid immediately slammed on the brakes. Needless to say, the abrupt halt propelled me onto Sid’s neck. His long flowing mane, that I am sure some find very beautiful, was nothing more than a netting of sorts for me to get hung up in.

     “I will be right back.” Bob said, clearly having just missed the debacle.

     With Bob off to make a phone call I was pleased not to be under his scrutiny, not that I thought there would be too much of that. I gave Sid a light shoulder kick. True to Bob’s word, Sid began to trot. The only problem was with each shuffling stride of Sid’s the speed in which he went slowly increased. Fearing that I may lose control of Sid I gave a very faint feel to the reins and he jerked to a walk. I gave a little kick to the shoulder and he sped off. Tugged the reins and again he jerked to a walk. Somehow, I’d managed to create a rather lurching gait that did little more than thrust me forward and then back again. Unsatisfied with my Paso Fino riding ability, I decided to give the canter a go. I gave Sid a sharpish kick to the shoulder and I believe that what I was feeling was a canter. One can’t be too sure. Despite the herky-jerky gaits I had created, I could in fact be riding around drinking champagne just as the Paso Fino clan proclaims, for those of us that wish to drink and ride simultaneously.

     Once fully established in a full-blown “canter” Bob, naturally, returned. “Good canter!” I felt like an ass riding Sid, but somehow in spite of my awkwardness Bob felt I had created a good Paso Fino canter. “Canter up to me and stop.” I can’t even express the level of anxiety I felt about the impending halt. I braced myself against the stirrups pulled on the reins and Sid slid to a stop. I remained in my braced position chuffed with my performance. That being said, I didn’t want the job but I did want this ride to end.

     “Fantastic.”  How Bob thought that anything I had just done was fantastic amazes me. “Make him side step.”

     Side step? Really? Why?

     “Just kick him with your left leg.” I kicked and Sid shot sideways and was clearly going to continue sideways until I pulled on the reins. I finally managed a quick tug after fifty odd sideways steps.  

     According to Bob, the job was mine if I wanted it. If I took the job, fingers crossed, Bob would very much like me to ride Sid in the Paso Fino festival that was to take place the following day. Was Bob insane? Had he not seen my fine mounting display, or my overall ineptness at riding a Paso Fino?

     “The Paso Fino Festival, Rebecca, we like to be as traditional as possible. And for that reason I would like very much for you to wear this.” Tada! Bob flung open the doors to a shed as if to reveal the one item that would lure me into the world of Paso Finos. Splayed out carefully over several dusty, moldy boxes was the dress that I was to wear. The one that would inevitably transform me into a traditional Paso Fino riding Spaniard. To know me is to know that I am every bit a pale skinned, blue-eyed, buxom, blonde. Very little of me, if any, screams olive skinned, dark hair sporting, senorita. I dare say, the dress was a velvet picture inspiration. It was puffy, red and littered in black lace. Undoubtedly, the train of the dress would drape over Sid’s hindquarters and would scarcely ripple as he and I sashayed our way around the festival. I would delight people with my sudden stops and the herky-jerky fashion in which I would force Sid to travel. Meanwhile, my heaving bosom would slowly creep from the ill-fitting bustier portion of the dress. Mothers would be forced to cover their children’s eyes. Fathers would look on with eager amusement. And I, the pale faced Spanish Paso Fino riding fool, wouldn’t have a clue. Forward, back and side to side I would go, kicking Sid on the shoulder and in a panic pulling on the reins. All the while making this family oriented festival into a mobile peep show.

     I told Bob that it pained me to say that I would be unable to take the job. But, thanks so much for the offer.   

Motorcycle Aficionado?

     Last month, while I was trying to make a quick buck at a local horse show, I took on a challenge. To some of my more foolhardy friends the “challenge” that I speak of may seem unchallenging. Scoff if you will I don’t mind. I am not embarrassed to admit when I’m scared.

     Motorbikes have always scared me and I have no good reason for this. A good friend of mine thought that I should face my fear head on and suggested I take her bike for a spin. The bike was red, which I liked very much. It was knee high which gave me confidence thinking of course that I might have some control, as I am literally twice the size of the bike.

     I should mention that it was an unseasonably cold winter day in Florida and I was wearing an astronomical amount of clothes. Layers upon layers of sweatshirts, down vests and jackets. Wool socks, thermal gloves, a toque (Canadian for winter hat), and in lieu of a scarf two pashminas. I appeared round and squishy with restricted movements.

     I was confident, to some extent, as I swung my leg over my motorized steed. I could only wish I had the freedom a t-shirt allows that six layers of winter wear does not. Nonetheless, I was doing the damn thing.

     I drove around a forty-acre field and struggled only with the changing of the gears, which I blame on the wind and my toque, as I couldn’t really hear what was going on. With the test ride being such a success, I was secure in my motorcycle handling skills. I told my friend to hop on the back of her own bike and I would take us up to the scoreboard before heading to the start of cross-country.

     As my friend checked her score I waited on the bike keeping it at a rather high idle to prevent it from stalling due to the cold weather. God I’m good at this. A complete natural. I know to keep the idle up, I converged easily from grass to dirt and I expertly missed hitting a number of people and horses. Why was I ever scared of these things? As I waited, I gave myself a good hearty pat on the back for being such a motorcycle aficionado and I may or may not have taken on the air of a Hell’s Angel or gangster of some kind. I noticed as people passed by and said hello I gave little more than a sideways glance and an off handed head nod. I knew I looked good with my hot pink pashmina peeking out of my jackets. I knew the bike sounded strong (not that I could hear it) as I kept it calmly red lined. These fools are all so jealous having to schlep around on foot where as I get to zoom about haphazardly on my hog. Suckers, all of them.

     “Rebecca I am not getting on that bike with you if you keep it revved so high.”

     What the hell does she know, but to appease her I eased up on the gas just a little.

     “You ready?” I asked with reckless abandon and before I gave her a chance to answer, I put her in first.

     “Holy f***! Holy f***! Holy f***! Why won’t it stop?”

     Sometimes innocence is bliss, but in this case, I would say a little knowledge might have proven dangerous.

     The only saving grace in this nasty bike business was the fact that when the bike, designed for a five year old, reared vertically toward the sky it whipped out from between our legs leaving my friend and I standing. However, since I was at the helm I was not only left standing but also left holding the handlebars and she was about to tip, and tip she did. This left me in a motorbike spinning frenzy. My pashmina had crept out from behind my collar and with each five meter circle completed a few more inches of hot pink pashmina appeared. Around and around I went in nothing but a blur of pink, red and a slew of profanities.

     I bet this has never happened to a Hell’s Angel and any chance I had of joining that gang was clearly disappearing with each rotation. Eventually it dawned on me that my right hand was the root of all evil. Once I managed to talk myself into letting go of the right handle bar everything stopped, except for my fear of motorbikes.

     At least now, I have a solid reason to fear motorbikes.