 |
Second to One | Insights into the Lives of Assistant Trainers
The Dare
By Erin Gilmore | ShowBiz Magazine, April 2010
Lines of sweat drew tracks through the dust on my arms, and my thin orange shirt was starting to stick to my back. Spring was just about to give way to summer, and at the sale barn where I took my first professional job, everything was getting heavier under the heat.
The big German warmblood I was riding sweated with me as we trotted around under the critical eye of my trainer, a handful of clients and other riders. Everyone except the trainer was pretending they weren't watching, but I knew better. It was my maiden voyage on "the one-rider horse", and all eyes were waiting for one of us to crack.
In big sale barns, there are two ways a horse earns its way to one rider. It's either so fancy that everyone wants to ride it but no one is allowed to, or so dangerous that no one wants to ride it, and, well, no one is allowed to. Either way, the one rider horse can't handle many people on its back. This one was a little of both, a talented grand prix jumper with a few loose screws, and as he propelled himself forward on fear and adrenaline, I tried not to think about his bolting habit. Or his rearing habit. Or his unique version of a spook-and-spin.
His owner was going on a buying trip to Europe, and with both her and the trainer away, I'd somehow been given the task of riding him in their absence. If I passed this test (ride), that was.
But the funny thing was, it was going pretty well. I used all the skills I'd been learning as an assistant; soft steady hands, heels down, consistent leg. Trot gave way to canter -not bolting- and I even threw in a lead change or two. As I walked over to the rail, my trainer (who shall remain nameless) casually called out to "go jump around!" and turned around to talk to a client.
He was the type of trainer who always meant what he said, even if he half expected you to fail while doing it. I looked around the ring; all the fences except one were set at a tiny, pony hunter height. Doable. I carefully loped around over the mini fences without incident. There, now I was done.
"Jump the vertical!" The dare of it sparkled in his eyes as I did a double take.
"I've jumped the verticals," I answered.
"You haven't done that one," he boomed, and swung his arm toward the tall, airy vertical, set at 4'6" with a single pole. He knew I'd never jumped higher than 3'3". He knew I'd never ridden this horse. And I knew he didn't care about any of that.
Six assistants rode at the barn, and I'd go right back to the bottom of the pecking order if I chickened out. In that environment, being afraid was the fastest way to lose respect, and any dare was a chance to step up. I'd just been dared to prove that I'd gotten better. I'd been dared not to fail.
Now no one was pretending to look away. Rail conversation ceased as I took one last look at the jump and cantered a half circle. I decided to have faith in this semi-talented, semi-dangerous horse that I was just beginning to know, and closed my leg three strides out.
The snap of my two-point surprised me. So did the fact that my heels stayed down, that the horse jumped at all, and that I was still alive on the landing side. Not many things since have matched the accomplishment and adrenaline that rushed through me as I glanced back at the vertical, single pole still resting in the cups. I couldn't keep my smile from splitting the nonchalant expression I was going for as I to cantered towards the group on the rail, and smoothly settled to a halt.
"See I told you that horse will jump anything!" the trainer called to its owner, who had been sitting stonily in silence as everything played out. He looked me in the eyes so I could see that his were shining. "Go walk him out."
My first professional job was full of challenges, drama, and fear. The best days contained all of the above.
• • •
|
|
|
|