Riding to the hounds – not

By Sheila Ascroft

The fact that I was 30 and taking riding lessons with 10-yearolds didn’t bother me too much – except that I fell off more than they did. Those sleek English saddles don’t come with handles or pommels or anything else to hang onto.

On my first ride, the instructor assigned me “Killer” and I panicked even before mounting. Yikes. But the grey beauty was well-mannered and willing to put up with a novice on his back. After class did I learn Killer stood for Kilarney.

After a winter of twice-weekly lessons of learning to walk, trot and canter (well, canter when the horse wanted to), we welcomed spring by moving to an outdoor paddock. A spindly two-rail fence raised this novice rider’s fear of a horse’s urge to run off.

A valid fear, it turned out. Killer really liked to jump and then go for a refreshing dip in the nearby river. Yes, I was still attached, although riding sideways. We thrashed our way back to the paddock, dripping ignominiously.

SADDLE UP!

Here’s where to go for “English” style riding lessons for jumping and dressage. No “western” saddles with hand-holds and pommels.

Some of these stables have been around for more than 30 years and continue to provide excellent ridership skills for all levels. But wherever you go, make sure the instructors are certified in equestrian skills and first aid to look after you, and the stables and barns are clean and well main- tained for the horses. Saddles and reins in the tack room should have no dry cracks in leather. And the horses should look healthy and alert.

Another day, “And trrrrot,” the instructor ordered. Killer, an experienced school horse, responded immediately. I was less quick. I jiggled and jostled and abruptly fell off. Oomph. Fortunately, the paddock had a sandy base. Uninjured, except in pride, I remounted. Experts say it takes seven falls to make a good rider. That first year, I had 11 – and only tore a thumb ligament.

Stables offer a range of lessons, day camps, maybe an indoor arena (so you can ride in winter), outdoor sandy rings for jumping and dressage, a tack shop, and large acreage for just plain riding or jumping solid obstacles.

Some offer pony clubs, clinics, competi- tions, and courses in stable management, useful if you want to own a horse. You’ll pay about $50 for a single lesson, and prices vary for lesson packages. Some stables lease horses. Centaur Riding School 3845 Frank Kenny Rd., Navan, Ont. 613-835-2237 Fiddler’s Green Stables 6575 Flewellyn Rd. Stittsville, Ont. 613-831-2844

Greenbelt Riding School 3960 Albion Rd., Ottawa, Ont. 613-521-5700 Westar Farms 8132 Fernbank Rd., Ashton, Ont. 613-253-0078 Royale Equestrian Centre 2191 Woodroffe Ave., RR 2, Ottawa, Ont. 613-608-1176 Maplewood Equestrian Centre 3178 Dunning Rd., Sarsfield, Ont. 613-510-1200 Shadow Ridge Equestrian Centre 372 Upper Dwyer Hill Rd., Ashton, Ont. 613-256-6759 Wynbrook Farm 6222 Dunning Road, Vars, Ont. 613 835-3511

The question as to why was I putting myself through this arose. Especially during post-ride physiotherapy or when I washed my wet-horse smelling breeches.

As a kid, unlike many of my friends, I never wished for a pony, but I’ve always wanted to learn how to ride. Turning 30 brought forth an urgency to tick things off my “life list.” I’d crossed off whitewater rafting on the Ottawa River and seen those humpback whales in the Gulf of St. Lawrence; riding was next.

Atop the horse, I finally understood what “riding tall in the saddle” meant – it put me above the crowd as it were. For a short person, it was an empowering new perspective. I fell in love with riding when I felt those four strong legs move beneath me, an instant connection between human and horse.

Eventually, one summery day, the instructor led us beyond the paddock confines to the open 40-hectare hunter’s field, where we would learn to ride with the hounds. It was like starting all over. The horse’s ears twitched back and forth; my heart pumped in spurts. Despite being a river-loving animal, my horse descended into a paroxysm of fear when confronted with a puny puddle. He snorted and shied sideways – there might be evil lurking in that water!

I stayed mounted. Progress.

After months of riding drills, we were jumping small ditches, cantering through scrubland, hugging our horses’ necks beneath overhanging branches in the woods, and clearing low natural barriers. A few practice rounds and we all thought we were ready to “ride with the hounds.” I was in heaven except for the post-ride chore of getting off the horse. Less agile than my fellow students, I’d walk to the stable like John Wayne on a bad day. Then came the horse chores: washing off the sweat and dirt, giving it water and then cleaning the tack (aka the reins and saddle). The summer flew by.

In late September, with the scent of freshly mown hay and ripened apples in the air, the instructor taught us to “boot and scoot.” The idea was to apply pressure to the horse’s sides and just scoot – jumping up over a fence on the down slope of a hill. Terrifying. How does one ride down a slope, rise up over a fence and then land further down without catastrophe? I awaited my turn, worrying how to perform such an feat.

The trick was to give the horse enough rein to perform on his own while you hung on for dear life. Perhaps not the most professional form, but it worked for me. Exhilaration replaced fear. I felt like Scarlet O’Hara in Gone with the Wind. I was really an equestrian.

I rode four more years and became competent enough to try a few local “dressage” events (a competitive equestrian sport where horse and rider are expected to perform from memory a series of predetermined movements). It took all day to wash the horse, shampoo (and condition) its tail and mane, shoe-black the one white hoof, and add bows to the mane. Then transport the horse to the event and saddle up. Whew! The 10-minute dressage test was the easy part.

Well, it would have been except my horse spooked at first sight of himself in a mirror in the arena. In panic, he did an unintentional sidestep to show “lateral flexion,” a move we never managed in class.

In the end, I earned a ribbon for fourth place. It felt like Olympic gold. 