Sweat and Tears (but thankfully no Blood)

Sweat and Tears (but thankfully no Blood) (22nd July 2008, 3.51pm)

Sweaty leather sticks to the palms of my gloves, straining against a ton of raw power. The adrenalin surges through me, through him; the two of us like-minded, like-willed, gathering ourselves together for one last effort. Contain, contain, contain. Wait. Get it wrong, and we’ve lost it, lost the chance.

The hill beckons us down, faster than a lightning bolt. Sit back, balance, legs wrapped round sides for dear life, as we plummet to the bottom. Brush flies beneath me and we’re on, on and down, post and rails, big gaping ditch, then step, step, step, leaping down we go.

My senses are overwhelmed with the thud of hooves on turf and two sets of ragged breaths. My heart is set to break free from my chest and come shooting out of my eyes at any moment. He’s getting stronger, sensing the homeward turn, sensing the finishing post and the rewards and the wash down. If we had time to sit and stare, he’d prick his ears and pick them out at this two mile distance.

Collect, think, tricky turn, leather slipping as the gloves dampen with foam. My knees are locked to brace myself against a potential mistake, but we’re safe and galloping again, drumming along the valley floor, my world framed by his ears.

A racing line as the valley curves upwards, then I stand further up and lean, balancing myself with one fist against his swollen, veined neck as he strains for the up. Reaching, his powerful shoulders rising and rising again, what lies behind forgotten, only five from home.

I dig in my heels as he spots the bogey wall, ditch hiding behind. Frame his choices with the reins, shortening and opening my hands to prevent a break for potential escape routes. As we fly over, I recall a similar wall, two years before, when flowing grass became a kaleidoscope of grass and wall, spinning before me, joined by hooves and then blackness. When I opened my eyes, he was two fields away, reins and stirrup leathers flapping, tail up, so proud to have finished by himself.

Bum like Velcro, legs like steel, a handful of mane as the adrenalin pumps me forward and then we fly, one, two, three, one last score box in which to deposit a zero.

They come running up as we strain past the flags. I release the reins and we grind to a ragged, unbalanced halt. Relief and sheer pleasure, adrenalin and pain, my hands stiff from holding back, my legs shaking as my blood tries to flow back to feet released.

Later, I admire the neat zero on the scoreboard, clear and fast, and spend the last sunlight of the evening in the paddock with my tired horse and his winning ribbon, letting him slobber over my hands and his deserved carrots, replaying every second of that ride in my head.