Death Visits Ridecamp (rewritten)

[Howard4567@aol.com]

My fellow Ridecampers:

I know I'm going to get a lot of flak for doing this, but, hey, what else is 
new?  I just hope y'all will hear me out first before attacking me.  My 
concern is with the recent passing of two horses in our sport.  I'm talking 
about Dancer and the horse that did die at the NASTR ride.

So, I've kind of rewritten the story that bought so much controversy a while 
back.  I've taken out the offensive stuff, I did leave the God thing in 
there, but if that offends you there's not much I can do about that.  I need 
to leave that part in.

Anyway, I'd like y'all to read it again, if you can.  I'm reaching out to 
those of you who shut my story down; yes, I know the power of Ridecamp and I 
guess it's to y'all that I'm asking a second chance to tell my story.  And 
here's my proposal (it's not a TI offer or a bet of any kind):

I'd like to resubmit it to Endurance News.  I don't think they'll reprint it 
unless you allow them, and maybe, even encourage them to do so.  And, if they 
do reprint the whole thing, I'll refund the money they paid me for it 
originally.  Now, don't get upset that they paid me, that's just one of 
life's little humorous ironies that a silly, psuedo writer like me got paid 
and a real pro like Susan Garlinghouse doesn't charge for her exceptional 
pieces.  My point is I'll refund the money.  I just think the story should be 
told, again.

Thanks for listening,
Howard

Death Visits Ridecamp
by Howard Bramhall

Last Saturday night, sitting under a tree, shivering in the cold, holding a 
lead rope attached to Dance Line's halter, I didn't think I'd ever be writing 
an endurance tale again.  Ever.  I figured this would be my last night with 
my favorite horse, my best friend, the last time I would do the one sport I 
love more than any other.  Things were not good and the prognosis was grim.  

Dance had a tube in his nose, down his throat and into his stomach. Two large 
IV bottles hung from a tree branch, overhead, with tubes running to a needle 
inserted in his neck, recently shaved.  Death was paying a visit to my horse, 
and no matter what we did to get rid of him, it looked like this unwelcomed 
guest was not going to leave.  And it was all my fault.

I should try and warn you, upfront, that this might not be a happy story.  I 
doubt that I'll be able to get you to laugh.  I'll try and throw some humor 
in once in a while, for old time's sake, but I have a feeling it won't be the 
same.  I don't want to make you cry, that's not my intention.  And, maybe, 
most of you won't.  You're probably better equipped to handle Death than me; 
I'm weak when it comes to such things. 

But, you see, the Vet has just told me that Dance Line probably is not going 
to make it, I'm stuck here under this tree for most of the night, friends and 
some total strangers are coming up to me, giving me condolences, tears are 
running down the front of my face, and if I speak, sobs will come bursting 
out and I just don't think I'll be able to find anything funny to say.  And 
please don't put your hand on my shoulder or give me a hug, cause I'll lose 
it completely if you do.  Death is hovering above, just to the left of the IV 
bags, and he has no sense of humor tonight.

A close friend has just taken my daughter, Jennifer, to their campsite at my 
request; I really don't want her with me and Dance Line right now.  Seven 
years ago we had lost a horse, due to colic, and I couldn't get Jen back on 
one for over a year after that experience.  I told myself that if it ever 
happened again I would have to get out of the horse business completely.  I 
know death is a part of life, I just don't want it to be part of mine when I 
can avoid it.  If you don't own a horse you won't have to watch it die.  Or 
live with yourself at the thought of having been the one who opened the barn 
door and let Death in.

As I sit here in my camping chair, shivering from the cold, looking at 
Dance's face, neck drooping with his head hung down low, I reflect on this 
weekend, my life, my soul.  I stand up, hold his head in my arms, look into 
his eyes filled with pain and I cry like a baby. You see, he's shivering too, 
due to the IV, even though we have two blankets on him.  The vet told me this 
would happen.   I'm alone, it's late, my friends and the Doc have left me for 
a while, to say Good-bye to my best buddy.  And I can't let go.

Till tonight I thought I was an atheist, a nonbeliever.  But I really don't 
want to live without this guy, so I look up and I ask.  I actually have the 
audacity to ask a really big favor from one whom I've denied most of my life. 
 How did I get to this point, here with my best friend, who will be lucky if 
he sees the sunrise tomorrow?  

The ride started out like any other.  I did the packing thing, put duct tape 
around the lid of my warped cooler to keep it shut, you've heard it all 
before.  Nothing abnormal. I even got the Health Certificate so I could get 
past the silly Agricultural Station at the Florida border on my way to South 
Carolina.  One day my state will probably require a passport for my horse; 
nothing surprises me anymore when it comes to bureaucratic red tape.

The ride was to be our first attempt at a 50 miler.  We thought we were all 
ready.  I knew Jennifer was and felt Rebel, my daughter's Arabian gelding, 
would be fine.  It was Dance and myself that concerned me.  You see, Dance 
Line is a 17 hand, slim, American Saddlebred, and a 50 mile endurance ride is 
quite a goal, for him and for me.

But we had all done so well at the Far Out Forest ride and completed 35 
miles, I figured we were ready to step up.  To join the big boys (even though 
they're mostly women) of the endurance world.  To do a true endurance 50 mile 
run (American Endurance Ride Conference term, not mine).  I knew that the 
footing in South Carolina would be different from the sandy Florida soil.  I 
thought this would be to my horses' advantage.  But then again, I could be 
wrong.

Because the ride was in South Carolina, I even left a day earlier than 
normal.  I didn't want the horses to be tired from the 8 hour anticipated 
trailer ride.  I had done rides this distance away from my house before and 
have learned that if you can take the extra time it pays off.  Plus, you 
usually get a great camping spot, close to the vet in area, which is where I 
wanted to be.  This would give me time to set up and talk with Jennifer about 
our plan of attack.  I didn't want to race while trying to complete our first 
50 mile run.

I went through the Florida Agricultural Station without losing my temper.  I 
still wonder why we seem to be the only state on the East coast that has this 
requirement.  Even Europe is getting rid of the border crossings; why does 
leaving or entering Florida, with a horse, require extra documentation and 
take up so much time?  

A young woman waited on me and I couldn't help but notice her last name was 
Hicks.  So apropos for this part of Florida and her line of work.  I did 
chuckle a bit, but then looked at her gun to get my mind off her name and 
avoid her asking me what was so dang funny.

It rained during the drive, the traffic though Columbia wasn't too bad. I 
find the right exit and get to the camp just before sunset.  I spot a large 
barn type building and see the familiar colored tape marking off the vet 
check areas.  Only a few riders are here so I park next to a really nice rig 
with a row of trees between us. I didn't know then how valuable one of these 
trees would become later this week end.  

It's a bit misty out, been raining most of the day, but not a hard rain.  Red 
Georgia clay is on the ground even though we are in South Carolina. I get the 
horses out, put the tent up with Jennifer's help, and we wander around to 
inspect our new neighborhood before it gets dark outside.  A group of six or 
so riders are huddled together under an awning to keep them out of the rain.  
 My ole buddy, Susan, is in the group and says, "OK, he's here, guess we'd 
better quit talking about him." 

Anyway they all invite me to sit with them and we introduce ourselves.  
Jennifer runs off to find one of her friends who just pulled in.  During the 
different topics of conversation I find out Susan actually had a heart attack 
at one of these rides.  A for real heart attack, paramedics, trip to the 
hospital, all that stuff.  Talk about your die hard endurance rider!  

The stories continue, beer bottles appear from coolers scattered nearby, and 
this one young woman, Debbie, asks me about my endurance writing.  She's read 
a couple of the stories, finds them funny, but wants to know why, in person, 
I sound like one of the Sopranos (HBO Show) who live in New Jersey.  She was 
expecting a Southern twang or some kind of drawl. Obviously, I've 
disappointed her in person.

I try and explain to Debbie that it was my misfortune to be born a Yankee.  
My mother was born in Virginia, but got transplanted to Delaware, where I was 
born.  Eventually, my family ended up in Philadelphia, which is where my 
accent comes from.  I've tried everything I can to lose it, but those Learn 
To Speak Southern courses I have on tape just don't seem to work for me.  I 
try and convince her that my heart belongs to Dixie, inspite of my family's 
misfortune of living in Pennsylvania for a spell, and that I'll never leave 
the South.  Even though some don't consider Florida to be a true Southern 
State, I do.

We get up kind of early the next day, Friday, I feed the horses and pull out 
my alcohol burner, making sure not to put it under a tree.  The thing is so 
dirty, from black fumes that have backfired, my hands get that nasty sooty 
stuff on them every time I touch it.  But coffee is coffee and hot water must 
be attained.  Plus I have some bagels that need to be toasted. 

I light the burner, successfully for once, and put on the tea kettle that no 
longer has that plastic thing on the opening, the one that whistles to let 
you know water's done.  It melted on me last trip when I set my cooler, which 
had the misfortune to be under my burner, on fire.  After I put that fire out 
and the smoke had cleared, I noticed that the black cap had melted, like 
butter.  I ended up pulling it off the kettle with a pair of pliers.  As a 
camper, I am a danger to myself, any tree, utensil or other inanimate object 
within 20 feet.  Also, at risk are all living creatures (horse, human, skunk, 
raccoon, etc.) who, unknowing of the danger, happen to live nearby.

The water boils, I makes some coffee, eat a bagel, sit back and think, "It 
doesn't get much better than this."  Well, actually, it does but I'm 
satisfied anyway.  It's a beautiful morning and the scenery has hills, trees, 
neat looking red clay, and I could see living here with no problem. 

The preride dinner and briefing went well.  There was one lady, the one who 
gave the pre-ride prayer, Lucy, who got my attention.  She was talking about 
her Grand kids and mentioned one year, where she had them all at this ride, 
and one month later one of the children was killed, in an automobile crash.  
That one got to me and quite a few others; maybe, Death is always hanging 
around, we just choose not to look at him unless he leaves us no choice.

The ride manager went over the trail and it was kind of screwy.  So many 
intersections, crossings, circular turns and trail overlaps I knew this was 
going to be a tough ride.  Plus throw in a long stretch next to a road with 
car traffic, some kind of regatta Basketball tournament that we were going to 
have to ride through and I had the feeling we weren't out in the country, 
isolated like most rides.  This was a suburb of a big city and parts of it 
were like riding in New York City's Central Park.

Jen and I get a good nights sleep and I'm up early the next day.  I have no 
intention of missing the start of this ride like I did at the Far Out 
Forrest.  We saddle up and I spot Nina and Susan.  I know they are familiar 
with this trail and I know they ride fast.  Course me and my competitive 
sidekick are not at all intimidated by this fact so we decide to give them a 
run.  This was probably my first error with Dance, even though he loves to 
compete.

So this we do.  And Nina is a nut.  Going between trees at a canter and only 
slowing down to a trot when absolutely necessary.  Some parts of this ride 
you can't even see a trail, you just go from ribbon to ribbon.  The trees are 
so close together I have to take my feet out of the stirrups to get through 
sometimes.  And there are a few hills, not mountains, but definitely some 
hills.  And whack, I just smacked my knee into one of those small trees 
trying to keep up with Nina.  I start cursing.  And I don't stop with the 
nasty mouth.  Jen is all over me about it, but it's just my way of dealing 
with a crazy trail.  

I'm still behind Nina and Susan; Jen is right behind me.  We pass Susan once 
in a while, but I never try to pass Nina.  She is an expert at not getting 
lost here and I like her leadership style, even if it is a bit whacky (yea, I 
know Nina, the pot calling the kettle black).

We get into the vet check and not too many are ahead of us.  I can't believe 
anyone is ahead of us, these riders are just unbelievable to me.  We fly thru 
the vet check, but I have no intention of keeping up with these people any 
more.  Both horses eat great, I grab a beer to calm down, and we have a seat. 
 Jennifer is pumped up and doesn't want me to take our time.  She wants to go 
the minute our out time hits.  Since I'm the only one with a watch I figure 
I'll just fib to her about the time.  

So, we leave ten minutes later than our out time and damn if Jennifer doesn't 
ask clipboard lady for the time on her watch. Jen now knows about me lying to 
her and I hear about that the entire second loop.  Now the second loop was 
half as long as the first and not near as difficult, especially with those 
darn trees.  My knee has stopped bleeding, but these tights will have a new 
patch on them over the knee next ride.