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My new partner Indy made me into an endurance rider a couple of weeks  
ago. Luckily our first attempt was at a very well-organized and  
easily marked ride managed by Gail Williams. We finished the  
Milwaukie Road Rail Trail 50-miler in terrific shape, largely thanks  
to a brilliant crew: Lollie Knight and Joanne Knight-Gwin flew up all  
the way from California to make sure I didn't screw the whole thing up.

THE BEGINNING:

I tried to sabotage Joanne and Lollie several times, including  
contemplating changing directions and heading home halfway to  
Ellensburg out of sheer panic. I drove along slowly, daydreaming  
about how Indy might turn into a raving lunatic and dump me at the  
start, of how I might break some subtle law of endurance riding and  
mess up someone else's ride, of how unprepared I was physically, and  
of how much faster and farther we'd be riding than I was used to.   
What if I'd done everything wrong since bringing Indy home in  
January? What if my ignorance about conditioning left her miserable  
at best, or hurt or DEAD at worst?

Things were a bit bungled at the outset but kept moving along despite  
me: waiting to pack the trailer until the Wise Ones arrived from the  
airport seemed like a good idea but meant we left about four hours  
later than intended. (As we got around to filling the water tank,  
then sat at Les Schwab to get our tires checked and filled, Joanne  
finally got impatient enough to cry out, "this is the way Mom and I  
always did it, but we hoped we'd help you do better!!!)

Upon arrival, Indy met her Spanish Mustang buddy Tango next door and  
swooned into a dramatic, doe-eyed heat. I dragged my lovesick girl  
away from her black stallion (he wishes) and rushed to the vetting-in  
spot where my now completely wired horse threatened to kick the vet  
and pretty much walked all over me during the process. Dr. Balch was  
VERY sweet as he politely queried how much experience we'd had.  
Lesson One: endurance vets really are unusual and brave people. They  
are patient, cheerful, wise, encouraging, and dead-serious about the  
welfare of both horse and rider. I explained that Indy was  
marvelously experienced but that I was an ignoramus. He chuckled,  
handed out a few bits of excellent advice, and generally did a  
terrific job of pretending not to worry that I seemed unable to lead,  
let alone ride my horse. We whirled around and around again for the  
nice man with the oil crayon. He kept saying kind things to my  
frothing, bellowing horse like, "now don't worry so much girl,  
you'rea pretty thing." Flattered, Indy paused long enough for him to  
scrawl a great big "101" on her rump. Wow, we had a number--a really  
good number. It was beginning to look like we were actually going to  
do this thing.

Back to bungling: I forgot the insulators for the corral, so the  
McCormacks (friends camped next door) made a lovely pen out of duct  
tape. Where are the flags? Didn't know we needed flags. Presto, duct  
tape flags. Where are the stove and heater? In their boxes, unopened  
and unassembled. No problemo, Joanne is a whiz with such things.

We were still up at 11:00 p.m. putting gear together. Apparently my  
annual trailer-washing (accomplished in a fit of panic a few days  
before the ride--if the trailer's clean, I'll ride better, right?)  
had shorted out the connection to the battery so the interior lights  
weren't working.
"Where's the flashlight?"
"uh, well, I keep it in the barn...."
"oh, right next to the insulators?"
"yep."

The good news was that the fabulous little heater (a Big Buddy) kept  
us pretty toasty all night, even as enormous gusts from the  
increasingly strong wind storm shook the trailer. Joanne and I are  
certain we never got cold because we were awake all night as  
witnesses. Periodically Joanne would whisper, "you awake?". As  
another feed pan or empty bucket whacked against the window, I'd  
answer, "yah, that heater's pretty great isn't it!" As we lay there  
listening to the doors of the port-a-potties slam open and shut,  
Joanne wondered aloud if Indy were still there. I pushed the door  
open against the wind to see a bored-looking, sleepy horse staring at  
me through the flying dust. Unflappable that one.

THE UNMAKING OF A COWARD:

Joanne said that the single best piece of advice she could give was  
that we should be tacked up an hour before the start and that I  
should be on Indy 30 minutes before the start. In case anyone out  
there doesn't know better, that is probably the most effective tidbit  
this newbie has had in all 9 years of trying to be an endurance  
rider. We were walking and jogging around pretty calmly, away from  
ridecamp and back again, just about to head away from the start again  
so as to avoid any commotion, when all the sudden the woman standing  
next to us called out, "The trail is open."

What the heck? That half-hour had evaporated in what seemed less than  
3 minutes! I glanced down into camp to see where the McCormacks were  
and saw that Tango still had no saddle on. Hmmm. We'd agreed I should  
ride separately so as not to worry about getting in their way. Now it  
looked as though it might be a while before they left. Oh, and there  
was Lollie running toward us with a camera, giving big thumbs up and  
waving us on. Indy was excited but completely manageable. It all  
happened so oddly and quickly: we trotted forward, and, wow, we were  
on our way!

Ok, so it's confession time--Joanne and Lollie, I didn't tell you  
this, but I cried a little bit after we climbed the embankment and  
onto the railroad grade. I think it was happy crying. Relief maybe?  
It's been such a long road for me. I know most of you decided to  
enter a ride, did so, and began your various careers. Some of you  
overcame all sorts of obstacles to get into the sport. I'd been on  
some sort of undramatic holding pattern: nothing so terrible getting  
in the way, just lots of inconveniences, a bit of bad luck, and not  
enough commitment on my part. That last bit had been bothering me for  
years; you can want a thing for a long time and never get enough  
moxie to make it happen.

As Indy crested that little hill, I thought about how my friend Grace  
had dragged me away from babies, back to my horses a few years ago,  
saying, "let's just ride up and down the driveway--your horses are  
just standing there getting moldy." When I whined about being land- 
locked and having no trailer, she called the next day to say,  
"there's just what you want in the Little Nickel, cheap. Better get  
down there right away." My non-horsey husband unaccountably went  
along with resuscitating my horse dreams, even became pushy about it.  
When Joanne and I met on Ridecamp, then got in the habit of camping  
out together at Tevis each year, the possible became probable. She  
first posed as an amateur, failing to tell me she and her mother  
Lollie had TONS of endurance experience, had completed Tevis multiple  
times, had even hosted their own ride years ago. Now here she was up  
in Washington, handing out platinum advice and help to little ol'  
cowardly, slow-poke me....

In those first miles I thought a lot about how lucky I am to have so  
many people in my life who take my personal dream seriously, who feel  
it's not silly to really, really want to do a thing that isn't going  
to save lives or improve the world. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or  
adrenalin, but I'm certain I've never before felt such joy and  
gratitude. (As I was gushing about the ride over dinner at my in-laws  
the other night, my husband grinned and said, "honest now, doing that  
ride was more exciting for you than our wedding day, wasn't it." Umm.  
Uhh.)

Indy felt my mood and snorted her own joyfulness into the atmosphere.  
She was clearly happy. Usually we ride slowly--as in walking and slow  
trotting--which bores the heck out of her. She was probably thinking,  
"finally, you get what I've been trying to say all this time," We  
were not setting any speed records mind you, but for me, if felt like  
a Kentucky Derby pace. I couldn't believe how sure- footed she  
seemed. I'd been suspecting her frequent tripping was a sign of  
boredom, and here was proof. She infected me with confidence, so we  
sped up a bit. No one was in sight in front or behind so we played  
around with different speeds. I couldn't get over her happy, jaunty  
self.

Her ears flicked back and then I heard an odd sound and looked behind  
us--here was a very strange sight: A man on a small dark horse with  
flying feet was singing loudly at the top of his lungs, one hand  
waving about like a conductor. Beside him rode an elegant looking  
woman on an equally graceful horse. I slowed, then, as they swept by  
us, let Indy move in behind. We tagged along for several miles.  
Finally, my shyness overcome by worry that we were intruding on their  
friendly partnership, I asked if they minded our hanging on behind  
them. Paul and Molly asked me a few questions, realized I'd not done  
a ride before, and scooped Indy and me up like stray puppies.

I went into this ride terrified of speed and terrified that my  
uncollected, rump-high horse would trip and send us both head over  
teakettle. Molly and Paul didn't once say, "you can do it" or "don't  
worry, you'll be ok", even when we encountered the first of what  
would be many open-sided, narrow trestles. I swallowed hard and  
dropped to a walk, expecting some sort of encouraging pressure. Nope.  
Not a word. Molly and Paul just slowed down and kept chatting as we  
crept over the thing. The wind blew harder and harder as we made our  
way toward the 21 mile out-check. Listening to their friendly  
bantering, I became less certain we'd be blown over the edge--and  
less terrified that we'd push Paul's Peruvian Paso off to a horrible  
death. Indy figured out  how to turn her head into the gusts and tack  
like a sailboat. She let the wind push her sideways until we blew  
into the protected cuts for a break. These cuts were invariably  
filled with rubble from the hillsides, so we slowed through each one  
and were able to laugh and joke a bit without losing the punch-lines  
to the wind. Pretty soon we were trotting quickly over those  
terrifying bridges. With zero pressure from my new friends, I gained  
confidence with every mile. Indy grew happier and happier as the  
reins loosened and she settled into a long, ground-covering trot.

There were only tiny hiccups on the way to the first check. I'd  
lengthened the bridle to fit Indy, (my daughter used the bridle last  
on Benny-the-Wonder-Pony) and left it too long. Luckily Indy let me  
know very quickly that she'd gotten her tongue over the bit so no  
damage was done. A tumbleweed tried to eat her tummy, but she showed  
it who's boss. My right stirrup seemed way too long but I didn't want  
to stop; about 3 miles before the check, my whole leg started shaking  
spasmodically from riding on tiptoe. I forgot all about the  
discomfort though when we turned a corner to see the Columbia  
charging through a dam down below us. After all those miles of  
desert, the huge river's sudden appearance seemed miraculous.

Just as wonderful was the next turn which took us into the vet check:  
21 miles!! For the record, that was officially one mile longer than  
the longest ride I'd ever done. It was most certainly the fastest as  
well. Lollie and Joanne were grinning and waving: "I TOLD you you  
would get here faster than you thought!" Lollie had primed the whole  
vet check with the news that this was my first-ever ride. I got all  
sorts of hugs and encouragement. Indy's excellent condition, her  
recovery, her obvious cheerfulness were all commented on--I had to  
shrug most of that aside as Indy herself and her previous owner  
deserved all of the credit--but one of the vets laughed, hugged me,  
and said, "oh, but there are soooo many ways you could be screwing  
this up--and you're not!"

What an amazing experience. I remember running the Boston Marathon  
(as a bandit--long story), stupidly dreading the Wellesley Girl  
Corridor because I assumed the college women would focus on cheering  
on the guys. Much to my delight they roared loudest each time a  
female runner appeared. I'd never experienced Woman-Power before and  
emerged from the gauntlet charged up and ready to stomp the remaining  
miles into the ground. (Don't worry, the men got their own kind of  
thrill I'm certain--my husband attests to it.)

I felt the same way after making our way through the vet-check:  
proud, energized, and very excited to hit the trail again. Then  
Joanne gave a little cough, pointed to Indy's right rear fetlock; for  
the first time since I've known her, she looked at me with real  
irritation. There was a dime-sized patch of hair missing, small  
enough to overlook but big enough to turn into something nasty before  
long. Joanne shook her finger at me and said, "Gayle TOLD you to use  
boots--I told you to listen to her!" Mortified I said, "omigosh you  
flew all the way here from California and I ignored your advice--I'm  
so sorry."

Later Lollie explained to my daughter that one of the addictive  
things about endurance is that every ride is a whole lifetime with  
highs and lows, thrills and terrors, proud moments and humiliating  
ones. I went from euphoric to miserable the instant I saw that bald  
patch on Indy's leg. "Arrogant, arrogant, arrogant" I muttered. Indy  
had interfered a lot when she first arrived, so we'd done quite a bit  
of arena work to strengthen and lift her back. The fact that she no  
longer interfered front to back, and the long rides with no apparent  
problems side-to-side made me suspect she didn't need boots. Joanne  
had warned me to use them, but I honestly thought Indy had changed  
her stride so as not to need them. I meekly asked if the boots were  
in the crew bag. Joanne swallowed her irritation, grabbed them out of  
the bag, and showed me how to put them on....

Joanne forgave me, sort of, as soon as the boots were in place; Indy  
seemed comfortable in them and finished her nasty tang-flavored  
electrolyte mash with enthusiasm. We got the stirrup straightened  
out. (I love my saddle, but why can't Freeforms have easier stirrup  
adjustments???) Suddenly Paul and Molly were there and it was time to  
head out. Just before we left I asked if anyone knew where Nikki and  
Michael were. I had expected them to catch up with me at first, then,  
when we started going faster, I figured we'd overlap at the vet  
check. Joanne looked at Lollie and Lollie looked at Joanne. Joanne  
said, "we decided we wouldn't tell you unless you asked...." Then  
Lollie explained that they were on their way home, that Tango had  
reared up, landed on Nikki's foot, then taken off bucking. The saddle  
slipped and Michael had fallen but was ok. Nikki's foot was more  
worrisome. Apparently, when I looked down as the ride started, the  
drama was already over. They'd taken off Tango's saddle, and Nikki  
was huddled on the ground with Indy's ice boot on her foot saying,  
"don't let her stop, don't tell her".

Endurance rides really do have all the drama of a lifetime packed  
into a few hours. Nikki was so right and so kind to urge them to  
silence. I would have gone down to her, wouldn't really have been  
able to help, and would have missed the ride. Thank you McCormacks!  
(They say Joanne's idea of tacking up early and climbing aboard 30  
minutes before the start sounds really, really appealing for next  
time. And yes, they're already planning their next ride. Nikki's foot  
is badly sprained as is her hand, but both are feeling better every  
day. Tango looks really sad and embarrassed. He's gonna love that  
whole colt-starting, round-pen re-breaking thing they're planning :-)

Clara yelled, "go get 'em Mama" from her wind-free seat in the truck,  
and off we went, full of People-magazine-like horror and curiosity  
and concern for Nikki and Michael.

A smaller drama grabbed our attention pretty quickly though. Molly's  
horse had trotted out enthusiastically but imperfectly in the vet- 
check. As we rode on, it became apparent that a fall into a creek a  
week earlier had left a lurking soreness. A few more miles and it  
became more and more clear that we needed to find a trailer back to  
camp. We knew one was stationed about 8 miles from the in-camp check  
so took a slower but steady pace to Molly's motorized ride home. She  
was a lesson in cheerfulness, concerned about her horse, but certain  
all would be well.

On our own now, Paul and I picked up the pace. The wind lessened a  
bit--I almost missed it as it gave us something to lean into. We had  
to pause again when my stirrup broke--the bolt had fallen off--but  
with a grin Paul produced his water bottle wrapped in duct tape. Duct  
tape again!!! Stirrup fixed, we took off again and began leapfrogging  
with another couple Paul knew. They had lovely, lively horses--one  
wore a mask to help him with some sort of odd neurological head- 
shaking problem. You gotta love people who find a way for their  
horses to have a career despite all odds. As we neared camp, the  
horses got more and more excited. We started passing one another,  
going faster and faster. Paul let out a maniacal laugh, and I  
remember yelling into the wind, "I feel like such a COWGIRRRRLLLLL."  
So much for my fear of speed.

THE LAST CHECK:
Paul and I joked and laughed our way down the incline into camp. Only  
8 miles to go! We got off and loosened girths and enjoyed instant  
pulse-downs. Joanne and Lollie swooped in with arms of feed and  
Indy's cooler. Lollie had prepared the ground again, and I was hugged  
and congratulated as soon-to-be successful first-time endurance  
rider. Indy was full of energy and kept bowling the vet over with her  
demands for scratching. I rubbed her eyes and offered myself as an  
itching post to keep her busy. The vet made a point of calling out  
dramatically, "and another 'A'!!" as she went through the checklist,  
grinning all the while. She said, "you're doing so well, you're  
gonna' make it!" I grinned back, said thanks, turned Indy to walk  
away, and stopped aghast: blood was pouring from her eye!

It was awful. The vets all dropped everything. Indy was squinting and  
blinking as though something hurt terribly. I kept telling everyone  
to look me over to see if she'd cut her eye while rubbing on me. As  
she calmed down I had a brief selfish thought, "of course I have the  
horse with some sort of rare ocular hemophilia.... couldn't it have  
been easy, just this once?" The vets were handling me carefully--I  
think they feared I was a nut-job who might argue that we should  
continue the ride. I said, "omigosh, it's rider option pull or  
whatever you call it. Let's just take care of her." The vet somewhat  
formally explained that any of several things might mean that we  
could not continue, and that, if they found no evidence of damage  
then.... "then I'll ask you what you'd do if it were your horse," I  
interrupted. She smiled and gave me a thumbs up.

We untacked and blanketed Indy and walked her over to the treatment  
van--away from the crowd and out of the wind. The bleeding stopped,  
Indy calmed down and began eating and drinking voraciously as though  
tanking up was all that mattered. (Of course Joanne and Lollie had  
lugged all her treats and a bucket of water clear across the field  
for her.) Dr. Mink examined her eye thoroughly. She washed it out,  
put in that goop that shows damage, then delivered her formal  
evaluation: "I see no lacerations, no corneal abrasions, there is no  
longer any bleeding, her heart rate is steady, she's clearly not in  
pain. If this were my horse, I would absolutely finish this ride."

What? She  isn't blind? She's not even hurt? Huh? Confused, I reached  
up to tidy her forelock, froze, then said, "omigosh--I did it to her.  
Look." Dangling from my riding glove was the tiny seatbelt- like  
catch that one hooks to the other glove to keep the pair together. I  
could almost remember the exact moment I'd reached across her head to  
rub the far eye as the vet was telling us we were good to go. Indy  
had pushed and tossed her head to get a better scritch. That was an  
instant before I'd turned her to walk away. I'd hurt my own horse!  
Poor Indy. First no boots, now this.

It took a while for the world to spin around again. I couldn't  
believe we were ok. Indy perked up when Paul and his Paso came to  
check on us. He grinned and mentioned that we had about two more  
minutes. We hadn't even used up our hold time! Unbelievable. On went  
the saddle, up went the riders. Eight miles to go!

A few details of the last loop:

Indy went th|rough a droopy moment right after we set out.  Before  
the last check we'd been out there long enough for her to have  
completed (Gayle rode much more quickly than I), and we'd taken off  
her tack. She thought we were done! I wasn't feeling so great myself.  
The wind had picked up again, I'd grabbed the wrong helmet so it kept  
slipping over my eyes, and the leathers felt like hot brands where  
they settled into my shins again. Those first 2 miles up along the  
irrigation canal were tough for both of us. She made the mental  
adjustment before I did. Suddenly I was riding my cheery, forward- 
moving horse again. I forgot about my legs, Paul gave another  
maniacal laugh, and off we went. We played leapfrog with the same  
couple again. Everyone was very cheerful and happy.

We slowed down for the last mile and gave up the leapfrog lead for  
good. As we walked along, Paul explained how he_ believes that  
endurance is one of the last places in our society where people still  
have the time to listen. It's a place where people can talk and get  
outside all their black and white ways of thinking. I guess he's  
right. Here I was steering my happy horse along an irrigation canal  
in the middle of the desert, with a crazy man shouting bits of wisdom  
through a howling wind. In what other lifetime would that happen?

We hopped off and walked into camp, then vetted through. Dr. Balch  
grinned, patted Indy, and shook my hand in congratulations. Yep, I'd  
say Paul and Lollie have it right. I leaned my cheek against Indy's  
neck; she nudged me gently, then whacked her nose impatiently against  
my sore leg. Wincing and laughing, I turned to lead her toward the  
trailer where our friends were waiting. Yep, I can't wait for the  
next lifetime.

Mary K


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