G. K. Wuori

Speed

There has been throughout history perhaps no greater barrier to courtship than the little brother. It doesn’t matter whether the boy was the brother of the male or female in question, their propensity for popping up at the wrong time, asking questions, or simply wanting a time share of the romancing sibling has been well-documented under the heading, Nuisances – Boys.

Thus, the story behind my first ride on a horse.

We were living on a farm at the time, renting the farmhouse while our parents both worked at a tavern they were managing several miles from the farm. I must have been around eight or nine. Since my sister is some four years older than I, we lived lives fairly separate from each other. She, in a sense, was in charge of me, but since I was in charge of exploring the barns and outbuildings, the fields, and a nearby creek, we could spend the better parts of most days having little contact with each other.

As far as the rules of sibling-hood go, it was a fine arrangement.

She, however, was into adolescence and boys were starting to pierce our little pastoral bubble. Much of that, however, could be easily ignored since I was still young enough to wonder what the point of all that was, anyway.

Until the one day, a wintry day because there was snow all around and large snow drifts lining the country roads. My cowboy genes were in an uproar as he – I believe his name was Kenny – came riding up to our house on his horse. After dismounting and tying his horse to a fence post, he asked me if my sister was home. Though transfixed by the beauty of this great brown beast, I believe I said yes and then followed him into the house.

I don’t know what my plan might have been, or what his plan might have been, but I knew that if any of it involved that horse it would have to involve me. Though I was not overtly a nuisance, I was certainly overtly a presence, enough so that eventually he asked me if I wanted to take the horse for a ride.

This was not a time of seatbelts on horses, nor of horse-riding helmets, nor of having a sister concerned over whether or not I’d ever ridden a horse before. Life was simpler back then: if you wanted to do something, it was assumed you knew the risks and would keep them in mind.

Outside, I approached the horse. As a veteran of innumerable cowboy movies, I knew you mounted a horse on a certain side, which side escaped me but I must have chosen the proper side because in only a moment I was sitting tall in the saddle, tall enough to look down and see that I hadn’t removed the reins from the fence post.

After correcting that bit of business, I was ready to go. I clucked my tongue and pulled on the reins a bit because I’d seen the cowboys do that, and, sure enough, the horse moved away from the fence and out onto our gravel driveway, reasonably cleaned of snow since I’d done most of the shoveling.

Truly, I was surprised at how easy this all was and at how comfortable I felt with one hand holding the reins and my other hand only lightly on the pommel. We headed, at a gentle pace, out onto the road and turned south. North might have been better because Kenny and his horse lived to the south of us.

But we headed south and in only a few moments that horse began picking up the pace. I think he wanted to go home. “Whoa” I said, rather softly. I would have preferred a brake pedal as we proceeded into a language with which I was not familiar: lope, canter, gallop, run, holy-shit-how-do-you-turn-this-thing-off?

Abandoning my imagined cowboy skills, I dropped the reins and grabbed onto the pommel with both hands. The horse, however, had only been warming up. Our speed increased, undoubtedly far greater in my mind than in reality, but we were going along at a good clip.

Eventually, I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around most of its neck. Switching from cowboy to soldier mode, I knew we’d be over the drop zone in France in only moments. We’d parachute in. We’d regroup. We’d fight. In fevered service to valor, of course, I’d forgotten my parachute.

No matter. In times of crisis, you do what you have to do.

I went through the door, following my comrades. I hit the Eject button. Captain or not, I abandoned ship.

Considering that I was being governed not by planning but panic (my greatest fear, of course, not injury, but that I’d be deposited unwillingly at Kenny’s farm and riding Kenny’s horse, and thus be shown up as a total city kid and fodder for all sorts of school bus gossip), I landed rather tidily on my back in a snowdrift.

Yes, that innocent horse stopped not far from where I lay. Yes, he had no problem with my taking his reins, turning him around, and beginning the walk – not as far as the speed of my flight might have suggested – back home.

Nor was he particularly disturbed when, not far from my house, I got back on him so that we could amble casually back into my yard.

“How was your ride?” Kenny asked me.

“Cool,” I said, walking quietly and with great dignity to my room.

G. K. Wuori © 2009
Photoillustration by the author from a photo by W.S.Wuori