| General Fiction posted March 27, 2022 |
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The ride of my life
Stumpy
by Wendy G
Write a Short Story Contest Winner
I'd always wanted a horse.
Dad always said, "One day …!"
We both knew that day would never come. A horse needed more than a suburban block.
The nearest I would get to owning a horse would be a vicarious experience … reading Black Beauty or watching National Velvet.
When I was fourteen we moved to within cycling distance of a farm – with horses. Riding lessons, impossible. But one could hire a horse for an hour.
After much pleading, I was permitted to spend my allowance on horse-riding … every Saturday afternoon. No riding gear, no lessons, just learning by observation.
One fine afternoon they gave me Stumpy, an ex race- horse.
For some reason, never disclosed, Stumpy had once tried to leap a barbed wire fence. Not being a jumper, he fell, tearing his stomach on barbed wire, signalling the end of his racing career.
I hadn't had Stumpy before. His name did not suit this magnificent creature, strong and beautiful. I was pleased to be riding such a grand animal. My dreams were, at least partially, coming true.
I knew the country roads. We progressed from a sedate walk to a trot, and finally a gentle canter. I was elated. I felt one with the horse; peace and happiness filled me.
We were probably five kilometres away, when for some inexplicable reason, Stumpy bolted, galloping madly, wildly, crazily. He seemed to throw a switch in his personality, and I understood, very clearly, that he did not want to be ridden.
He suddenly stopped and turned, zig-zagging crazily, bucking wildly like a horse in a rodeo. All I could do was try desperately to hold on. I was scared. This dream had become a nightmare.
The longer I stayed on, the angrier Stumpy became. He swerved and doubled back, racing towards a stand of trees with low-hanging branches. I could not rein him in; I had no time to make him change direction, and probably neither the skill nor the strength.
A picture flashed into my mind of being beheaded! There was no time to crouch low on his neck – so I leaned far back over his rump, then drew upright again on leaving the grove. But no! He turned, darting back, swerving, bucking and racing in and out of the trees, time and again.
Finally, I turned him, and he headed for the farm-house, again galloping at top speed.
I was terrified, but also angry with him! A battle of wills.
Again I clung on for dear life. We arrived back very quickly, and early! I reined Stumpy in, and shakily dismounted.
"Good ride?" asked the farmer. "Stumpy still has plenty of speed in him, hasn't he?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"He's a bad-tempered beast, totally unpredictable," he continued. "I'm surprised the stable boys gave him to you! He's not an easy horse to manage!"
"No, he's not easy," I replied, "But I definitely know now what it's like to ride a race horse!"
I'd always wanted a horse.
Dad always said, "One day …!"
We both knew that day would never come. A horse needed more than a suburban block.
The nearest I would get to owning a horse would be a vicarious experience … reading Black Beauty or watching National Velvet.
When I was fourteen we moved to within cycling distance of a farm – with horses. Riding lessons, impossible. But one could hire a horse for an hour.
After much pleading, I was permitted to spend my allowance on horse-riding … every Saturday afternoon. No riding gear, no lessons, just learning by observation.
One fine afternoon they gave me Stumpy, an ex race- horse.
For some reason, never disclosed, Stumpy had once tried to leap a barbed wire fence. Not being a jumper, he fell, tearing his stomach on barbed wire, signalling the end of his racing career.
I hadn't had Stumpy before. His name did not suit this magnificent creature, strong and beautiful. I was pleased to be riding such a grand animal. My dreams were, at least partially, coming true.
I knew the country roads. We progressed from a sedate walk to a trot, and finally a gentle canter. I was elated. I felt one with the horse; peace and happiness filled me.
We were probably five kilometres away, when for some inexplicable reason, Stumpy bolted, galloping madly, wildly, crazily. He seemed to throw a switch in his personality, and I understood, very clearly, that he did not want to be ridden.
He suddenly stopped and turned, zig-zagging crazily, bucking wildly like a horse in a rodeo. All I could do was try desperately to hold on. I was scared. This dream had become a nightmare.
The longer I stayed on, the angrier Stumpy became. He swerved and doubled back, racing towards a stand of trees with low-hanging branches. I could not rein him in; I had no time to make him change direction, and probably neither the skill nor the strength.
A picture flashed into my mind of being beheaded! There was no time to crouch low on his neck – so I leaned far back over his rump, then drew upright again on leaving the grove. But no! He turned, darting back, swerving, bucking and racing in and out of the trees, time and again.
Finally, I turned him, and he headed for the farm-house, again galloping at top speed.
I was terrified, but also angry with him! A battle of wills.
Again I clung on for dear life. We arrived back very quickly, and early! I reined Stumpy in, and shakily dismounted.
"Good ride?" asked the farmer. "Stumpy still has plenty of speed in him, hasn't he?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"He's a bad-tempered beast, totally unpredictable," he continued. "I'm surprised the stable boys gave him to you! He's not an easy horse to manage!"
"No, he's not easy," I replied, "But I definitely know now what it's like to ride a race horse!"
Write a Short Story Contest Winner |
 Recognized |
I wonder if anyone ever noticed that I chose to play tennis on Saturday afternoons not long after that experience.
My friend Annette was a much-loved only daughter after four boys, who all also adored her. She too loved horse-riding, and was a far better rider than I.
She took regular lessons, wore jodhpurs and had a hardhat.
We were devastated to learn, about a year later, that her horse had thrown her. Her foot caught in the stirrups and she was dragged a hundred metres. She suffered extensive and fatal head injuries. Dead at fifteen years old!
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. My friend Annette was a much-loved only daughter after four boys, who all also adored her. She too loved horse-riding, and was a far better rider than I.
She took regular lessons, wore jodhpurs and had a hardhat.
We were devastated to learn, about a year later, that her horse had thrown her. Her foot caught in the stirrups and she was dragged a hundred metres. She suffered extensive and fatal head injuries. Dead at fifteen years old!
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