Rolex (Okay, not Rolex but it felt like it)

Righty tighty, lefty loosie.

Loosie? Loosey. Loosee? To make loose.

Note to self – when the guys at the trailer shop are doing your annual service, tell them NOT to use the hydraulic doobaflotchy thing when putting the tires back on. I look like an idiot jumping up and down on the lug wrench by the side of the road.

However, a flat tire on the way to Pine Top apparently brought fabulous karma for the weekend.

Dressage was bellisimo and we hung out in 1^st place until the last rider nudged me out by 0.9. Even if it was short lived my name was listed first on live scoring. It felt like going to the prom with the popular guy, or getting asked for ID on your 30^th birthday, or finding out that broken cookies really don’t have calories. It was . . . ahhhhhh.

Where’s the paparazzi? Where’s the Chariots of Fire music in the background? Where’s the celebratory grog? (oh, the grog is in the cooler. Never mind).

And just like that, it was over.

“Ma’am, you’ll have to step off to the side, you’re not in 1^st any more. Yes, that means now. No we’re not going to do a recount. Ma’am, you’re just embarrassing yourself, please.  Ma’am, LET GO of the podium! ”

Better to have loved and lost, blah blah blah.

Stadium was . . . interesting.

I think we go left here

 Cool morning + bucking horse + who’s steering this ship? = 2 rails.

But XC.  Holy mother of pearl, Batman, did I wake up at Rolex?  Your Honor, may I present Exhibit A:

As a matter of fact I would like a drink


And B:

Say what?



And C:

I think I'll take the escalator, but thanks anyway

But D?:

Before . . . 

After

Your Honor, the prosecution rests. 

We might have had a bit of swag walking back to stabling. It was Rolex, after all. And 4th place sure tasted like victory.