Life as an Also Ran

So as I stood staring at the mammogram machine in my paper vest I began to wonder about some things.

(Step forward, lift your chin . . . )

Mostly I wondered why they bother with the stupid paper vest. Seriously, what does it do? It doesn’t keep you covered, it sure as heck doesn’t keep you warm, and as soon as you take one side off to feed the machine the other side falls to the floor.

(Hold you breath, don’t breathe . . . )

They only come in ‘one size fits none’, and since you have to remove your deodorant for the boob eating x-ray plate all of your nervous perspiration is there for the world to see.

(Breathe, step back . . . )

I started to wonder if Beezie Madden or Karen O’Connor’s paper vests fail as miserably as mine. Does Becky Holder have a bead of sweat running down her armpit while she waits for the whir of the guillotine machine?

(You moved, we’ll have to reshoot that one . . . )

And then a short time later as I sat on the stupid paper sheet with the stupid paper drape across my lap and my stupid paper vest falling off my shoulders, staring at the miserable steel holders that have.the.nerve to call themselves stirrups, I continued to wonder.

(Scooch forward . . . )

Does Boyd Martin have to wear a stupid paper sheet to turn his head and cough? Does William Fox Pitt feel the need to make nervous chatter while waiting for

(Cold hand, sorry . . . )

And I thought to myself  “well, it doesn’t get much less glamorous than this.” But, of course, it did get less glamorous. Much less glamorous.

(Little pressure here . . . )

And like my stupid, useless paper vest I felt like the least glamorous thing on the planet. THAT, for some strange reason, is when I came to the realization that I am officially an ‘also ran’. Not the one watching the scoreboard to find out which tier of the platform I’ll be standing on. Not the one smiling for the camera with my beaming support crew all around me. And most definitely not the one planning my Fall thinking “another awards banquet, how utterly droll”.

Being an ‘also ran’ means your glory is measured by subtler methods, like the smile you wear back at the trailer because you just jumped 8 of the biggest tables you’ve ever seen; or the personal satisfaction that you just gave every drop trying to get that last 3^rd level score, even if the number didn’t happen. It's definitely the pride you feel when you know your horse tried his heart out for you in stadium.

Life as an ‘also ran’ might not be flashy or glamorous, in fact the only camera capturing the moment might be the one looking back at you in the rear view mirror, but it’s my life. It’s my ordinary, average, 8 table jumping life.

And it’s a whole lot better than that stupid paper vest.

Here's some footage from Five Points Horse Trials last weekend. A cheeky stop at the water, but otherwise an amazing XC run. 

Mission Control to Sanity

Mission Control to Sanity . . .

Come in, Sanity.

“Sanity here”

Yes, Sanity, what is your location please?

“Um . . . let’s see, there’s a tree to my left . . . I hear frogs . . . Wait, did I just hear a train? No, that was just the sound of unstructured thoughts running around my brain. Huh, weird, sure sounded like a train for a moment there.  Sorry, I guess I’m lost.”

Houston, we have a problem.

Since we moved to the country I’ve been pacing the halls of mission control like an expectant father in a hospital, eagerly awaiting the delivery of my little bundle of Farm Zen.

You know, Farm Zen, that magical state of mind with rainbows and butterflies and fairy dust. Where background music softly plays as you greet each sunrise refreshed, a steaming cup of coffee in your hands. Where the horses nicker affectionately with gleaming coats and spotless fields. Where the breeze always flutters your hair in that ‘I look fabulous and I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet’ movie-star-glamor kind of way.

Sigh.

Not only have I NOT received my lifetime supply of Farm Zen, but the sanity I traded in for it has not been returned. It has not been returned and I want it back. I’ll love it and hug it and pet it and squeeze it and it will be mine. 

I keep thinking about Private Benjamin, when she said there must be some mistake because she joined the Army with the condos and private rooms; I signed up for the farm life with perfect weather, well behaved horses, and dogs that don’t dig up everything you put into the ground. Good Heavens, my recruiter lied to me!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jWNyUq_iW50

But then I see this:

And this:

And this:

And I realize that it’s okay not to be in control of every variable, it isn’t the end of the world if the horses have the day off because one more thing wasn’t going to fit, and I’m almost certain that the sun will not cease to rise in the East and set in the West if I have to burn a moldy round bale. Really, who cares if my coffee spills on my lap in the Gator, or the UPS guy pulls in while I’m feeding breakfast in flip-flops and bed-head? I have horses in my front yard and wine in the fridge, life is good.

An adjustment? Heck ya. Worth it? Absolutely. . . . 

Knock, knock.

Who is it?

“It’s Sanity. I’ve found my way home.”

A move, a woodland creature, a tropical storm

In one week.  ONE WEEK.

What I expected was “hey, welcome to country life. We know you’re new to this whole I Have A Farm thing so we’ll take it a little slow. Relax, open a beer and enjoy the peace and quiet. Go on, build a bonfire, make some smores. It’s all good, dawg “

 

Okay, day one seems to be going well

What I got was “Oh good, you’re here. Listen, I know you don’t even know which box your raincoat is in but there is a tropical storm headed your way in, um . . . let me just check the radar. . . oh yeah, now.  There is an unfortunate doe in the drainage ditch in front of your house who appears to have been on the receiving end of a front bumper and when you go investigate you will find a day old fawn bleating pathetically nearby. And just one more little tiny thing, that cranky thoroughbred over there is going to kick the living snot out of your right leg (double barrel, even) because he wants to be in the other paddock. Ok, so . . . welcome!”

Here she comes!

 

After the swelling went down. Horses.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Deep breath in, deep breath out. More wine in, deep breath out.

Ever try convincing 3 teenage girls that they can’t keep a cuddly little fawn that is trying to nurse on everyone’s neck?

DD #3 with the baby

DD #1 bonding

“Pleeeeease???? Look, he loves us!”

Ugh, someone get this knife out of my heart. He was awfully cute and I admit I toyed momentarily with the idea. I mean, c’mon, just look at him.

But then reason grabbed me by the hair and said “Get it together, woman! You can’t keep this adorable, snuggly, loveable little baby. You don’t even have a place to keep it safe from predators. Now get your butt in gear and come up with a better plan before I have another tropical storm sent your way!” So I did.

He was delicious.

Kidding. I will likely never be able to eat venison again. I called the emergency wildlife number and they gave me the name of a fawn rescue in Wilmington. We loaded up little Walter and drove the 2 hours so he would have the best chance of a safe and happy life. Those people know their stuff and in no time had him drinking happily from a bottle (not as easy as it sounds).  He will spend the next 4 months growing with the other fawns and then move to a different rescue where he will be transitioned back into the wild in a protected area.

DD at the rescue, they see a bottle and come running!

It feels good to know we did the right thing, and now we can go back to figuring out farm life.

I will be busy trying to remember which box I packed my sanity in.

Walking in the Hoof Prints of Greatness

On a quiet Sunday morning, in the shy hours of a Kentucky day, I traced a path. 

Before the hum of sound system checks and the call of vendors, before the rattle of gates and the cheer of the crowds, before the sun had noticed the morning dew, and, most desperately, before the passing of time had allowed the magic to fade into crumbled dirt and workman’s boots.

I stood at The Start and felt the power of a hundred hooves. I looked down and placed my own foot gingerly in the print before me, still soft and perfect in its outline, feeling a pang of guilt as the form collapsed to accommodate my weight. I let my eyes gaze down that historical lane, and then I walked.

And I listened.

In the hush of that morning I listened to story of the prints below. I followed along like an eager child, stopping in my own tracks at the dizzying magnitude of obstacles as they came into view, an obscene combination of beauty and terror, and for a moment I became lost in a memory of imagination.

I hear the disconnected reality of thousands of voices muted into a faint echo. The law of time suspended as motion slows and each stride becomes its own pulse. Nostrils widen, breath quickens, a bead of sweat falls away. And for a fleeting moment gravity patiently waits and there is only air. Perhaps a spectator’s gasp escapes the silence and an ear twitches to follow the sound. But then hoof and earth reunite, the ticking of the clock returns to its proper pace, and the raucous joy of fans is left behind in the wake of effort.  A private conversation is shared with a pat on the neck in a single gesture of gratitude, encouragement, and trust.

I made my way around that famous course. Turn by turn, jump by jump, my own breathing becoming labored at times, until I reached the last. I paused at The Finish and looked back at the prints that had allowed, possibly even welcomed, my company.  I quietly thanked them and a subtle nod of respect passed between us.

And then I stepped beyond the boundary and it was over. A gentle wave of sadness rippled through me as I suddenly became just a girl occupying space on a random clod of dirt.  Around me there were dogs splashing, children climbing, workers coiling miles of cable, and memories of victory and defeat sinking into the earth to escape it all.

I traced a path of greatness that morning, a path built upon hope and struggle, of jubilance and sorrow. A path that many will dream of, but few will achieve.

As I walked away I submitted to a brief delay in my return to reality and took a sentimental glance over my shoulder.  I was surprised to see a man standing alone and quiet at The Start. He gazed downward at the rounded outlines in the grass and tentatively took a step forward.

And I smiled.