BROMANCE

BROMANCE

By Tom Gumbrecht

Originally published in Horse Directory, October 2015

The human heart protects itself from pain sometimes. It works with the mind to tell it that the thing we have become separated from and miss so badly, was perhaps not as good as we remembered.

DannyBoy was not my first horse, but he was the first horse I rode in competition. He was the first horse of my own that I rode in a regular program of lessons and daily practice. He was the horse that made an older rider's crazy dreams of competing over fences a reality. We learned together; he had courage enough for both of us, and I learned to be secure enough to channel his energy and stay out of his way.

We had a few good seasons in the lower
levels of eventing.

We had had a couple of good seasons in lower level eventing and jumpers at local venues when Danny took a bad step. It was serious enough to require surgery, and his rehabilitation had a setback or two. I learned to know him on a whole different level throughout that experience. I was, through daily therapy, laser treatments and handwalking, taking care of the of the legs that had taken such good care of me. He seemed to appreciate my efforts, and was a remarkably good patient, given his gregarious personality that placed little value on quiet rest. It was eighteen months before he had healed enough to be considered sound.

During that time period, I had begun working with my OTTB mare, Lola, and she required all of the time that I could afford to spend on riding and still maintain my other duties. At the same time, young Samantha had come back from college and her horse Bella had been sidelined with a soundness issue also. A solution was needed, and into the mix went my personal time constraints, a now-sound horse that required a good rider, and a good rider in need of a horse. From those ingredients came the team of DannyBoy and Samantha who enjoyed a great season in jumpers and a refreshed perspective toward competition for both team members.  I was proud of both of them but distanced myself from DannyBoy somewhat, at least from a riding perspective, as I thought their experience would be best served by limiting the team to Sam, Danny, and our shared trainer.

Life doesn't often follow the orderly course that we lay out for it, and life put many new experiences and responsibilities on Samantha's plate. Danny's show career was once again interrupted; I was still very busy with my Thoroughbred mare, and my riding relationship with Danny was now relegated to the occasional trail. My experience with the mare was so completely different from what Danny and I had, that my mind had begun playing tricks on me.

Danny needed to learn a lot of skills, but once learned he only needed guidance in directing his efforts; emboldening him was not required. Lola, conversely, needed encouragement in every aspect of riding. As a former pilot, I recall the difference between flying an airplane and a helicopter. An airplane can be set up to cruise, and you can kind of sit back and let it fly itself until some change of altitude or direction is needed, and then you apply the appropriate control pressures. A helicopter needs to be flown actively all the time. Lola is a helicopter.

Riding Lola over fences required much more mental and physical focus than I had been used to. She made me a better rider, for sure. But over time, in my mind that experience insidiously began to negate what DannyBoy and I had. I began to think that what we had was all him, without much from me. Was I merely a passenger at all of those shows and Horse Trials? It was beginning to seem so.

One day while reminiscing, we said "Let's do this!"

One day this summer, I looked out at Danny and he looked at me. Normally the class clown, his personality would change when he was tacked up and that day proved no exception: as expected, he went from goon to warrior by the time the girth was tightened. I felt a wave of confidence that day and set up as big a gymnastic as I could fit in my ring, first all ground poles, adding some crossrails as we went along. At last we increased them to all verticals at a height which would require a little bit of a jumping effort. I took a breath. It was a short approach. He turned an ear back; I answered with just the hint of a leg and his ear went forward. I tried to maintain the light contact that Lola required over fences and he reminded me with two cocked ears that he was not Lola. Hands forward, eyes up, heels down, breathe in, breathe out, one fence, two-three-four, beautiful! A slight turn of his head enabled eye contact enough to say, "How was that?" A vigorous pat on the neck was how I answered.

We were a team. Time had interrupted our performance, but the team was still intact. Surely Lola required more of an exacting ride. But Danny required trust. Enough trust to let him do his job and not get in his way and attempt to micro-manage. Riding that line, we were having a conversation. I told him what I wanted and he complied. He told me what he needed and I gave it to him. I used to make him shout his requests at me. Now he merely needs to speak them, and when we're at our best, he need only whisper.

My very dignified partner, DannyBoy

Recently, Danny and I spent a day at a local park. The early fall day was cool and invigorating. We walked leisurely, had a few brisk canters and were heading back when we came upon a gentleman on horseback who was eager for conversation. We stopped and chatted, and Danny was patient for 3-4 minutes and then had enough and wanted to move. I suggested that we walk and talk as my guy had a time limit on his idle setting. To my surprise I received a kind of admonishment for not having a horse that would stand still indefinitely. Not normally a fan of unasked-for advice, I nonetheless was as polite as I could force myself to be: "I admire people who take the time to train for that, and I admire horses that do that. We were eventers, and what was important to me was to build a mutual trust that would have him walk through fire for me when needed."

As my acquaintance continued his insistence that I assign what he considered to be a serious safety issue the same importance he did, we came upon a sizable fallen tree on the trail that presented itself as about a three foot fence. Danny looked, I looked, he cocked an ear and I answered with leg. In an instant we were on the other side, and we waited quietly at the next bend for our acquaintance to find a path around the tree. "Nice jump." "Thanks." We continued on at a brisk trot, Danny taking the lead now. If there any further admonishments, we didn't hear them.

We arrived at my trailer, and I jumped off and loosened his girth. I pulled his saddle and switched bridle for halter and he was grazing within seconds. Continuing our conversation, about five minutes passed when the horse began dancing under my acquaintance and they beat a hasty exit. "Gotta go!" "Ok then. Be safe!” In the warm afternoon sun, Danny and I indulged ourselves a bit; he on the delicious grass and myself on the irony.

God, I love this horse.

BREAKING FREE

BREAKING FREE:

How a Horse Delivered Me From the Bondage of Self

By Tom Gumbrecht                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Originally published in Horse Directory,  June, 2014

There is a quotation penned on the whiteboard of our barn, or more accurately, a derivation of one written by someone named Lao Tzu that reads. “He who conquers others is strong; he who conquers himself is mighty.” I had read this before, but it took a long time for me to begin to understand it and I’m certain I still don’t, fully. When I began to understand it is when I put it up on the board, because of its importance to my training (and my life) and how my horses helped me to understand it.

The author with DannyBoy at Equus Valley Horse Trials

I first thought that conquering self was about only self-control, about discipline, about will power. For me, the idea developed further into being about the deconstruction of the image of self that I had created. That image existed in my mind and it was a handsome one, but not terribly accurate. It consisted mainly of who I thought I was, or who thought I could have been if not for the endless obstacles placed in my path by others. I worked on maintaining the image, and it could have possibly existed forever if I had never been exposed to a horse.

I was gifted not especially with talent, but with an almost insatiable appetite for learning when it came to my middle-aged introduction to horses.  I had two trainers at the same time (perhaps would not do that again), rode at literally every opportunity and bought and read every book from every horse trainer, rider, clinician, and horsey philosopher I could find. And still, excellence eluded me. What I became was confused.

In other areas of life, I had become a master of the concept of “fake it ‘til you make it.” In some pursuits, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Acquire some concepts, some jargon and some contacts, let that open a few doors, gain some exposure and acceptance and pick up knowledge through osmosis.  Not so with horses, I was to find out. You can’t fake it with a horse (unless, of course, the horse is in on it) and thereby lay the source of my frequent frustration.  I can present the best façade imaginable, one that may work wonders with some humans and yet the horse would see right past them. The horse, I was to find, responds only to the true self, the true me.  My hope for anything modestly resembling success on horseback required that I first acknowledge, accept, and become familiar with my true self.

I had to turn my gaze inward. Much of what I had yet to learn did not exist in books and found that I didn’t

The author with DannyBoy, leaning to let
go and let the horse do his job.

need to study and master the intellectual concepts of my lessons.  Rather I needed feel them in my fingertips, my calves, my heel, my seat.  My legs would remember what my brain could not comprehend.  It was a new way to learn, and at times frightening.  I had sought to master the horse, and now the horse was my teacher.  My ego, which I assumed had bolstered the little bit of professional recognition I had managed to acquire, was no longer an attribute.  In fact it was a liability, because the horse did not acknowledge or respond to it. The horse knew the real me, and was waiting for me to honestly present it. Perhaps that was the frightening part..

A point came where I found myself struggling with lessons from a teacher who challenged me as no other had. This teacher was a mare who had known nothing but the racetrack and the paddock in my backyard; I began to think that I would never have the level of expertise needed to be successful riding her. But expertise was not what she wanted. She wanted honesty. As she became more fit, I became more overwhelmed and fearful, and rode defensively.  The toughest thing was to admit that, but admitting it was the key.  My trainer had created an environment where it was safe to be 100% honest, and I felt no need to hide my fear. Once I did, we restructured and went back to the point where we had been successful and built from there yet again. Soon we were past the point at which we were once stuck, because someone was able to help me interpret what my horse needed of me.

This I know:  the process of knowing myself has been an incredible adventure, made possible by the many horses I have had the privilege of working with. They have all been my teachers; yet as valuable as it has been to have learned to know myself, I have been especially fortunate to have experienced glimpses of the next dimension:  overcoming myself.

It would not be honest to claim consistency in this concept, but I have tasted it and my appetite to pursue it has been whetted: to enter an arena and for a moment in time, totally and completely give myself over to my horse, to leave my ego at the gate, to trust completely. I have experienced that level of synergy if for a moment, and it has shown me what it is possible to achieve by a magnificent animal’s uncanny ability to remove me from the self which at a point only selves to inhibit and not propel.

Lola- learning partnership from a beautiful soul..

What lofty goals will I achieve, having learned these concepts? Well… the concepts are still for me somewhat elusive but in a way I may have already achieved my goals. I have learned that there are bigger things than the self, and the biggest rewards in life as in riding, come when the self is in the background rather than the foreground.  This is not a remarkable concept for many; it was for me, and it took a horse to teach it in a way that I could accept it.

A MATTER OF TRUST

A MATTER OF TRUST

Originally published in Horse Directory,                                                               December 2013

By Tom Gumbrecht

I guess we all believe that we know about trust. I know I did. But until I began my journey with horses, I didn't realize how much I had to learn. I was of course familiar with the Webster definition:

Trust

n. Reliance on the truth, character, ability or strength of someone or something.

v. To place confidence in.

 

Early lessons in trust taught by Laura Ruben,
trainer, and OTTB Lola

From the beginning of my equestrian pursuits, I was forever being told to "trust my horse." Looking back, I had but little trust and it showed, mainly in my hands. I had what many a trainer called "the death grip." I didn't think I had the death grip. I thought I had a firm grip, and that a firm grip was warranted. It was the same grip I had used years ago in sailing my boat in a squall, and landing an airplane in a crosswind. A firm grip. A very, very firm grip.

But horses are not objects or machines to be controlled, they are parters with whom we collaborate. The casual observer could not have known that for me, the mere act of getting on a horse required a tremendous amount of faith. I loved horses and wanted more than anything to learn not only to ride them but to someday jump in competition. Fear held me back. I was scared of getting physically hurt, but I was perhaps more scared of falling short, of not being able to cut it as a middle aged beginner. I had enough faith in the person who put me on my first horse to allay some of my fears. From that faith developed trust. I chose to have faith in the person who said that I was going to be all right, and began to trust once I actually was, relatively, all right.

For much of my life, I thought that trust was one of those "nice-to-have" things that developed or didn't develop over time. Nice when it comes, but also okay if it doesn't. The extent to which trust developed or didn't develop merely changed the dynamics of the relationship. In taking up riding, I was to learn a different way to think..

In the pursuit of competence in riding, I found, for myself, that trust is a requirement in order to get past a level of mediocrity. My mind had been toying with that concept for a while, when a well-accomplished rider told me during a chance meeting in a discussion about training that one of the biggest problems he observed was students riding with trainers who they did not trust. "If you can't trust your trainer 100%, find a new one" was how he put it.  He sort of rocked my world.

In riding, I had always thought of trust in terms of trusting my horse. But his point made perfect sense. In attempting to make progress in riding, we are constantly asked to leave our comfort zone. If there is not full trust in the person doing the asking, I will question the request, perhaps doubting the person's knowledge, intent, caring or motivation. Once that happens, even a little bit, the process shifts from "listen-execute" to "listen-evaluate-analyze-judge-agonize-possibly execute." Not the pathway to success for a rider. It's much too complicated, while mounted and attempting to execute a challenging maneuver, to be second guessing the person who is teaching me. Once I do, the opportunity to be effective has passed, the horse is confused, I am disheartened and the trainer is frustrated.

Experiences like that sometimes caused me to question my ability to even learn. Perhaps I was too old, too uncoordinated, too egocentric. I thought that maybe things that I struggled with were incredibly complex and it was just beyond my ability to comprehend. Actually all that was missing was that I had not learned to trust. Once that changed, everything changed. Two words changed everything for me, once I trusted enough to believe them: "You're fine!" She feels like she wants to buck. "You're fine. You can ride out a buck." She's really building up speed. "You're fine. You know how to handle it." What if she stops at a fence again? "You're fine. You have a good seat." What if she drops a shoulder at the canter? "You're fine. You ride with your shoulders back and your heels down so nothing will happen" What was THAT? Multiple bucks, a spin, and the drop of a shoulder!! "Congratulations. You have just seen the absolute worst this horse has to offer, I promise you. And you survived. From now on, anything this horse does will at best please you or at worst amuse you because there is nothing she can do that you can't handle."

Powerful words, that I learned to actually believe. In a safe and supportive learning environment, I learned to trust my trainer 100% of the time, and my horse 90% of the time. We are working on the remaining 10%, but we are worlds away from where we once were, when I trusted only my own judgment and believed that everything required my utmost scrutiny.

The payoff comes in the form of a huge grin whenever I ride my off-the racetrack Thoroughbred mare Lola over a short course of fences in nothing but a halter and slack lead rope. She needed me to trust her enough to let her be the magnificent horse that she is. She couldn't do that with me wanting to be in control of her every freedom of movement. Who could?

In the past, I had feared a struggle, and my attempt to control something that had not yet happened actually created that which I had feared. It makes me wonder how many other things in life I had created or at least facilitated by my perceived need to control and my inability to trust.

Magnificence, it turns out, does not flourish in a stranglehold. On a horse or anywhere. This is a lesson that I could learn only from a horse. Silently uttered by every horse everywhere, and available for reference whenever we are ready, is much wisdom:

"To enter my world you must trust me with your heart.

To trust me so deeply you must first trust yourself.

For where we travel with our spirits entwined,

Will be on a path of trust.." - Anonymous

Archived stories are available at tcgequine.blogspot.com Email us at tcgequine@gmail.com, Tweet us @tcgelec, or friend us on Facebook.com/TomGumbrecht. Our gregarious Paint gelding, DannyBoy, is on Facebook also: facebook.com/TheWorldAccordingToDannyBoy