A HORSEMAN LOOKS AT SIXTY

A HORSEMAN LOOKS AT SIXTY

 Originally published in Horse Directory August, 2013

 By Tom Gumbrecht

 I've been hearing a lot of the platitudes lately. "It's just a number." Well, it is just a number, yes, but it's a fairly large one, and it's evenly divisible by ten. "You're only as old as you feel." I don't feel old at all, most of the time. Except when I have put my date of birth on a form. "Sixty is the new forty."

Lola, my OTTB mare, keeps me young..

No it isn't. Sixty is still sixty. However, except for some occasional minor joint pain, in many ways I feel better than I did at forty. The thing is, in the horse world, 60 is not a big deal. Having begun my riding career at age 45, I feel like an "experienced novice" in many ways. I have many friends and aquaintences who have demonstrated that a riding life can go on long after 60 is a faint memory. So why the concern with this particular number? Because I was, in a word, unprepared.

Numbers, and all they represent, have never concerned me much, so based on experience I believed this one would be no different. It was, though, a little bit different. At sixty, I am just at the point where I'm really comfortable jumping a horse, the point where it's no big deal and I can work on perfecting the subtleties. That's been a long road, and I found myself wondering if I have enough time left to get really good at it, or did I start too late? I began to ponder my next horse, if there would even be a next horse! My herd now is a young one. If I were to get another, would that horse outlive me? Or are these my last horses?

DannyBoy gave me a few grey hairs.. and blue ribbons!

 I never considered that before. I found myself being more concerned with the mathematics of things, and shocked by the results of my mental equations, so I went to where I go when life no longer makes sense: to the barn. I never really think about it, but age hardly exists in the barn; I suppose that's because there is no such thing as age to a horse. They are pretty much OK with doing whatever their bodies are capable of doing that day, and adapt to it almost immediately. They are grateful for having their basic needs met and can be happy in the moment they are experiencing because they are not concerned with what tomorrow's moments may bring.

 To live in the moment, to experience each moment fully and not live in the moments of yesterday or tomorrow.. that is what we have been struggling to achieve for a long time, and what our horses already know inherently. We seek knowledge in words and books; the horses carry it in their blood and bones, and are more than happy to share it with anyone who will take the time to learn their language. Perhaps that is why God decided I should have a horse...

Best friends with a racehorse.. life is good!

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Jim Rice: The Measure of a Man

Jim Rice: The Measure of a Man                                      

Originally published in Horse Directory July, 2013

By Tom Gumbrecht

Jimmy Rice was my onetime trainer, and my friend. His bio states that he was the first junior rider in history to win twenty USET medals. He trained with the legendary Jack LeGoff and the USET in Gladstone, riding in such acclaimed venues as Madison

Jim Rice in the prime of his show career.

Square Garden, Philadelphia Spectrum, and Harrisburg, in a successful hunter/ jumper show career.

His training career was an illustrious one as well. Jim trained many winning horses and riders to the highest levels of competition, as well as being a respected horse show judge and the manager of the Hunters Isle and Winner’s Circle USEF- licensed horse show series.

Jim Rice was one who gave back to his sport, volunteering his time in local as well as national equestrian organizations. He received many honors, which included the 2011 Hampton Classic Horseman of the Year and the USHJA President’s Distinguished Service Award the same year. He was an accomplished professional.

But that’s not the man I knew.

In 1999 I was a fledgling adult student who had been forced to leave his comfort zone. I had begun riding at my first barn (a stable around the corner from Red Barn) a year earlier, and had become acclimated to the trainer, the horses and the other riders there. After my first year, the farm was sold; trainer, riders and horses all went their

A tough man who lived by a
code of kindness

separate ways and I thought my “equestrian” life was over. Then I met Jim Rice.

The first thing I noticed about Jim was that I was getting something I wasn’t used to, as a rank beginner, getting from trainers: respect. Jim didn’t feel the need to focus on or point out my myriad shortcomings as a rider. Instead, he searched for the positive and used that as a base from which to proceed. I was not at all accomplished, and frequently not even coordinated. I had, though, developed a secure enough seat that I could stay with a fresh horse, and I had found within myself a love of horses that carried me through many of the frustrations that an older rider faces. Lastly, I was dedicated. I always suited up, and I always showed up, no matter what. That was the sum total of my qualities as a horseman.

For Jim, that was enough. Wherever I was in my training level was fine; we worked from there, upward. Jim inherently realized that an adult rider faces different challenges, one of which is ego. Many adult riding students have positions with a high level of expertise outside the riding arena. In learning horsemanship, we have to begin by being bad at what we do, and that can be tough on the ego. Jim knew that, and his own ego was small enough that he never felt the need to make himself appear better by demeaning his student.  I was an inexperienced, overweight, sometimes fearful rider with two left feet.  All I wanted to do was ride horses, and perhaps one day jump one over a crossrail. That was my goal.

Jimmy combated my frustration with his kindness. He gave me respect I hadn’t earned, and instilled in me a confidence I didn’t deserve. He got me over that crossrail, and then a vertical, and eventually a whole jumper course.  More importantly, he set the standard by which I would judge all future trainers.

Some years later, when I had my own barn and had done a long stint as a horse show

Laura Ruben guides CarynEve Murray down the road
Jim Rice paved with the perfect balance of
toughness and kindness.

dad, I started training again with young trainer Laura Ruben who had adopted, perhaps unconsciously, many of Jim’s training methods and way of being. One of my most treasured moments as a horseman was when we competed at Hunter’s Isle one Sunday, and we managed to get around just a little quicker than the others in the jumper ring. We were handed a ribbon and it was blue. Jimmy happened to be at his frequent post outside the show secretary’s office, and caught a glimpse. He stopped his busy horse show manager’s activity for just a moment and looked right at me. His eyes lit up and a smile cracked; he said nothing because he didn’t have to. His eyes said it all.

Laura’s reflections on Jim’s passing:

“As I was on my way to mourn the loss of one of the best people I ever had the privilege of knowing, I kept replaying how we met in my head. We had just moved to Red Barn and I was extremely intimidated by the big, quiet man that sat on the same spot on the fence and drank Diet Coke no matter of the time, with his adorable dog beside him. It took a week or so and I finally decided he wasn't so intimidating after all and shortly after I realized that this man was someone who would impact me for life. From Roxy sitting to job references, JR (as I always called him) taught me what it really meant to be kind for no reason other than to be kind, respect, to work for what you want, and how to handle those who cannot communicate with words. He always told me "to toughen up" and he lived out those very words until the end. JR you will continue to shine through all the lives that you have truly touched and we are all incredibly blessed to have had you as a part of our lives.”

A proud moment for the author:
Winning our first blue at Hunters Isle with Jim Rice
smiling his approval.

On the afternoon of the day that Jimmy Rice was laid to rest, a friend and fellow adult student was taking a guest lesson at our barn with Laura. The lesson proved to be a challenging one, taking her just outside of her comfort zone. With just the perfect blend of toughness and kindness, horse and rider were coached into sailing over the barriers, both the physical ones as well as the sometimes tougher mental ones. It was a “light bulb” experience for the rider, and that was all the evidence I needed to be aware that Jimmy Rice lives on through his influence on the lives he had touched.

 JR, your kindness is truly immortal.

Archived articles are available to view at tcgequine.blogspot.com. Also visit us on Facebook: Tom Gumbrecht and Twitter: @tcgelec

The Father's Day Card

The Father’s Day Card                                                                             

Originally published in Horse Directory, June 2013

I’m a selfish oaf. Oh, I often set things up so that I can appear to be selfless, but hidden underneath there is always a glaring self-interest. I sometimes hide it better than others, but it’s there. I do for others, but I am secretly always seeking acknowledgement.

I confess that I have hated the month of June for some time. For the past ten years we

Horse show dads get to celebrate victories.
Here, with Sheila Rodgers at Good Shepherd.

 have raised our niece Sam, whose mother died suddenly when she was only 12 years old. This tragedy befell our family soon after we established our little backyard horse farm that we call Dreamcatcher.  Mary and I had been childless up to that point, and for me, horses were the catalyst for a sometimes clumsy relationship between a sensitive, tough-yet-fragile beautiful spirit and a willing but clueless older uncle with an agenda. I gladly took on the responsibility for Sam, for which I received many kudos for my generosity and dedication. But on a late June Sunday every year, I looked for an acknowledgement that never came. I looked for a Father’s Day card.

Now fortunately, a few years ago I adopted a healthier lifestyle, one of the benefits of which has been the gift of clarity.  I have come to see many things that happen in my daily life as lessons.  In my business as an electrician, I try to be loyal to my clients and I value loyalty in return. On every circuit breaker panel and fusebox in most homes, there is a sticker with the name of the last electrician that provided service. It is always a source of pride when I visit a client and see an old version of my sticker on their panel, perhaps from 25 years ago or more.

One such client, Mrs. R, had a panel in a more conspicuous place than most, which normally reside in dusty basements or garages. Since it was visible in her living

We also get to be there when the day doesn't
go exactly as planned.

space, I asked permission to put my sticker over that of a long-forgotten electrician who hadn’t been there in a long time. Mrs. R. would always say, “Oh, give it to me and I’ll put it on. I want to clean the cover first”. She never would, and it always irked me on return visits to see someone else’s name on “my” panel. Yet, I was the one she always called. No one else had touched anything remotely related to the electrical system in her home in many years. I had had all the benefits, but without the acknowledgement I had been seeking.  It bothered me until I was able to see the situation through different eyes: she had her own reasons for keeping that sticker there, which were frankly none of my business.

My horsey lifestyle with Sam, although not without its ups and downs, has carried with it the three elements of happiness: something to do, something to love, and something to hope for. As a fledgling parent, a horse-show “dad”, driving instructor, chauffer, confidante, coach, ATM, sounding board, crying towel, and cheerleader and all the other things that come under the heading of ‘parent”, I have had a life of purpose which otherwise would have eluded me, one that has given me those three essential elements many times over: not a duty; truly a privilege. Available to me only because she has, like our unendingly patient horses, given me unlimited second chances when I mess up.

In my narrow-mindedness, I was looking for a piece of paper with a store- bought sentiment as an acknowledgement.  Instead, she chose me to share her whole life with. I was looking for the label. I had already been given the job.  Every horse-show dad already knows what I have only recently discovered.  I’m the last one to figure out things, sometimes, it seems. 

But, I eventually do. Happy Father’s Day, dads.

Perhaps a slow week for news back in 2007
 prompted fellow equestrian Caryn Eve Murray to
 write this story for Newsday which included
Sam and myself.

 

One of the perks: an awesome riding buddy!

GYPSY

GYPSY

By Tom Gumbrecht

Originally published in Horse Directory,  May 2013

It seems that where there are horse barns, there are feral cats. We started out in 2000, the year we
built our barn, with two, rescued from beneath the stairs at Samantha’s elementary school; they
were in dire straits as their mother was no longer there to care for them. Bottle-fed, neutered and
vaccinated, they became the first residents of the barn at Dreamcatcher Farm. Over the years others
wandered in from time to time. Despite several effective plans to control their “multiplication”, a
new cat still occasionally shows up and blesses us with her litter.

Gypsy and friend... the two moms.

We do what we can. The population is transient, and after our first two lived out their lives, I had
never named another feral. Never, that is, until a very special cat came along who we eventually
named Gypsy. Gypsy tested the waters for a few weeks by coming into the barn for seconds, then
minutes, at a time. Sensing safety, before long, she was sitting alongside me as I had my morning
coffee in the barn. That was the sum total of our interaction until one evening when she made the
unfortunate decision to traverse our backyard which is competently patrolled by our three large dogs.
Most cats can easily outrun our dogs but something had slowed her down on this occasion. I pulled
her out of the mouth of one of our dogs, and by her condition, was shocked when she bolted away,
not to be seen again for several days.

I caught a fleeting glimpse of her behind the barn, literally dragging her hind end around behind
her. As she collapsed, I could see that she was giving birth to what turned out to be a stillborn litter.
Attempts were made to patch her up and trap her, but she would always elude them, and disappear
for days at a time. I assumed it was because she was too sick, and knew it. When she didn’t appear for
several weeks, I said a silent prayer while looking out into the woods.

Lola wants to be a mom to the kittens also..

One day, while I was having my coffee in the tack room, the still unnamed feral unceremoniously
walked in, looking healthy and alert, and took her familiar place by my side as my jaw dropped in
awe. It dropped even further when some months later, she had another litter after it had been
deemed medically impossible. Of all places, she chose to give birth in a corner of the stall belonging
to Bella, our Arabian mare who had perhaps the least tolerance for small furry things as any horse in
the barn. Sensing danger, I carefully moved them one by one to a prepared bed in the tackroom. And
one by one, she brought them back into Bella’s stall. Not once but twice, and the next day I no longer
saw them there and feared the worst. My routine took me into the stall of our large paint horse,
DannyBoy and I saw the tiny kittens on the side of the stall of this 1,200 lb. giant who chased felines
around the paddock regularly for sport. And yet both horses had made sure that the kittens remained
safe. Later, the mother moved the kittens one by one onto the top of a high cabinet in the tackroom,
and ultimately back to the bed I had prepared. She accepted my offer, though on her terms, and
earned the name “Gypsy”.

Surprise! A drawer full of kittens!

The kittens were not well, and did not survive past a couple of days, and she mourned their passing
but not for long. Two other kittens whose mother had passed while giving birth were found in the
woods by Gypsy and brought back to the tackroom where she raised them as her own until they were
adopted out. And so Gypsy’s career as a surrogate mother to any and all who needed her, began.

She would go out and patrol the surrounding woods and bring back anything feline in need of a
mother. The remarkable became routine, until one day it became incredible. A feral wandered in
and had a litter on a stack of saddle pads, and then abandoned them. Gypsy stepped up and waited
for me to prepare a bed, which she assumed I would, and brought them one by one into the safety it
afforded. With a “mother” unable to nurse, we assumed that this would be a bottle-fed litter, but the
kittens’ mother had a change of heart and came back to check on her family. Far from being cause for
a “custody battle,” Gypsy saw it as a chance to become a mother’s helper.. . furnishing warmth, love,
mothering advice and support while the natural mother provided milk. Often the kittens are wedged
in between the two “moms,” who have become inseparable best friends as well.

A few days later, a third mom added two more kittens to the communal kitten-bassinet. This one
was a bit skittish, and within a day all but two of the kittens had disappeared. Gypsy stood on
the tackroom countertop with her head down for a long while, depressed, I had assumed, by the
disappearance of her charges. I had assumed wrongly. She had been indicating to me that there
was something amiss in the drawer below. I hadn’t picked up on the clue until I needed to retrieve
something from the drawer, and there were seven kittens staring up at me when I opened it! The
skittish mom had found a way through the back of the cabinet, to create her own feline safe deposit
box!

With a look in my direction somewhere between gratitude and impatience, Gypsy carried the babies
one by one to the safety and comfort of their bed. When the skittish mother cat returned, there was
no admonishment from Gypsy, just an outpouring of love and support.

Miracles, Gypsy has showed us, do indeed happen. A barn is home to many if you’re looking for
them…

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Charlie Hustle

“Charlie Hustle”                                                                                                                             

 by Tom Gumbrecht                    Originally published in Horse Directory..

Pete Rose, the original "Charlie Hustle"

DannyBoy takes over the title...

Pete Rose was, and is, of course, a legendary baseball player who spent most of his Major League career at first base for the Cincinnati Reds. He seemed to always give 150%, and his nickname, "Charlie Hustle", could only begin to suggest the immense dedication, intensity, motivation, pure skill, talent and athleticism that makes his name synonymous with all of those character traits. On the field, I can't think of a teammate you'd rather have.

Off the field, of course, was a different story. He seemed unable, perhaps unwilling, to stay out of trouble. From all outward appearances a brash, cocky, self-absorbed man, his questionable choices caused the World Series MVP and Gold Glove winner to be deemed permanently ineligible to participate in his sport. Off the field, he may have been a guy who would have been difficult to be friends with. The self-destructive type. But no matter how much shame he brought upon himself and his sport, I include myself in a sizable group, perhaps even a majority, that still reveres his name as the ultimate go-getter, and his talent and motivation as something to be awed.

Recently, I've been back riding my young eventing horse, DannyBoy, after the usual winter layoff due to frozen footing and other cold-weather obstacles. It takes me a few weeks to shake the cobwebs off of him at this time every year, to get his body and mind back on track to compete in the horse trials.

DannyBoy is a natural athlete. He has saved my hide in so many circumstances I've

Look where you're going, Danny, not always at the camera..

lost count. He gives and gives and gives until he just can't give anymore. In a word: exuberant. He loves to work, loves his job. I'm convinced he would walk through fire for me, for us, for the team...he is just so willing and giving that sometimes I get chills at the responsibility of managing such devotion. That is, in the arena...

Out of the arena, he's our little backyard farm's bad boy. He's into everything. Snatching blankets off the other horses backs, running around the paddock with the sweater you foolishly left on tack trunk streaming out of his teeth..until he tramples it...it's all in a day's work. Removing a bungee-corded fire extinguisher from the wall and hurling it into the paddock, nipping at the jacket of an unsuspecting visitor...biting at the flank of a pasturemate...all just a sampling of his off-field persona. With, of course, the requisite "who, me?" look after he's been discovered. He's a bull in a china shop. A goofball. The vet calls him a "goon".
 

In show season, his little antics lessen as his mind is occupied with other things, and when he thinks up some mischief, he might be just tired enough so as to not carry it out. His wonderful demeanor under saddle more than makes up for his antics, which at once seem almost endearing.

In winter time, however, it seems like we get all the bad with none of the good. His youthful exuberance and his devilish ways of expressing it can grow tiring. Just when I think we can't take another day of it, one morning we hear the song of a single bird, then a few more, then the ring starts thawing, the blankets come off and we're back to doing the things that made me love him in the first place.

Well, he's not really Pete Rose. We're not the Cincinnati Reds, and this isn't the World Series. A better analogy perhaps would be of the little league star who gives his all for the team, and when not on the field drives his parents crazy with blowing up stuff, prank phone calls, schoolyard scrapes and detention.

Charlie Hustle. Everybody knows one. I've got one. An overgrown kid who's impossible to stay mad at.  Truth be told, I love him even when he is being a goon.

The deal: I put up with him, he makes me look good..

Perhaps more....

A Knowledge of Horsemanship?

A Knowledge of Horsemanship ?       

Originally published in Horse Directory,                                                             April 2013

By Tom Gumbrecht

Knowledge is Everything!

No, it isn’t.  Let’s start out with that.

"Circus"- The first horse the author sat.

For a short time, after beginning to learn how to ride at age 45, I believed that I would take a few lessons, maybe a half-dozen or so, and then go off and be a rider. It was such an accident of fate that put me in the saddle that I had no idea how much was involved in becoming what I considered to be a “good rider”. I didn’t even know what that was, but I suspected that it had something to do with attempting crazy stuff on horseback and not falling off in the process.  My innocence and naïveté were probably a good thing then, as a full understanding of what was involved would probably have kept me from even trying.

As I gained a little bit of knowledge and some time in the saddle, I explored different disciplines and found myself gravitating toward jumpers. As I watched from the sidelines I was mystified at how a rider could compel a horse to race around what seemed to be an unbelievably complex course of impossible combinations of fences.  While I thought of, or actually hoped to, one day ride a horse over a single fence, the thought of riding a full course didn’t even make it into my occasionally exciting horsey dreams.

I thought that I would need to find a way to access the secret details of some grand plan, some complex mystery that only the best riders knew and weren’t telling. “They” knew all of the details, but they weren’t sharing them with the likes of me. If only I knew what they knew, I could ride like they rode.

Or, not.

Laura Ruben of Affari Horse Farm taught me that discipline was not a bad word

You see, I was the kid who wanted to learn to play guitar on a music video, but found practicing scales and riffs to be a waste of time. I thought big! Skip the boring parts; let’s get right to the performance!  But then… something interrupted my big thinking. I had the good fortune, through another accident of fate, to have the opportunity to ride with a trainer who brought my big thinking down to earth while keeping my sometimes frail ego intact. A pretty good trick, honestly; it was accomplished by making the little things that I had no time for, fun.  Before I knew it, I was actually looking forward to practicing the very things I had so often shunned: balanced turns, straight lines, low hands, good posture, breathing, counting strides, work without stirrups, eye position, metered canters… basic things that I had been lacking.

Lola knows that jumping the little ones at home makes the big ones easy!

That was the missing element. I thought that I needed knowledge and guts; I wanted to float above the others on knowledge, and then swoop down and overtake them with guts. I was wrong; what was missing was not guts, nor was it knowledge. The missing element was discipline.  That was what “they” had that I didn’t; that was what I needed to find. It turned out that riding a competently executed course of jumps was no more than riding, in turn, a series of competently executed small movements.  Developed and perfected by repeating, observing, feeling, experiencing and improving some of the most simple things in riding. Honing skills as a woodworker sharpens his chisel in readiness for his next job. Put it all together and feel how it feels to experience something with your horse that is much more than the sum of its parts.  Discipline is the bridge between our dreams and our successes.

A point came when I began to understand what my very first trainer had told me once, a bunch of years ago: “Your problem, sir, it that you want to think it, and it will be done. Horses don’t work that way.”

I hate it when people who annoy me are right…

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