Brandy stands stock still, muscles tense, ears forward and perked, alert. The speeding car backfires.
In lightning fashion the 5-year-old ‘green’ gelding spins 180 degrees going into full gallop, my balance askew.
Ahead a 12-foot door is open, secured only by a chain. and at 40 mph a 1,000-pound force will rip through it. What follows is an embankment that hides a steep downslope and heavily wooded area. I am going to be severely injured or killed.
In the four or five seconds that flash by, I decide: emergency dismount! Thousands of times I had practiced it, even used it in potentially serious situations. I was a professional equestrian rider, after all, who had already taught 5,000 lessons at least. (Before hanging up my spurs, I would give nearly 20,000 riding lessons, including free clinics.)
I had my best students learn how to vault out of the saddle before it was too late, a metaphor for what I would learn years later.
Emergency dismounts, what we equestrians call “squirreling,” are to be used when on an uncontrollable horse in a dangerous situation. But the rider needs to land on soft ground, sawdust, fluffy track turf, and roll away.
It was too late: Slipping my feet out of the stirrups, hands on the saddle pommel, I vault myself out. With full force of inertia carrying me 10, maybe 20, feet, airborne, I slam into the building wall: Splat! Brandy breaks the chain and disappears.
Stunned, I try to stand, pain searing through me, my helmet saving my life an often overlooked safety feature with riders. I see Brandy in full frantic mode racing, bridle torn and saddle upside down under his belly, galloping up and down a 200-foot driveway.
My then- wife sprints out of the house, hearing the commotion, sees me hobbling and shouts, “Throw the apples into the bucket!”
Apples: the sure way to catch a horse. I am thinking this pain must be what a wounded soldier feels like. Stumbling into the barn, I toss the apples into the bucket.
Brandy sniffs the scent, stops short at the bucket, nostrils flaring, eyes frenzied, he dips his head in and takes a bite. It’s just enough time to slip the halter on, toss him into the stall, lug me to the car and lunge me in.
Within minutes we arrive at Hale Hospital, where I had been a “frequent flier,” for horseback riding is a high risk sport. My visits there included broken ribs, sprained ankles, back injuries, and various bangs and bruises.
“From what you tell me, Mr. Veves, you are very lucky. No broken bones,” says the emergency room doctor. With swelling the size of softballs, I would not ride for months. Would I ever ride again, confidence shaken?
Here is the back story.
We purchased Brandy for a client/friend who would reimburse us. I had always made friends easily, but had a problem separating friendship from client. We fronted some $3,000, maybe $4,000, some 35 years ago for that client.
We told her, “Get a first horse you can enjoy, older. Already trained, safe.” But she was undaunted: I want a horse my daughter and I can grow with. She suggested she would hire a professional trainer.
Upon trailering Brandy home, we received a call: The client backed out of the deal, citing her husband’s wishes. Her decision startled us and we never saw her daughter or her again.
What to do with Brandy? I wondered:
“Our lessons are expanding. Our riders are getting better. They need a challenge. I will train Brandy.”
Already overworked, where would I find the time? That equation, when you are young, doesn’t enter your mind the way it does when you are older, wiser.
Horse training is highly specialized. It takes decades to get to the top. I had only been at it for maybe 10 years. My forte: teaching and riding – not training horses. But I made a valiant effort that almost killed me.
Days into weeks into months: I worked harder with Brandy than I ever had with a horse. The harder I worked, the stronger and more energized he became. When one undertakes training a young horse, one had better know what he is doing. It is a monolithic effort not for the faint hearted.
Years after my accident, in February 2011 on Super Bowl Sunday, our 7,000-square-foot arena collapsed under the weight of snow.
Again Dad, “It’s a blessing in disguise. Don’t rebuild.”
I didn’t.
A large-animal business is thankless, tiring, and highly romanticized. There are no days off, few holiday outings, and no vacations. You go out to dinner only to be interrupted by someone telling you that a horse is sick, or perhaps broke through his gate. The day I was almost killed on Brandy revealed to me, finally, the idea of my limitations.
I could no longer try to do it all: teach lessons, board horses, maintain a large property, and train young horses. When the building collapsed with a resounding “kaboom” at 7 a.m., luckily separate from the horse barn, it was getting to be time to fold.
Four short years later, I would divorce and start a new life, utterly devoid of horses.
Make no mistake: I loved the outdoor life a horse stable afforded. Riding horses was energizing, challenging and great exercise. The simplicity, yet ruggedness, of the routine had no match for me. My few gallops on a horse had me hooked. Teaching came naturally to me. Teaching riding was a great fit.
We seldom know where life will take us. If my high school yearbook had said “future goal: equestrian,” most people I knew would have been aghast: teacher, politician, attorney, actor, dancer, fitness trainer, sure! But horses? No. The only acquaintance I had with horses was John Wayne and Rockingham Park.
As the years went by, I saw my energy of age 35 wane by 55, falter by 65, and by 70 defer to, “The mind is willing. But the body is tired.” Any big animal farm owner knows this. At some point, one needs to fold or the time comes when the body folds for you.
I walked away and followed the advice of Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler:” “Know when to run/know when to walk away.” The secret to survival is knowing what to throw away and what to keep..
We live in a highly competitive culture where personal safety, common sense, and practicality are compromised in the face of success at any cost. Sometimes we extend ourselves too far, pushing to the edge, Diana Nyad notwithstanding.
If we are not careful, we can end up falling over the edge. In some cases, there will be no return.
I fell over the edge once. There was no guarantee I wouldn’t again. But I seldom threw caution to the wind anymore.
Remember the process as you move toward any achievement. If, perhaps, you don’t reach your goal, you may have gone as far as you need to go. You come to a point where you know yourself better. Self-knowledge is the key to human understanding.
Michael Veves owned Pear Tree Lane Stable in Haverhill until its closing in 2015. He can be reached at vevesmichael@gmail.com. And, yes, he rode again! Brandy? Because he was so high strung and my selling options limited, I found a professional trainer to take the horse.