Remember when I wrote that whole blog post about going to a
Remember how brave and philosophical I sounded?
Maybe confidence is something we have to find for ourselves.
Maybe I need to trust everything I’ve learned.
Maybe I can do this.
Well.
There eventually comes a point when you have to stop writing inspirational things about yourself and actually go do the thing.
So I did.
I packed up Tino.
I borrowed my friend’s RV.
I hooked a featherlight
And I headed over the Sierras to Brookside for a
By myself.
No trainer.
No groom.
Just me, my
About the Land Yacht
Now, before anyone gets too impressed, I should clarify something.
Hauling horses is not new to me.
I’ve hauled horses pretty much my entire life. Trucks, trailers, long drives, mountain roads—none of that particularly scares me.
But hauling a
That was new.
Very new.
LOL.
Apparently, after all these years, there are still new and creative ways for horses to make me question my life choices.
The first time I sat in the driver’s seat of this thing, I looked in the mirror and realized there was approximately half a city block of RV behind me.
And then a
And inside the
Perfect.
What could possibly go wrong?
It wasn’t the trailer that made me nervous.
It was the fact that my normal tow vehicle had apparently been replaced by a small condominium on wheels.
Turning required planning.
Changing lanes required commitment.
And stopping?
Stopping was something I liked to start thinking about approximately three counties in advance.
Ten car lengths between me and the vehicle ahead.
Maybe twelve.
Going downhill?
Fifteen.
Possibly twenty.
And naturally, every person on the freeway saw this carefully calculated stopping distance and thought:
Oh look! A space for my Honda Civic!
NO.
THAT SPACE IS NOT FOR YOU.
THAT SPACE IS FOR TINO.
But off we went.
Up the mountains.
Over the Sierras.
Down the other side.
And you know what?
The land yacht handled it beautifully.
Tino handled it beautifully.
And pretty soon, so did I.
Somewhere along the drive, I stopped gripping the steering wheel quite so tightly and started thinking:
Okay.
I’ve got this.
Look at me.
Driving an RV.
Pulling a
Crossing the Sierras.
At this point I half expected someone to hand me a captain’s hat.
Who exactly have I become?
And Then I Arrived at Brookside
Normally, arriving at a
Someone knows where the stalls are.
Someone knows where the shavings are.
Someone knows when you ride.
Someone has already thought about approximately 937 things that you didn’t even realize needed thinking about.
This time?
That someone was me.
I unloaded Tino.
Made up his stall.
Hung the buckets.
Got his hay organized.
Unloaded the tack.
Fed him.
Groomed him.
Figured out the schedule.
Found out where I needed to be.
Learned my courses.
Got myself dressed.
Got my
And tried not to lose anything important.
Like my number.
Or my helmet.
Or my
And an interesting thing happened.
I wasn’t overwhelmed.
Well, okay.
Maybe there were moments.
But mostly?
I felt good.
Really good.
There is something incredibly satisfying about looking around at your
I did all of this.
Was everything Martha-Stewart-at-a-horse-show perfect?
Absolutely not.
But Tino was fed.
Tino was happy.
I knew where my boots were.
Good enough.
Then Tino Remembered He Was Tino
The first day, Tino was a little strong.
Actually, “a little strong” is probably the polite
He was excited.
He knew where he was.
He knew what was happening.
And apparently he had been waiting his entire life for this moment.
HELLO, BROOKSIDE! TINO HAS ARRIVED!
Normally, this is exactly when I would look for my trainer.
What should I do?
Should I change something?
Should I ride him differently?
Is this too much?
Is he okay?
Am I okay?
Does anyone know what’s happening here?
Except this time there was nobody to ask.
So I had to do something rather shocking.
I had to trust myself.
I’ve been riding since the late 1970s.
Read that again.
THE LATE 1970s.
Surely some information has managed to stick.
I know my
I know when he’s nervous.
I know when he’s excited.
I know when he’s being strong.
I know when he needs me to stop fiddling and just ride.
So that’s what I did.
I rode him.
And guess what?
He settled.
By the second and third days, he was great.
Not perfect.
Neither am I.
But we figured it out.
Together.
And there was something about that that felt different.
Then I Had to Walk Into the Ring
This was the part I had been thinking about.
For practically my entire
One last instruction.
One reminder.
One little adjustment.
“Keep coming.”
“Wait with your shoulders.”
“Don’t chase the distance.”
“Have a good ride.”
This time, there was no trainer standing there.
A friend helped me by setting a few warm-up jumps.
I learned my course.
I got Tino ready.
My number was on.
My boots were zipped.
Then they called me.
And I walked into the ring.
Just me and Tino.
And do you know what happened?
Nothing.
No lightning bolt.
No sudden amnesia.
I did not get halfway to the first jump and think:
Wait. How do horses work again?
I just rode.
We had some really good moments.
We had some not-so-perfect moments.
We had a cross-canter.
We had a trot break in the derby.
Would I prefer to tell you that we floated effortlessly around every course while birds sang and strangers wept at our brilliance?
Of course.
But that’s not what happened.
What happened was better.
We made mistakes.
And I kept riding.
I didn’t fall apart.
I didn’t need someone to rescue me.
I dealt with the
That felt huge.
And Then We Were Reserve Champion
Here’s the funny part.
I really hadn’t gone to Brookside expecting anything.
I wasn’t there to prove that Tino and I could beat everyone.
I wasn’t there chasing points.
I wasn’t even particularly concerned about ribbons.
My goal was basically:
Get there.
Take care of
Ride
Try not to embarrass
Get home.
Instead…
Tino and I ended up Reserve Champion.
Excuse me?
Reserve Champion?
Us?
I won’t pretend that didn’t feel fantastic.
It did.
But the ribbon wasn’t really what made me proud.
It was everything that had happened before the ribbon.
I hauled him there.
I cared for him.
I got us to the ring.
I warmed him up.
I made the decisions.
I rode the courses.
I dealt with the mistakes.
And I did it without constantly looking over my shoulder asking someone else:
Am I doing this right?
Apparently, most of the time, I was.
Who knew?
This Was Never About Not Needing Trainers
I want to be really clear about this because
I am not anti-trainer.
Not even remotely.
I love being coached.
I want instruction.
I want someone knowledgeable telling me where I can improve.
There are excellent trainers who bring tremendous knowledge, safety, experience, and perspective to horses and riders.
This wasn’t about proving that trainers aren’t necessary.
It was about proving that I am capable.
Those are two completely different things.
I had spent so many years showing inside a training program that somewhere along the way I had started confusing getting help with being unable to function without help.
Brookside showed me the difference.
I can want a trainer.
I can benefit from a trainer.
I can learn from a trainer.
And I can also know how to take care of my own
Both things can be true.
Somewhere Along the Way, I Grew Up
Which is funny, because I’m 55.
You would think I would have finished growing up by now.
Apparently not.
Horses have this wonderful way of finding the little pieces of you that are still waiting to catch up.
There I was, driving home over the Sierras in the land yacht with Tino behind me, and I felt…
Different.
Not wildly different.
I wasn’t suddenly Beezie Madden.
Nobody from the Olympic team was calling.
My equitation had not miraculously transformed overnight.
I was simply proud of myself.
Really proud.
And I realized something.
For a long time, I thought confidence came from being prepared enough that you stopped feeling nervous.
Now I think maybe that’s backwards.
Maybe confidence comes from doing things while you’re nervous and discovering that you can handle what happens.
Even when your
Even when you miss.
Even when you cross-canter.
Even when the plan changes.
Even when there is nobody standing at the gate telling you what to do.
You figure it out.
I Went. I Did It. And I Thrived.
Before Brookside, I wanted to know if I could
Now I know.
I can.
Would I show with a trainer again?
Absolutely.
Would I go alone again?
Absolutely.
Because something happened at Brookside that I wasn’t really expecting.
I trusted myself.
Maybe more importantly, I trusted Tino and me as a team.
Not because everything went perfectly.
It didn’t.
But because when things weren’t perfect, we were okay anyway.
I drove the land yacht over the mountain.
I hauled my own
I groomed him.
Fed him.
Got myself to the ring.
Walked through the gate.
Made some mistakes.
Won some ribbons.
Ended up Reserve Champion.
Packed everything back into the land yacht.
Loaded Tino.
And drove home.
And somewhere on that drive, I thought:
Well.
Look at you.
At 55 years old, after a lifetime around horses, I finally learned something I probably should have figured out years ago.
Sometimes you don’t need someone else to tell you you’re ready.
Sometimes you just have to hook up the trailer and go find out.
I went.
I did it.
And Tino and I didn’t just survive.
We thrived.
So now I want to know: have you ever taken your
Because apparently, I’m still learning.
And I kind of love that.
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