“Okay… Just breathe deep… I’ll do fine…” my internal voice tries to sound convincing yet fails miserably. I nervously fidget with the reins in my clammy hands, readjusting my grip yet again. Trooper, my horse, prances and shifts weight under me, feeding off my anxiety. I reach a shaky hand down to stroke his strong neck reassuringly; hoping one of us stays calm.
We both jump as the announcer calls the next number. I entertain the idea of allowing him to bolt and run away with me, a perfect excuse to not go into the arena. With a decisive breath, I resign to staying put. Trooper’s wall of fear, blocks my decision from sinking into him and he jumps to the side in fright. I jerk to the side, and quickly turn his head to gain control over my apprehensive horse. I rub his neck again as soon as he stops dancing. He snorts in objection and looks around wide eyed and fearful unsure of his surroundings.
I look over to my dad as he rides his mustang, Ringo, towards me. Trooper, seeing Ringo, perks up and calls to him, seeking the same comfort I feel in the presence of my dad.
Why do I have to go before him? I silently curse the random selection. Thinking of random selection, I’m so glad they randomly chose Trooper for me. What where the chances of them selecting the mustang with the perfect demeanor for me. Only with him could I come as far as I have.
Only 95 days to train a wild mustang, a very daunting task to say the least. The plan: round up the wild mustangs, distribute them to qualifying trainers, allow them 95 days to take the mustang home, and train it. To show the effectiveness of this program, a required show then takes place to permit the trainers the opportunity to show off their mustang, and the trainer’s ability. The end brings an auction, giving the bystanders and trainers the chance to bid on their favorite mustangs.
The thought of the auction churns my empty stomach. I spent the whole night vacating its contents into the hotel room’s plastic-lined ice bucket; my gratitude for that fact grew as another flip-flop made it-self known. I want to buy Trooper. With my limited purse, the chances of that slim down with my mere $600. Mentally prepared for disappointment; I resign myself to expecting the worse and hoping for the best. I send up another prayer, hoping his bid falls within my price range. During this fervent plea I ask for divine intervention to prevent the show from occurring, or at least my ability to not faint or puke to continue.
My dad moving up beside me arrests my attention from my tangent of thought. He reaches over and grasps my trembling hand, squeezing it reassuringly. I attempt a weak smile, feeling it fall short. “We’ll do great. I’m so proud of you and all you’ve done with your horse,” he grins.
“Thanks,” I manage to force out. My trembling ceases and I take a deep breath.
The moment he releases my hand doubt comes flooding back. Glancing over I see the two rodeo queens, decked out in all their sparkles and shimmering outfits. Although I despise sparkles and sequins, my mind, unable to help but see how they look the part, adds this fact on to my already monstrous pile of self-doubt. They move their horses around and I see how showy and confident they look. I gulp down my insecurities and turn my gaze back to the arena and obstacle course.
Worry for Trooper seeps into my mind. The thought of just him and me alone in front of hundreds of people not to mention a few judges, watching and analyzing our every move, adds to my dread. No pressure. I, the youngest contestant, therefore, own the least experience out of all the participants. With no experience with 4-H or rodeo, my dread intensifies at this ominous trial. I, barley 18, almost missed qualify to take part in this fall’s Extreme Mustang Makeover on account of my age.
The contestant before me now leaves the arena by means of the gates on the opposing end. My turn; all thoughts vacate my mind as I freeze in terror. No coherent notion enters my awareness. I sit here, my face frozen in blank horror, as the ushers’ wave me over to enter the arena. My body, petrified with fear, refuses to respond. I feel the adrenalin rushing through my body, causing my head to pound in time with my overactive heart beat. Trooper, impatiently pounding the ground with one forefoot, jars me out of my fear-induced, immobile state-of-being. With one last fleeting glance for support at my dad, I gingerly nudge Trooper forward with my heels.
As we progress through the gate leading into the arena, I push down my suffocating fear and tentatively coax Trooper towards the first obstacle. They really went all out this year. I pondered how many truck loads of dirt it took for the landscape architect to design the ‘Mountains’ theme. The crowd distracts me to the point that I jolt as Trooper shies away from the first bridge crossing. I quickly reach down and stroke his tense neck in a vain attempt to calm him. I make an unconscious decision right there to ignore the crowd and focus all my energy on Trooper and our objective. We struggle through the course, me calmly trying to ease him over and around the different obstacles, and him refusing to budge. His mind clouded with fear of the unknown and unfamiliar, causes his body to tense.
I find out, the humiliating way, that the course owns a time limit, the announcer booms over the intercom, “Two minutes remaining.” I’m not even half way through the course. Trooper simply refuses to cross the first bridge and I dismount and walk through some of the obstacles. We struggle and finally cross the second without me gracing the ground with my feet upon it. As we finish, with the cow acting surprisingly cooperative, and my appreciation for the bond we established these last week’s grows. We finish with seconds to spare and as I escort him out of the arena he spooks, jumping to the right causing the saddle to slip to the ground, me having loosed it for the health inspector to examine Trooper.
The course behind me now, my focus brakes and the previous fear that hounded me creeps back this time paired with the relief of the end. I pick up my heavy saddle, talking quietly to Trooper to calm him and with head bowed in humiliation slink out of the arena.
“It’s over,” I whisper to Trooper and myself as I inhale deeply of the cool fresh fall air. The air inside the arena stifling with fear makes it strenuous to draw breath. I’m flooded with instant relief, as calming as balm applied to an angry burn.
I quickly re-cinch my saddle, securing it back into place. I place my foot into the stirrup and pull my weight up with my trembling arms, as the adrenalin drained for my weakened body. I sit there for a few minutes mentally replaying the show in my head, dwelling on the imperfections.
Two bystanders discuss the upcoming auction; this unwelcome reminder causes my gut to twist into the now familiar knots that carried me through the show. My mind now assaulted with the thought of parting with Trooper indefinitely. My now clear brain remembers a man who showed interested in Trooper prior to me going into the arena. His inquisitive attention towards us now rekindles the apprehensive feeling of separation, and I weigh my meager purse against my heart’s desire.
My ability to keep a professionally detached relationship with all the horses I ride for other people proves difficult to obtain with Trooper. No matter how many walls I built around my heart, somehow, my capability to stop loving him proves unattainable.
As the day progresses, the auction nears. I spend all day riding Trooper, knowing the finality the end of this day brings. I refuse to allow myself to hurt and acknowledge how I feel. So in silent, false contentment I ride into the auction ring. When the lady with the mic hands it up to me, I plea with the bidders to permit me to buy him and take him home; giving the mic back I ride him around for all to see, and the bidding starts. Unable to hear the bids from my point on the arena floor, I simply ride.
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