“Lordy, why do I ride?” I mutter to myself as I attempt to force my horse to the rail, behind yet another 7 year old rider.
The other two children in my class easily bring their ponies to the rail, elbows back, short legs barely able to press the horses’ sides. In desperation, I yank my outside arm and kick my mare in the side. She grudgingly moves a foot toward the rail, but not before my trainer barks “Too much rein, Kathy! Use your leg and seat to move her!” She’s right, of course, and I know it.
The little girls in front of me prepare to ask for the canter. The trainer asks me to go first as the canter is something that my mare will give me as soon as I ask. Sustaining it is now my current problem, along with staying on the rail, leg under, hunching my back, rough transitions, heels down and toe out. In fact, there isn’t much I don’t need to work on!



After a few rounds of the arena I’m exhausted, but the munchkins in the class are raring to go! “Let’s do the poles!” they shout. I throw myself on my horse’s neck, trying to catch my breath, hoping I’ll be excused from this terror.
At this point, I should explain that I am a 45 year old beginner rider. Well, not really, but it sounds so much better than saying that I’ve been at this for three years.
Well, not really that either. I first began riding as a child. My mother gamely drove me each week to a ranch where I learned western. “My” horses were Fury and Flicka. I must have learned at least the walk and trot, because by the end, I remember doing barrels. Was I fast? Was I good? It’s doubtful.
At Disneyland I’m the person on the ground, watching my family on the rides. At a ski resort, I’m the person plodding along on snowshoes as my kids whiz around me. I rode until high school and then at summer camp. I love horses. I grew up in the country and many of my friends had them, but my parents were adamant about us not owning one.
High school, college, a teaching job, marriage and two kids happened next. Once we moved to Elk Grove, I watched with longing the horses pastured near our house. I paid for my children to ride ponies wherever we found them, and loved petting the beasts while waiting in line. When I turned 40, I knew exactly what I wanted for a gift.
I began riding in an adult beginner class at night. I moved through a string of horses: Misty, JR, Justin and Tally. I relearned the walk, trot and canter. After countless sore backs, I decided to try english. Posting to the trot seemed a wise move, since sitting the trot made it hard to walk the next day!
I switched trainers when my first one moved and met two wonderful horses: Daddy and Dandy. I discovered the terms “riding on the correct diagonal,“ “half turn and reverse,” and “asking for the trot.” I loved my Sundays out at the barn. I dallied where others hurried, enjoying my afternoon. Where the children rushed to have “saddle time,” I loved shoveling manure, cleaning bits, brushing the horse.
Old Friends
A year and a half ago, I moved to my current barn. Six months ago, I began leasing “my” horse. I’d love to say that it’s a dream come true, but anyone who knows “my” Aspen would chortle at that comment.
No one really knows how old Aspen is. She’s old like me, I tell my incredulous friends who still can’t understand why I do this. Her color has been likened to “dead grass,” but I think of her as a gently faded palomino. She’s “girthy,” which is a euphemism for “she’ll bite you if she can.” Her lower lip quivers with indignation when I put my hot pink saddle pad on her. It makes me laugh. After a tough day at work, nothing is as soothing as burying my nose in her hair. She is obstinate and difficult and I tell people that it makes me a better rider.
There are many teens out at the center where I ride. Each one has shared some tip which helps me: “Put your spurs higher on your boot; Tap her with the crop when you mount so she’ll stand still; Turn her nose out to help keep her on the rail.”
There are women like me out at the barn, too. Like me, except that they ride like Olympians. Watching them ride makes me teary! They, too, patiently listen, and support me when I get really frustrated. When I have ridden well, when I have outsmarted my crotchety horse, I often shout that I am going to the Olympics. They laugh, then, because they, too, know this feeling!
So, why do I ride? Although I still can’t quite keep her on the rail during our lesson, there is nothing like the look of Aspen’s mane tossing in the air when we canter. Poles on the ground are always daunting, but there is nothing quite like the exhilaration when I cross them and stay on.
For all her faults, when Aspen nickers to me as I approach her, I smile. Despite the fact that all the children who ride out there progress much faster than I do, I look forward to my lessons with them.
So, why do I ride? For the sheer privilege of being one with the horse for a very short time.
Author Kathryn Ferroggiaro trains with Kristin Guis at Foxtail Farms in Wilton. The farm and Aspen are owned by Denise Parker.