Need to catch up? Read Part One and Part Two.
__________________________________
You and your horse. His strength and beauty. Your knowledge and patience and determination. And understanding. And love. That's what fuses the two of you into this marvelous partnership that makes you wonder, what can Heaven offer any better than what you have here on earth? (Monica Dickens)
Handling a horse on the ground is completely different than actually sitting on its back. Whether you're walking said horse in a circle or warming it up for four foot fences, there is a difference between the horse you have encountered on the ground and the Horse you will encounter in the saddle. Now, I loved Jake-the little Quarter Horsepony that Donna had brought to Carousel Farm- but I only knew him from the ground.
Riding Jake was a much different experience. Not inherently being a school horse (or even an English horse for that matter), his gaits were not something I was used to. Horses that have not been beaten thin by years of mediocre students learning to ride have much more impulsion than those who have. They are also much more sensitive to the aids. And as a Western-trained horse, he moved in a perceptibly different way. It was like switching from a used Toyota Corolla to a brand new Subaru sedan.
Jake's vices on the ground held up under saddle- but only so far as the other horses were concerned. He wasn't particularly interested in being a hunter/jumper, but he did have a natural talent. In the ring, my trainer Shannon no longer called him the "SuperBrat" but instead "Super Star." And Super Star he was. He could be stubborn in the beginning of lessons, but once he got warmed up, he really shined. He seemed to dance over ground poles and leap over jumps like a graceful strike of lightning. Jake could make the most inexperienced rider look fabulous. He was green, to be sure, though; he could overreact at a shadow or a misplaced aid, he could get bored and act up. If the lesson lasted longer than he liked, he would simply stop (sometimes from a nice, even canter), toss his head, and stamp his foot. I've had enough, he seemed to say. Could we please leave now? He could be temperamental and he still had volumes to learn, but there was some instinct in him to do his best (and have fun doing it) that made him a pleasure to ride.
It was obvious to everyone that I loved him. I patiently put up with his mood swings on the ground and his misdemeanors in lessons. He had a lot to learn about English riding; I had a lot to learn about riding real horses. Our lessons were what you could call an educational experience. We worked well together. Sure, we had our missteps along the way, but we always ended our rides with some profound knowledge gained- and this at a barn where even a superficial lesson was rare.
It had been a few months since I had started riding Jake when Donna decided that it was time: the school horses had settled in, the riders had returned, and Carousel Farms was back in business. Only one thing would make it official... A horse show.
And thus Jake and I began training towards our next goal: competing in a hunter class at his first show.
[To be continued]
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
A Post from the Parade Grounds
In case you are unaware, tomorrow is Ash Wednesday (the kickoff of the Catholic Lenten season), which makes today a very important holiday in certain parts of the world: Carnival. Better known as "Mardi Gras"*, Carnival is the one time of year when I truly feel bad for the horses. Parade horses are not happy by nature. And who can blame them? With The Marching 100 blaring their instruments, flashing lights, screaming masses of people, and packs of beads flying through the air, parade horses have a lot to deal with. No doubt, our prancing steeds will take a huge sigh of relief tonight, when they can go back to their mundane lives of munching hay and riding lessons.
And what is a better topic for this very special day than the historic, ever-famous Horse Guards Parade?
The Horse Guards Parade is an old parade ground in central London that dates back to the 16th century, where it was used as a tiltyard. The grounds have been used parades and other ceremonies for about five centuries now. Horseguards has truly seen the good, the bad, and the ugly, as far as events go: it has been the site of royal birthday celebrations, as well as a parking lot for civil servants. It is also the official residence of the Prime Minister.
The Horse Guards Parade was the site of the first ever London Polo Championships in 2009. It is also set to host the beach volleyball competitions in the 2012 Summer Olympics.
The typical Horse Guards "parade" can be witnessed every hour, as the changing of the guards occurs. While there may be no floats or Mardi Gras beads at this parade, it is just as culturally rich for Londoners as Carnival is for New Orleanians. And much more pleasant for the horses.
_______________________________
*Cultural Note: There is never an article, such as the or and, in front of Mardi Gras. And the s is never pronounced.
And what is a better topic for this very special day than the historic, ever-famous Horse Guards Parade?
The Horse Guards Parade is an old parade ground in central London that dates back to the 16th century, where it was used as a tiltyard. The grounds have been used parades and other ceremonies for about five centuries now. Horseguards has truly seen the good, the bad, and the ugly, as far as events go: it has been the site of royal birthday celebrations, as well as a parking lot for civil servants. It is also the official residence of the Prime Minister.
The Horse Guards Parade was the site of the first ever London Polo Championships in 2009. It is also set to host the beach volleyball competitions in the 2012 Summer Olympics.
The typical Horse Guards "parade" can be witnessed every hour, as the changing of the guards occurs. While there may be no floats or Mardi Gras beads at this parade, it is just as culturally rich for Londoners as Carnival is for New Orleanians. And much more pleasant for the horses.
_______________________________
*Cultural Note: There is never an article, such as the or and, in front of Mardi Gras. And the s is never pronounced.
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Story that Never Was: Part Two
Click here to read Part One.
_______________________________________
For the day’s work was done and in the peace of the evening there seemed to be a quiet understanding between the girl and her horse, who watched her with a dreamy and trustful gaze. (Marjorie Stace)
It was there, slaving away at my barn after Hurricane Katrina, that I found him (cliche as it sounds), "my perfect horse."
His name was Jake. He was a Quarter Something: whether a Pony or a Horse, I'll let you decide. He straddled the line at exactly fourteen point two hands. But whatever he was, he was packed full of muscle and young foolishness. He was a green Western horse being retrained as a hunter/jumper, and I watched as Donna and Shannon worked like scientists, running their experiment with a ruthless determination to force their desired result.
Now, those months after "the storm" are a bit blurry, and I can't remember exactly what happened when. But I do know that sometime after Jake arrived, Carousel Farm officially reopened for business. Many of the school horses had been sold to out-of-state farms because Donna couldn't afford to keep to a keep her riding team of a dozen horses when there was no one to pay for lessons. So the arrival of Jake, and two or three other new horses, symbolized the new era of Carousel Farms Riding Academy.
The consensus around the barn was that Jake was a pony. That horse could've been eighteen hands tall, and everyone still would have referred to him as "that pony." It was a title he deserved; he bit and kicked and cribbed and generally behaved like the SuperBrat. I'm not saying his vices weren't a result of bad training or the bad conditions he was in (in fact, more often than not, I blame Donna and Shannon for all their horses' problems), but his modus operandi was certainly that of the "pony mentality". And oh, was he spoiled! That gelding was the horse equivalent of a three-week-old banana. Horse-starved little girls swarmed like fruit flies around the cute, bright Quarter Horsepony with his four perfectly stockinged legs and a chestnut coat that shone like the skin of a fresh apple. He even had a bright blaze of white that read like an exclamation point on his happy, little face.
I had worked with him briefly- maybe less than a week- and I got along with him easily. We came to an agreement: If he wouldn't bite me, then I wouldn't bite him back; I might even give him a treat. He knew better than to nip or kick me. The most I would get was a harsh flick of the tail. He would lick my fingers after I fed him peppermints, and though I didn't see him on a regular basis, he would sometimes nicker when I approached his stall- as if he remembered who I was and was happy to have me there.
When my regular riding lessons resumed, I put in a request to ride him. The schedule of who would ride whom was always made up a week in advance, but after each lesson, I would request to ride him the next week. And then that "next week" came, and I was told "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot, and the roster's already made up for the week now." I remember that there was always a girl who rode him during my lessons. I'd see her in the ring next to mine, and it seemed like an poorly told joke to watch those two together. I don't remember if she was less or more advanced than I was, but I do know that she had not put any time or effort into helping Donna rebuild Carousel Farm. All my hard work, and I was stuck riding every school horse but the one I wanted to be on.
And then, one day, I arrived at the barn, glanced at at the roster, and bit back a gasp. There it was: my name, and next to it, Jake's.
Maybe the poor woman who worked the front desk got tired of my whining, maybe the girl who had been riding him moved on to a different horse... I don't know what happened to make Carousel Farm finally honor my request, but they had. I had finally received my wish: I would get to ride Jake, the horse I knew only from the ground, but whom I had come to love, nonetheless.
[To be continued]
Part Three
_______________________________________
For the day’s work was done and in the peace of the evening there seemed to be a quiet understanding between the girl and her horse, who watched her with a dreamy and trustful gaze. (Marjorie Stace)
It was there, slaving away at my barn after Hurricane Katrina, that I found him (cliche as it sounds), "my perfect horse."
His name was Jake. He was a Quarter Something: whether a Pony or a Horse, I'll let you decide. He straddled the line at exactly fourteen point two hands. But whatever he was, he was packed full of muscle and young foolishness. He was a green Western horse being retrained as a hunter/jumper, and I watched as Donna and Shannon worked like scientists, running their experiment with a ruthless determination to force their desired result.
Now, those months after "the storm" are a bit blurry, and I can't remember exactly what happened when. But I do know that sometime after Jake arrived, Carousel Farm officially reopened for business. Many of the school horses had been sold to out-of-state farms because Donna couldn't afford to keep to a keep her riding team of a dozen horses when there was no one to pay for lessons. So the arrival of Jake, and two or three other new horses, symbolized the new era of Carousel Farms Riding Academy.
The consensus around the barn was that Jake was a pony. That horse could've been eighteen hands tall, and everyone still would have referred to him as "that pony." It was a title he deserved; he bit and kicked and cribbed and generally behaved like the SuperBrat. I'm not saying his vices weren't a result of bad training or the bad conditions he was in (in fact, more often than not, I blame Donna and Shannon for all their horses' problems), but his modus operandi was certainly that of the "pony mentality". And oh, was he spoiled! That gelding was the horse equivalent of a three-week-old banana. Horse-starved little girls swarmed like fruit flies around the cute, bright Quarter Horsepony with his four perfectly stockinged legs and a chestnut coat that shone like the skin of a fresh apple. He even had a bright blaze of white that read like an exclamation point on his happy, little face.
I had worked with him briefly- maybe less than a week- and I got along with him easily. We came to an agreement: If he wouldn't bite me, then I wouldn't bite him back; I might even give him a treat. He knew better than to nip or kick me. The most I would get was a harsh flick of the tail. He would lick my fingers after I fed him peppermints, and though I didn't see him on a regular basis, he would sometimes nicker when I approached his stall- as if he remembered who I was and was happy to have me there.
When my regular riding lessons resumed, I put in a request to ride him. The schedule of who would ride whom was always made up a week in advance, but after each lesson, I would request to ride him the next week. And then that "next week" came, and I was told "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot, and the roster's already made up for the week now." I remember that there was always a girl who rode him during my lessons. I'd see her in the ring next to mine, and it seemed like an poorly told joke to watch those two together. I don't remember if she was less or more advanced than I was, but I do know that she had not put any time or effort into helping Donna rebuild Carousel Farm. All my hard work, and I was stuck riding every school horse but the one I wanted to be on.
And then, one day, I arrived at the barn, glanced at at the roster, and bit back a gasp. There it was: my name, and next to it, Jake's.
Maybe the poor woman who worked the front desk got tired of my whining, maybe the girl who had been riding him moved on to a different horse... I don't know what happened to make Carousel Farm finally honor my request, but they had. I had finally received my wish: I would get to ride Jake, the horse I knew only from the ground, but whom I had come to love, nonetheless.
[To be continued]
Part Three
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Love is in the air.
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! If you're single, don't feel lonely: I'm sure your horse has a big Valentine's Day treat planned just for you. And if you're not single... Well, then maybe you're getting a shiny new engagement ring today? If you're planning your vows, you may want to check out these cake toppers that I found on Etsy. (Yes, I've been window shopping again.)
This cake topper from Amy's Clay Critters is whimsical, and
(not to mention) completely adorable.
This cake topper from Amy's Clay Critters is whimsical, and
(not to mention) completely adorable.
But if you're looking for something a bit more classic...
Paty's Clay can custom make a fine, personalized topper
for any equestrian bride.
But whether you're getting a ring or not, may today bring you much love and joy- and always remember, your horse loves you completely and unconditionally... no matter what day of the year it is.
Paty's Clay can custom make a fine, personalized topper
for any equestrian bride.
But whether you're getting a ring or not, may today bring you much love and joy- and always remember, your horse loves you completely and unconditionally... no matter what day of the year it is.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
The Story that Never Was: Part One
After reading the blog "Dressage Mom" (http://dressagemom.blogspot.com/), I have been inspired to tell some of my own personal experiences in the horse world. I've read nearly all of the stories posted on the aforementioned blog, and I must say that it's an eye-opening experience to see the horse world a different point of view. There was also something comforting about those tales- the realization that no matter how different we are, we horse people everywhere are alike. There is a core emotion in us all that drives us toward the horse.
And so I begin my first story, The Story That Never Was. It is a detailed example of the fatal attraction between girl and horse, a tale of loss and love and growth, and a lesson to us all about the power of greed and the inevitability of fate...
__________________________________
I heard a neigh. Oh, such a brisk and melodious neigh as that was! My very heart leaped with delight at the sound. (Nathaniel Hawthorne)
If Hurricane Katrina was a dart sailing perfectly toward its target, then Carousel Farms was part of the bulls-eye. Seven feet of water wrapped around the large farm like an anaconda, crushing its victim and then moving on. I won't get in to the details of that awful storm, but I will tell you that the Big K was comparatively merciful on Carousel Farms. Walking through the deserted, rain-rotted stalls was an out-of-body experience. The mud sucked at my feet like quicksand, and the smell of saturated cedar and mold stung my nose. The paddock fences had been stripped of their paint, and in the rush to evacuate the horses, there hadn't been enough time to move the jumps inside; standards and poles had been demolished, reduced to mere wood chips scattered across the floor of the outdoor ring. I remember thinking, 'It looks as if someone took one giant, stuffed trash bag and dumped it out across the ground.' The whole farm was covered in debris and litter. Still, Carousel Farms had fared well. The buildings' foundations had held, and a mixture of time and hard work was all that was needed to set things right.
In the beginning, I was one of the few riders who returned home, and so I became one of the few riders who actually worked on the barn. The "trainers" and the barn owner, in theory, supervised us, but the lack of true leadership at Carousel Farms is a story I will save for another day. It is also the reason that I chose to change the actual name of that establishment, and most people connected to it, for this blog. I don't want to ruffle any feathers.
However, all in all, it was myself and two of my friends that found ourselves indentured to Donna, the stable owner, and Shannon, her head trainer. I'm not going to say I didn't enjoy it. Regardless of setting or circumstance, spending all day around horses is always something I'm up for. At first, there were only Donna's horses there: a big bay gelding and a chestnut miniature who were kept in one of the paddocks; but as the stalls were repaired, the riding school horses, and eventually some boarders, were brought in.
There was still no place to ride (none of the rings were fully repaired), and the conditions of the barn weren't exactly first class. There were only about half a dozen boarders in a barn built for two hundred, and the owners of those six were never there. In retrospect, this looks bad; but I don't blame any of them for the fact that I showed up every morning to help paint their barn and muck out their stalls and water their horses. It was such a disorienting time for everyone. They had no other option for their horses, and they had much more pressing things to worry about. My own house was fine, and my school wouldn't reopen for another few weeks; I was happy to help.
But the amount of work was overwhelming. I was exhausted by lunch, and I would still have five or so more hours to go. All day long, it was irritated horses and painting fences and picking up other people's trash. Sometimes, neither Donna nor Shannon would show up, and even when they both did, they weren't much help. Shannon was on the phone all day, trying to convince former boarders who had evacuated to come back, and Donna's eyes were full of the glorious vision she painted for herself. "Oh, we're going to come back bigger and better. We'll get a little coffee shop over there that will look out at the ring and we'll have a tack shop over there...' Meanwhile, there were horses who couldn't be exercised because we had no ring and not enough turnout space.
It was frustrating and monotonous. But one evening, as my friends and I loaded a shipment of hay into an empty stall, I heard a soft, melodious nicker that broke that monotony. I looked up to see the bright red face of a horse peering at me through the bars of the adjacent stall. His ears were perfectly pricked triangles above his head, and his nostrils quivered as I met his gaze. His brown eyes were intelligent and warm with a kind of light that I'd never seen before. I didn't know who he was or even what he was; I couldn't see past his face. But there was something about him that struck me.
Maybe you're here for a reason, he seemed to say.
And I agreed with him. In that moment I knew: I had to have this horse; I had to make him mine.
[To be continued]
Part Two
And so I begin my first story, The Story That Never Was. It is a detailed example of the fatal attraction between girl and horse, a tale of loss and love and growth, and a lesson to us all about the power of greed and the inevitability of fate...
__________________________________
I heard a neigh. Oh, such a brisk and melodious neigh as that was! My very heart leaped with delight at the sound. (Nathaniel Hawthorne)
If Hurricane Katrina was a dart sailing perfectly toward its target, then Carousel Farms was part of the bulls-eye. Seven feet of water wrapped around the large farm like an anaconda, crushing its victim and then moving on. I won't get in to the details of that awful storm, but I will tell you that the Big K was comparatively merciful on Carousel Farms. Walking through the deserted, rain-rotted stalls was an out-of-body experience. The mud sucked at my feet like quicksand, and the smell of saturated cedar and mold stung my nose. The paddock fences had been stripped of their paint, and in the rush to evacuate the horses, there hadn't been enough time to move the jumps inside; standards and poles had been demolished, reduced to mere wood chips scattered across the floor of the outdoor ring. I remember thinking, 'It looks as if someone took one giant, stuffed trash bag and dumped it out across the ground.' The whole farm was covered in debris and litter. Still, Carousel Farms had fared well. The buildings' foundations had held, and a mixture of time and hard work was all that was needed to set things right.
In the beginning, I was one of the few riders who returned home, and so I became one of the few riders who actually worked on the barn. The "trainers" and the barn owner, in theory, supervised us, but the lack of true leadership at Carousel Farms is a story I will save for another day. It is also the reason that I chose to change the actual name of that establishment, and most people connected to it, for this blog. I don't want to ruffle any feathers.
However, all in all, it was myself and two of my friends that found ourselves indentured to Donna, the stable owner, and Shannon, her head trainer. I'm not going to say I didn't enjoy it. Regardless of setting or circumstance, spending all day around horses is always something I'm up for. At first, there were only Donna's horses there: a big bay gelding and a chestnut miniature who were kept in one of the paddocks; but as the stalls were repaired, the riding school horses, and eventually some boarders, were brought in.
There was still no place to ride (none of the rings were fully repaired), and the conditions of the barn weren't exactly first class. There were only about half a dozen boarders in a barn built for two hundred, and the owners of those six were never there. In retrospect, this looks bad; but I don't blame any of them for the fact that I showed up every morning to help paint their barn and muck out their stalls and water their horses. It was such a disorienting time for everyone. They had no other option for their horses, and they had much more pressing things to worry about. My own house was fine, and my school wouldn't reopen for another few weeks; I was happy to help.
But the amount of work was overwhelming. I was exhausted by lunch, and I would still have five or so more hours to go. All day long, it was irritated horses and painting fences and picking up other people's trash. Sometimes, neither Donna nor Shannon would show up, and even when they both did, they weren't much help. Shannon was on the phone all day, trying to convince former boarders who had evacuated to come back, and Donna's eyes were full of the glorious vision she painted for herself. "Oh, we're going to come back bigger and better. We'll get a little coffee shop over there that will look out at the ring and we'll have a tack shop over there...' Meanwhile, there were horses who couldn't be exercised because we had no ring and not enough turnout space.
It was frustrating and monotonous. But one evening, as my friends and I loaded a shipment of hay into an empty stall, I heard a soft, melodious nicker that broke that monotony. I looked up to see the bright red face of a horse peering at me through the bars of the adjacent stall. His ears were perfectly pricked triangles above his head, and his nostrils quivered as I met his gaze. His brown eyes were intelligent and warm with a kind of light that I'd never seen before. I didn't know who he was or even what he was; I couldn't see past his face. But there was something about him that struck me.
Maybe you're here for a reason, he seemed to say.
And I agreed with him. In that moment I knew: I had to have this horse; I had to make him mine.
[To be continued]
Part Two
Friday, February 12, 2010
On Deaf Ears
"My horse's breath smelt like crawfish today..."
"Why do you know that?"
__________________________________
There are some things that only horse people understand...
"Why do you know that?"
__________________________________
There are some things that only horse people understand...
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
I hate to drag this thing out further, but...
Okay, okay! This is the last football-related post I will do, I swear! It's just a little hard not to get swept up in the football mania that is sweeping the city (especially as tonight is the huge Saints Super Bowl Victory parade).
Regardless of your personal feelings towards football or the Saints, as an equestrian, you can learn a lot from observing other sports. My brief rendez-vous with the football world has taught me a few lessons that translate nicely into the equestrian world.
Five Things I've Learned About Riding from Football
1. Your team is your family. Treat them as such.
This city has made the Saints family. Win or lose, we are there: cheering them on, writing songs for them, greeting them at the airport in throngs a mile long... You and your horse are also a team- and a family. You should care as much about him as you do yourself, and vice versa. The two of you are there to support each other, even when the going gets rough. Which leads me to....
2. Wearing paper bags on your head is never a good idea. Even when you're losing. Badly.
Turn on your team once, and no one will ever let you forget it. Nicknames like the "Aints" (or, for horses, show names like "Average at Best" or barn names like "Frumpy") are never forgotten by others, even when you yourself have moved on. The public notices when you don't support your team (in this case, your horse). And as for paper bags... Consider the spook factor. Simply NOT a good idea.
3. There are two types of tailgating. Only one is acceptable.
Those football fan
s have one thing right! Letting loose before a show is a great idea! Alcohol need not be involved. All that's necessary is any sizable group of people, some good music, and some great food. It's a nice way to relax before a big show and calm those nerves; but don't forget to represent with your barn colors! But please, don't take your tailga
ting into the show ring. Back away from the rear of the vehicle! By which I mean, get off that horse's tail!
4. Don't be afraid of taking risks.
Even though they don't always pay off, taking risks is a necessary part of any sport- or life in general. Whether you're contemplating an on-sides kick at the Super Bowl or choosing to jump the harder, optional fence at the Hunter Derby, choosing to take risks can make or break you. Be smart about it. Know what you're getting yourself in to and plan for more than one possible outcome. But don't be afraid to take a risk simply because things might not turn out your way. You'll be surprised at how often courage will carry you through even the toughest risks.
5. No matter the odds, if you have something to win for, anything is possible.
Peyton Manning was a football titan. They said we were going to get creamed. We said we were going to get creamed. But we stood behind our boys and gave them something to fight for, and guess what: they pulled through! Maybe you're an eventer who's come up short for the first two phases or maybe your horse is recovering from a devastating injury (like Drew Brees when New Orleans took him in!), but the odds mean nothing. If you have something motivating you, a real reason to win, you might find out that the "impossible" is nothing of the sort.
Regardless of your personal feelings towards football or the Saints, as an equestrian, you can learn a lot from observing other sports. My brief rendez-vous with the football world has taught me a few lessons that translate nicely into the equestrian world.
Five Things I've Learned About Riding from Football
1. Your team is your family. Treat them as such.
This city has made the Saints family. Win or lose, we are there: cheering them on, writing songs for them, greeting them at the airport in throngs a mile long... You and your horse are also a team- and a family. You should care as much about him as you do yourself, and vice versa. The two of you are there to support each other, even when the going gets rough. Which leads me to....
2. Wearing paper bags on your head is never a good idea. Even when you're losing. Badly.
Turn on your team once, and no one will ever let you forget it. Nicknames like the "Aints" (or, for horses, show names like "Average at Best" or barn names like "Frumpy") are never forgotten by others, even when you yourself have moved on. The public notices when you don't support your team (in this case, your horse). And as for paper bags... Consider the spook factor. Simply NOT a good idea.
3. There are two types of tailgating. Only one is acceptable.
Those football fan
s have one thing right! Letting loose before a show is a great idea! Alcohol need not be involved. All that's necessary is any sizable group of people, some good music, and some great food. It's a nice way to relax before a big show and calm those nerves; but don't forget to represent with your barn colors! But please, don't take your tailga
ting into the show ring. Back away from the rear of the vehicle! By which I mean, get off that horse's tail!4. Don't be afraid of taking risks.
Even though they don't always pay off, taking risks is a necessary part of any sport- or life in general. Whether you're contemplating an on-sides kick at the Super Bowl or choosing to jump the harder, optional fence at the Hunter Derby, choosing to take risks can make or break you. Be smart about it. Know what you're getting yourself in to and plan for more than one possible outcome. But don't be afraid to take a risk simply because things might not turn out your way. You'll be surprised at how often courage will carry you through even the toughest risks.
5. No matter the odds, if you have something to win for, anything is possible.
Peyton Manning was a football titan. They said we were going to get creamed. We said we were going to get creamed. But we stood behind our boys and gave them something to fight for, and guess what: they pulled through! Maybe you're an eventer who's come up short for the first two phases or maybe your horse is recovering from a devastating injury (like Drew Brees when New Orleans took him in!), but the odds mean nothing. If you have something motivating you, a real reason to win, you might find out that the "impossible" is nothing of the sort.
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