Photo courtesy of Trafalgar Square Books.
In this excerpt from his new book Starting in the Middle, eventer and two-time Road to the Horse winner Tik Maynard examines why things go wrong when we get in the saddle.
Only a few days after I was invited to compete at Road to the Horse, I tore my groin for the third time.
It was Jenny that bucked. But it wasn’t her fault. I don’t believe it’s helpful to lay blame on a horse. Credit, maybe, but not blame.
I should have seen it coming. I should have slowed down.
Jenny was actually doing more than bucking; it was a real bronc ride. She thrust her muzzle low and dropped her withers. As she did that, I swung my lower legs forward and pushed my feet hard into the stirrups. I slid my seat back. I gripped the reins and tried to get her head up. Later my fingers would be raw and pink; it would hurt to wash or even to close my hands for a week.
Some people call rope burns “learn burns.” Not wearing gloves when I ride or do groundwork makes it more personal. It keeps me present. I remember my mistakes. And I don’t want to forget the mistakes I make with horses. I owe it to them. And if a burn on my hand will burn that mistake into my memory, and my soul, keep ‘em coming.
I should have slowed down. I should have been more present.
Jenny was on her fourth bronc when I started thinking, This might not get better…she might not come out of this. Simultaneously, I was thinking about my groin, trying to gauge how much it was tearing.
On the eleventh or twelfth buck, I came off over her right shoulder. As I hit the ground, I was aware of where I was in relation to her—out of the corner of my eye, I saw her turn left, away from me. My main concern was which way she would kick in the few seconds after I landed.
She kicked in the other direction, then continued to buck. The bucks gradually turned into porpoise-ing, and then into a gallop as she ran down the driveway. I crawled to the nearby fence and leaned back against it. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t reach for my phone. I just watched Jenny as she turned between two paddocks and slowed down slightly.
Then Sinead rounded the corner of the barn, having spied the loose horse. She ran on the balls of her feet, her head high, her eyes scanning. She was quick and graceful and worried. When she saw me against the fence, her shoulders relaxed slightly.
He’s conscious, I saw her thinking. He’s okay.
A couple hours later we were both riding in the arena when she caught my attention. I brought my horse back to a walk.
“How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” I said. “Hurt.” I paused, studying the space between my horse’s ears. “Old. Like this was something I used to be good at. That it’s hard to let go of something I used to be known for.”
I didn’t mention Road to the Horse. But riding a buck, and getting up from a buck, were skills that might be needed. Would almost certainly be needed.
It would be easy to look at me and think, This guy isn’t good enough. Why did they invite him?
“You’re not hurt,” Sinead said, riding her horse up alongside me. “I’ve seen you hurt.”
I nodded. I felt pretty darn sore, but I knew what she meant.
“Maybe your pride is hurt,” she said.
“It is,” I agreed.
But my main concern was being ready to compete. My groin had been nagging me since January. Then I had hurt it a second time. This was the third time. The falling didn’t hurt nearly as much as the gripping to stay on when the bucking started.
The injury was also not allowing me to run, which affected my fitness, and my mood.
“I want so bad for this injury to get better.”
“I’ve started meditating,” Sinead said. “You should try it.”
“Yeah…” I nodded.
That first mistake, and the second, and the third, all happened because I didn’t listen to that little niggle in my stomach, in my gut.
I believe that very few accidents are truly accidental. Looking back, I feel that every injury I have ever had could have been prevented. Just because I failed to predict what was about to happen does not mean it was unpredictable.
I was distracted. I was rushing. I was tired.
I remembered a group session with mental performance consultant Dr. Jenny Susser, where she’d asked each of us what we wanted help with.
“I’m afraid of cross-country,” said a novice rider.
“I get so anxious before dressage,” noted a teenager.
“I get nervous at shows,” whispered an introvert.
Dr. Susser listened, and asked questions, and helped each rider in the group feel hopeful.
Then it was my turn: “Well, often, being at shows is where I feel the most present. For me, the problem is at home. I feel pulled in so many directions. The fences that need to be nailed back up. The mower that needs to go into the shop. The text message that says someone needs to reschedule. Am I going to be done in time to get the kids from school?”
Dr. Susser studied me for a moment. “You’re just being intellectually lazy,” she said. “Next question.”
Well, that set me on my back foot. But she was absolutely right. No one was going be present for me. There was no point in doing two things at once. I had to plan my day better, and I had to focus.
Sinead’s horse and mine ambled beside each other. They were both bays. We headed down the driveway to give both horses a chance to cool down.
“I’m riding too defensively,” I said. “It feels like if they buck or rear I won’t be able to hold on. Every time I grip with my thighs, a wave of pain ripples through me, right up into my ears. And if I don’t tighten my legs, I flop around, like a fish on a dock, making him more likely to rear and me more likely to fall off. And just knowing that makes me ride tentatively: my heart rate is up, I’m quick to pull on the reins, and I’m not giving him a forward, confident ride.”
Sinead laughed. “Welcome to the club. Now you know how the other half feels.”
This excerpt from Starting in the Middle by Tik Maynard is reprinted with permission from Trafalgar Square Books (trafalgarbooks.com).
