I've earned my spurs.
I had my last official riding lesson Friday.
It still hasn't really sunk in.
I'm so ready to be finished with the team. They haven't really used me since Nationals in 2005. It's been awesome getting free riding lessons and horse advice, but I am so tired of mucking countless stalls, working out when I should be doing homework, spending an hour of every week in team meetings I could lead, worrying about my grade, hoping that maybe this time I'd be good enough to finally show and hiding my disappointment at not making the cut. But I had my moment in the spotlight.
Coach Malmo ran me through my paces that lesson. It was almost like a final exam I had to pass. She said she wished she had a video of the first time she saw me ride, because it looks nothing like my riding does now. She's going to miss me, I think. The other day, I had a lesson at an odd time with another group, and I cracked some joke. She asked the girls if they'd ever had a lesson with me. "Heather's a kick. We're going to miss her."
She told me that I'm ready to go show in the "real world." For someone who can still remember being thrilled to get a decrepit old horse to lope without coaching, that is worthy of tears.
At the end of every lesson, she points at each rider and says, "You're done, and you're done, and you can be done."
She said that at the end of Friday's lesson. I sat there on the worn suede seat and thought about it.
I can be done.
I closed my eyes and felt the sun and smelled the dust of the arena and listened to the saddle creak to Sparky's movement. I opened them and surveyed the barn's grounds and remembered the first time I ever saw them from the back of a horse -- the first time I saw the world from the back of a horse. The horses I rode then are gone. The girls I rode with are gone. The kinds of shows I rode in are gone. I'm the last one of the IHSA girls; the last one who remembers bus trips through California to compete on half-wild horses; the last one who can tell stories about having to ride those wild horses without benefit of a warm-up; the last one who remembers four people to a Motel 6 room and shopping cart races in Wal-Mart parking lots while on the road.
And I looked at the silver medallion in that saddlehorn I've grabbed so many times and rubbed it as if for good luck and swung my leg off that horse for the last time. I stuck my foot under the gate to take pressure off the latch like I have so many times, and I left five years of sweat and tears behind me.
I came on to the team not knowing how to put a saddle on a horse. I left it with a national title and a lifelong passion. I reached my unreachable star. It's time for me to focus on my next impossible dream.
It still hasn't really sunk in.
I'm so ready to be finished with the team. They haven't really used me since Nationals in 2005. It's been awesome getting free riding lessons and horse advice, but I am so tired of mucking countless stalls, working out when I should be doing homework, spending an hour of every week in team meetings I could lead, worrying about my grade, hoping that maybe this time I'd be good enough to finally show and hiding my disappointment at not making the cut. But I had my moment in the spotlight.
Coach Malmo ran me through my paces that lesson. It was almost like a final exam I had to pass. She said she wished she had a video of the first time she saw me ride, because it looks nothing like my riding does now. She's going to miss me, I think. The other day, I had a lesson at an odd time with another group, and I cracked some joke. She asked the girls if they'd ever had a lesson with me. "Heather's a kick. We're going to miss her."
She told me that I'm ready to go show in the "real world." For someone who can still remember being thrilled to get a decrepit old horse to lope without coaching, that is worthy of tears.
At the end of every lesson, she points at each rider and says, "You're done, and you're done, and you can be done."
She said that at the end of Friday's lesson. I sat there on the worn suede seat and thought about it.
I can be done.
I closed my eyes and felt the sun and smelled the dust of the arena and listened to the saddle creak to Sparky's movement. I opened them and surveyed the barn's grounds and remembered the first time I ever saw them from the back of a horse -- the first time I saw the world from the back of a horse. The horses I rode then are gone. The girls I rode with are gone. The kinds of shows I rode in are gone. I'm the last one of the IHSA girls; the last one who remembers bus trips through California to compete on half-wild horses; the last one who can tell stories about having to ride those wild horses without benefit of a warm-up; the last one who remembers four people to a Motel 6 room and shopping cart races in Wal-Mart parking lots while on the road.
And I looked at the silver medallion in that saddlehorn I've grabbed so many times and rubbed it as if for good luck and swung my leg off that horse for the last time. I stuck my foot under the gate to take pressure off the latch like I have so many times, and I left five years of sweat and tears behind me.
I came on to the team not knowing how to put a saddle on a horse. I left it with a national title and a lifelong passion. I reached my unreachable star. It's time for me to focus on my next impossible dream.