G&C Summer 2017
Blogpost 005
June 20th
A lesson I learned last year (and
promptly forgot until this morning) is that regardless of how well conditioned
one’s lower-body strength may be, your legs and ass will be in utter agony the
morning after a day of riding and a yearlong hiatus. Now, neither Charlotte or
I consider ourselves to be in overly fantastic shape or having what one, Brad
Neely might say as having a, “grecian body-by-Zeus,” but we’re active enough.
We think we’re active enough, at least. Even before the start of our
trip, we took additional strength-training measures to ensure that the
post-equestrian body pains wouldn’t be as severe. Alas, it would seem that all
those squats-thrusts and leg-presses over at the Davis University weight room
was for naught as the two of us have been swaggering in the gait of John Wayne.
At
R lazy S, one can commit themselves to two solid rides a day. That’s at least ten,
two hour rides a week and not including the “all day rides,” on Thursday. If
one can’t help but strut like a testicularly injured rodeo clown on our second
day, then I shudder at the thought of how silly we’ll be carrying ourselves
come Friday evening.
Fortunately,
my fiancé and I chose to only go on one ride the second morning on the range, and while a
walking-lope trail ride was available that afternoon, we signed ourselves up
for a game of horse-tag instead. Despite this thoughtful decision, tag turned
out to be even more physically taxing on our muscles and bones then the two Tuesday
trail-rides combined.
As
Charlotte has informed me, horse-tag is very much like human-tag and an
equine-game favorite among her and her siblings. Our wranglers for the morning,
led us, Jim, Lisa, and a slew of children and teens (and a parent or two) into
a kind-of oversized horsey-playpen away from the stables but still technically on
ranch property. Actually, now that I think about it, “playpen” isn’t precisely
the appropriate adjective. Tag-field seems better suited as that’s
exactly what the field was for.
Regardless
of the reason, the tag-field-playpen was naturally gorgeous, surround by
rushing glacial streams so cold and clear it could’ve been runoff from a Smirnoff
Ice truck disaster upstream. Elegant wooden fences made from solid trunks
of actual trees were the boundaries for our game of tag. Keep in mind I was
raised in a city so any fence made not constructed out of weathered picket or chain-link
would be alien to me. It didn’t help that the rest of the area was like a
Camelot film from the BBC, with little interlacing horse-trails spread out over
meadows and weaving within the forest. In fact, I was so taken aback by the
sheer beauty of everything that I barely paid attention to the rules provided
by the wrangler. This was evident when a ten-year old rider tagged me thirty
seconds into the first game.
Apparently
hiding amongst the trees and brush was an integral part of the game though
keeping in mind you’re also hiding a 2,000+ pound animal that neighs at full
volume when separated from the herd. Nevertheless, getting tagged is not the
worst thing in the world. After all it’s then when you’re allowed, nay,
expected to use one’s newfound status of “it,” to seek out and tag everyone
else; which on horseback is harder than it looks. I tried fruitlessly time and
time again to tag Jim who’d been playing this game for who knows how long and
could serpentine between trees and bushes like Arwen evading capture of the
Nazgûl en route to Rivendell, refuge of the elves. Though I failed to tag my
future brother-in-law I did learn a lot about my steed, Romeo with regards to
his speed, responsiveness, and stamina. I also learned that horse-tag is
unforgiving toward one’s nether region. Perhaps you develop a tolerance after a
while, but I doubt I’ll ever get to that point.
The
second game, however, proved to be much more fun as I’d actually taken the time
to drive Romeo into a far-corner of the tag-field that was rife with hiding
spots and remained largely undisturbed by riders who were “it,” for sometime
before our inevitable discovery. And sure enough after being found by a pack of
speedy children and a lengthy chase in and out of forestry we succumbed to
joining the it-crowd. I was then later informed by Charlotte that I’d been the
third-to-last person tagged in the game and truth be told, it was a rewarding
feeling to know that progress had been made between Romeo and I.
The
feeling would woefully become short-lived as we started a third and final game
when my fiancé and I starting off the round as taggers when it became apparent
that Romeo was tired and refused to participate after the first couple minutes.
I wasn’t upset or disappointed, after all he’d been trotting with my nearly
two-hundred pound body on his back for no other reason then my leisure. The sun
alone made me precipitate tremendously so I can only imagine what the horse was
feeling. I was, admittedly, just a little irked by the way in which Romeo
choose to express his unwillingness to play any further; but spinning around in
circles and steering himself strait into patches of thorny tree-limbs. I
suspect that my horse, like Charlotte’s, might have an unruly alter ego. I
think I’ll call Romeo’s disgruntled self, “Calaban.”
Charlotte
proceeded to use Silver/Sparkles to round up and tag whomever she could,
impressively all by herself as all the other tagger’s seemed to be experiencing
technical difficulties with their own equally-exhausted ponies. The game ended
with at least three riders untagged which included Jim and Lisa. This got under
Charlotte’s skin more then I believe she’d care to admit. She quickly got over
it, though, as she often does and used the rest of her day post-riding to
collect insects. In the spirit of my father, I took a multi-hour long nap
before ending the day with reading, writing, and listening to John Denver, as
one does in a country setting such as this.
Waiting for our ponies
On our way to the tag field
Playing tag!
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