When Trying Harder Makes It Worse

April–August 2006

Spring Logic

By April, riding Tex had settled into something that looked like a routine.

Some days he felt fine. Other days he didn't. The stiffness came and went, usually worse at the start of a ride, often better once we'd been moving awhile. I noticed it. I didn't panic.

That distinction mattered.

I adjusted things. Rode shorter. Warmed him up longer. Avoided anything that felt abrupt or sharp. I told myself I was listening to him, being responsible instead of reckless.

That felt reasonable. Careful, even.

The question had shifted without me noticing. I wasn't asking Is something wrong? anymore. I was asking How do I manage this?

The Development

In May, we started riding in a place we called the Development.

The city had cleared and graded the land for a new housing tract but hadn't turned it over to builders yet. The ground was flat and open, the footing good. Enough space to work, but not so much that it felt wild.

It was a training rider's dream.

We could lope, side-pass, back up, work on transitions without worrying about traffic or deep water or surprises jumping out of the weeds. There were still plenty of things for a horse to look at—discarded fencing, stacks of pipe, half-buried debris left behind by heavy equipment—but it felt controlled.

Tex felt good out there. Forward. Willing. Present.

One afternoon, we rode along a chain-link fence where a large plastic bag had been snagged and left to flap in the breeze. It snapped and rattled, catching light and movement in all the wrong ways.

I rode Tex up to it and asked him to side-pass toward the fence. He hesitated, then stepped over. I asked again. He moved closer, ears locked on the bag but his feet staying where I put them.

I reached down, unhooked the bag, wadded it into a ball, and stuffed it into my saddle bag.

Tex stood there the whole time.

That ride felt solid. Not flashy. Just right. The kind of ride that made sense of all the work that came before it.

This was what I'd been working toward.

Evidence

Whenever doubt crept in after that, I thought about the Development.

About the bag. About the way Tex stood. About how calm he'd felt under me.

Whatever was going on couldn't be that serious. A horse with a real problem wouldn't work like that. Wouldn't stand like that. Wouldn't feel that right.

That ride became evidence I carried with me. Quiet, convincing, ready whenever I needed it.

Summer Adjustments

By early summer, the off days showed up more often.

I could feel it as soon as I swung into the saddle—a hesitation, a tightness I couldn't quite place. I shortened rides. Took it easy. But then he'd have a good day, starting stiff and loosening up as we moved, and I'd think: See? He's working through it.

If I stopped riding every time something felt a little off, I'd never ride at all. Horses had days.

That was the logic I lived with.

I wasn't ignoring what I felt. I was negotiating with it.

August 22

The ride that night didn't feel different at first.

We were out near the canal, late enough that the light had softened and the air had cooled. Tex felt alert but manageable. I asked him to move out, then bring it back, nothing complicated.

When he bucked, it wasn't dramatic.

One moment I was there, the next I wasn't.

I remember a sharp jolt, a blur of motion, the ground coming up faster than it should. I hit hard, rolled once, then lay still, trying to sort out where everything was.

Tex stood a few yards away, head up, breathing hard. He didn't bolt. He didn't act wild. He just stood there.

My body hurt in the unfocused way it does after a fall. Nothing screaming. Everything complaining.

I got up slowly, brushed myself off, and led him home.

After

That night was quiet.

I was sore and shaken, but more than that, unsettled.

I didn't replay the ride so much as avoid thinking about it at all.

I told myself it was a fluke. A bad moment. Horses do that sometimes.

I went on. Through September and October, we rode shorter, slower, less often. I told myself I was being cautious.

November 1

I came home early that afternoon and walked out to the pen.

Tex was standing, but something looked wrong immediately. When I got closer, I saw blood on his leg.

Not a scrape. Not a little cut. Enough blood that it stopped me where I stood.

I stepped into the pen, my stomach tightening as I followed the trail down to the wound.

I'd worked as a vet tech for years. I knew what needed cleaning, what needed stitches, what needed a professional. This needed a professional.

Whatever this was, it wasn't something that would work itself out.

I stood there longer than I meant to, the rest of the world going quiet around me.

Something was wrong.

And this time, I couldn't ride past it.