I DON’T RUN

I’d Blow Past You on My Horse, Though…

Four legs are better than two

“Speak your mind, but ride a fast horse.” — John Wain

I’ve never liked running. It’s just not my thing. I think I’m still scarred from grade school where I was the youngest and smallest student in my class. When we played “tag-you’re-it,” I was always it. And that’s not fun. It’s only fun to run if you’re fast.

I wanted to be fast. My favorite animal was a cheetah — “the fastest animal in the world” (and, admirably, also the founder of Cheetos). My life’s goal was to grow up to be a speedy purple pony because my teacher said I could be anything I wanted. Unfortunately, that didn’t work out.

Besides just not being good at it, my other problem with running is you get hot and sweaty. And, when your parents make you a hot pancake breakfast after a morning run, you’re too exhausted to enjoy it. You can’t sip on coffee while you pound the pavement, either. But, when you get back from running, you don’t even want hot coffee anymore, just lots and lots of water.

Ugh.

Unlike cheetahs and purple ponies, I wasn’t bred to run. But, you know what’s better than running on two scraggly legs? Running on four legs! You can blow past anyone teasing you with “you can’t catch me” on a horse.

My first experience riding an equine animal wasn’t a win exactly when it came to speed. I was six and got to take the trail on my own personal pony — unlike my little brother who had to ride with my mom. The pony’s name was Rosebud — which doesn’t that sound charming?

She might have been charming once upon a time, but she was pretty old and unimpressed with trail rides by the time I got her. All she saw was one more young, inexperienced kid on her back, and thought, “Yeah, I can take her. I’m just gonna mosey along and graze.”

In fact, I’d say she was even slower than I was.

Soon it was just Rosebud and me out on the trail on our lonesome. When I didn’t see my sister, cousin, mom, dad, aunt, little brother, or any of the trail bosses, I was a little worried. Luckily my dad convinced his horse to turn back on the trail and walk with me so I didn’t ride (or die) alone.

This experience didn’t give me the feeling of speed or success I’d been hoping for. Still, there was something about that old sleepy-eyed, bored-out-of-her-mind, shaggy, grass-smacking, frankly-my-dear-I-don’t-give-a-damn mare that made me think: I want more of this. …Maybe I just admired her attitude.

But I would have to live my little life over again plus one year before I got another chance at horse riding.

At thirteen, I asked for horseback riding lessons for my birthday. I thought instead of opening a present and it being over, why not choose a gift that my parents have to keep paying for all year long?

Western or English? My parents asked. I thought for half a second.

While Engish riding seems to be about rules and jumping fences, Western riding is about comfort and doing what you want. You don’t need to wear little helmets, jackets, and white pants. Instead, you can wear jeans and your favorite t-shirt, then top off that combo with cowboy boots and a stetson, if you so desire. You do have to lug a heavy Western saddle that weighs as much as you do. However, once you get the saddle onto the back of a horse, you can ride relaxed without having to sit on your knees. You’re not confined to a ring. You can go off-road and run the whole ranch if you want.

Western it was.

I took lessons with a beautiful well-behaved Appaloosa (and his trainer), then went off to college and rode a well-meaning rescue horse named Hobbit for my P.E. credit (because it’s Texas). In these experiences, I learned how to trot, post, and gallop. I also learned how to brush a horse, wash it down, and clean its hooves. It was all lovely and very horsey.

Then, I met some friends who lived close by and owned half-wild horses that they got on sale.

And I found speed.

While most of the horses I had ridden up to that point had been broken in like a comfortable shoe, this feisty mare had remained largely unbroken and it showed. Her name was Mary-something-or-another, but she was no saint. She was known for her many runaway escapades and I quickly learned how to hang on for dear life.

I never fell off, though that mare tried every trick in her horseplay book — from bucking to running under tree limbs to running at breakneck speeds for no apparent reason.

Now that was the wind-in-your-hair, heart-in-your-mouth speed I’d been looking for. My dad had found it on the race track, and I found it on the back of a horse on the backroads of our one-horse town.

It was everything I’d ever hoped for and even some things I hadn’t ever hoped for. It was frightening, glorious, exhilarating, and intoxicating.

When you can control that, you feel like a god on four legs … so like a centaur or something.

Horseback riding is good exercise. It can become an obsession if you let it. You can harness long legs that aren’t your own and blow past any runner on the road. When you get off the horse, you can feel muscles you never knew you had.

Unlike running, which seems to slash your appetite to shreds, horse riding leaves you feeling like you haven’t eaten in three weeks. You could eat a horse… but you’ll happily settle for a pancake breakfast with a cup of cowboy coffee to wash it all down.

So, that’s it. I’ve let the cat out of the bag, the horse out of the stall, and the runner out of the starting position when I say: I don’t run. Not in marathons, and not casually.

But I bet I can beat you in any foot race with the help of a four-legged friend.

Well. Now, I smell pancakes… so I’ll have to save the rest of my Texas-sized, hubris-filled stories for another day.

See y’all around, partners…

I may not run, but I admire those who do. Here are some great running articles to check out:

Smillew Rahcuef found speed on two legs:

Run wild on the moors with Philip Ogley:

Nick Struutinsky’s piece [almost] has convinced me to take up running: