REFLECTIONS ON HORSE POWER

I’ve got cars on the brain. Generally horses dominate that space, but as you can see from the previous post I’ve had my share of vehicle encounters these days.

Update: After a thorough inspection we opted against buying the F350 described previously. My husband helpfully suggested a new arrangement for hauling my precious hairy cargo around. See above photo.

Ugh. Just say NO to ugly vans.

“I thought you don’t have status issues,” hubby said, a smirk on his face. “That van can easily pull an aluminum horse trailer.”

This is an ongoing joke between us…who has “status” problems. When finances were down and we drove such cream puffs as a 1969 Cadillac (swear it had a hinge in the middle), and tiny Ford Festiva we built ourselves up by saying things like: “It takes a good self image to drive this car; We’re being smart and paying cash; Buying a new car is stupid; Only people with status problems drive a car like that.”

The Van (also known as The Van That Won’t Die: TVTWD) fit nicely into our long pattern of self righteous thrift. It had been sitting for several months when it was bequeathed to us by friends—a freebie! We cleaned out the mold and a dead mouse then invested $600 bucks into the thing—“Good as new.” Sort of. It retained a subtle whine in the engine and a lovely aroma of mildew: Au du Van.

Still, my proudly frugal hubby insisted he loved the van and drove it for a couple years adding several thousand miles to its exhausted engine and an attractive dent in the sliding door. Me? I didn’t want to touch the thing, much less drive it. My self image has been thoroughly humbled by horse power (or lack-there-of), thank you very much.

Its amazing how quickly one can get used to something nice and conveniently forget self righteous smack talk. See lovely red car above. As in the old days when the horse one rode announced a certain status, the horse power under the hood has a mysteriously capacity for enlarging the ego. I found that out when I took our new “ride” on a trip out of town.

A red Dodge Charger with a Hemi is a righteous experience, let me tell you. Or, at the very least, the best sort of therapy. Picture a perfect autumn day with sun toasting the arms through the open sun roof. Billy Idol’s Rebel Yell is blasting over the speakers as I cruise down Interstate 5 about 8—I mean 60— mph. Ah…I may be ordering up a mid life crisis soon.

Speaking of which, Mr. I-Don’t-Have-Status-Issues sported a definite pouty lip when I took Precious for two days. Seemed he’d lost that loving feeling for TVTWD…..hmmm.

Driving the Charger is sort of like riding my horse Eli. Naturally a good mover, I just feel darn good on that horse. Shifting him into a good gallop is a very therapeutic experience and it doesn’t hurt that he’s beautiful. I forget that my horsemanship skills aren’t any fancier on Eli. He might stand in for my ego but all it takes is a ride on Chance to be roughly escorted back to reality: I have A LOT to learn about horses. Riding each horse reveals something to me and in me. I think I need both of them to stay grounded in the truth that I’m not the sum of the “ride” I have on any particular day—horse or car. Which brings me back to the van.

I happened to take TVTWD to the recent Women of Faith Conference. Due to some scheduling conflicts a friend and I found ourselves maneuvering Big City traffic in a cursed dented blimp with nine lives. We pulled up to The Westin in down town Seattle where we booked a room for the night and my heart sank. Valet parking. My friend and I looked across the street and ogled the cherry red Ferrari snugged sleek against a curb. Don’t they have normal, hide-your-head-in-shame parking for owners of ugly vans? I don’t want a valet to see me get out of this van, much less drive it himself. I circled the hotel once, twice. It was valet parking or none at all. Where’s my love Dodge Charger when I need him??

“We’re just two moms in a van,” my friend said upon exiting the vehicle, head high.

The valet grinned, “I love vans. That Ferrari over there can only seat two.”

My friend and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. We listened to the whine of an engine echoing years of childish cargo as the valet drove it out of sight. No Cool award for us this weekend, just four wheels to do a job.

With Eli in training for the next month (my red horsey version of Dodge Charger) I’m enjoying time riding a “van,” my portly pinto, and schooling him with the clicker. My long legs drooping from his sides in an Aussie saddle, I am definitely not looking cool on this horse. But I’m learning a few important things. Hopefully he is, too.

Cranking up the Billy Idol…Righteous.

ODE TO A SHETLAND PONY

I was not one of those spoiled kids who received a BMW on their 16th birthday. Even if my parents could have afforded it, they wouldn't have based on principle--You must earn the finer things in life. The car gifted to me on my sweet 16 was a Malibu Classic circa 1970's Grandma. Complete with powder blue paint. It wasn't sexy but it was sturdy, practical, dependable, and nearly indestructible. At the time I didn't care if it was stylish, it was all mine. A powder blue ticket to freedom. That car reminds me of my first pony, Sally. Minus the dependable part.

I don't know why Shetlands are routinely given to children. They are generally unpleasant little equids whose clever minds readily contemplate treachery. It doesn't help that they are often "trained" by children. This sets them up nicely to loathe small human beings. In my parents defense, they knew next to nothing about horses. After nagging them incessantly for a horse, they produced Sally, a small brown Shetland of unknown origins. My first tack ensemble consisted of a ratty bareback pad and those all-in-one pony bridle combinations complete with nickle plated curb bit. Armed with a few lessons, years of horse stories, and blind passion, I set out to make Sally my very own Black Stallion. Okay, even I knew she was no The Black but we could do Misty of Chincoteague.

For her part Sally remained oblivious, even immune, to my love and crude training methods. She had better things to do then fulfill childish fantasies. Avoiding my attempts to ride her was an art form. She might buck, bite, rear, or, my favorite, bolt into the nearest stand of trees. One moment she would be walking along calmly, the next I'd be hanging on for dear life while she tried to scrape me off on low hanging branches.

I hadn't owned Sally long when my city slicker cousin, Holly, came to visit. Of course she wanted to ride Sally. I'm not sure what was behind my adamant selfishness that day. Perhaps I felt overprotective of my Prize, perhaps it was the weather, perhaps I was simply too lazy to move from the front of the television and wrangle a cantankerous pony who wanted nothing to do with me. It didn't help that we had recently purchased a satellite dish (the Beam-Me-To-Mars variety from the 80's). Two words: Unlimited Cartoons. Whatever the reason, I told Holly emphatically, "no." She responded as childish relatives do; she asked my dad.

"Your dad said I could ride Sally." Holly marched herself into my face, smugly considering her victory. "Where's her stuff?"

I hesitated, smoldering in silence on the couch. How dare she! Then a delicious, wicked idea hatched in my brain.

"It's in the barn. But you don't need the bridle," I offered sweetly, "it will be easier to just ride her with the halter and lead rope."

Holly sauntered out the door, an innocent marching unwittingly to her doom. Suddenly uninterested in the television, I slouched deeper into the cushions on the couch. Forget a satellite dish, the show about to commence outside was much more entertaining.

When Holly returned from her "ride" she sported angry scratches down her arms and twigs poked out of her hair. I feigned shock and let her rant about my disobedient pony. Years later I confessed what I had done and begged Holly for forgiveness. We both had a good laugh.

Besides being nearly indestructible, a pony like Sally is good for gauging commitment. When I proved that nothing could extinguish my passion for all things equine I was rewarded with a beautiful bay Arabian named Sunfire. Besides standing in nicely as my own Black Stallion, Sunny actually liked me. This was a new concept. Though we had our share of challenges, our friendship birthed a lifelong commitment to this wonderful breed. I had moved up as a horseman. Kinda like trading that Malibu Classic, later on, for a 1968 Mustang. Sweet.

While perusing YouTube recently, I came across this short video clip. Yes, I laughed out loud and punched replay. Repeatedly. Here's to you Sally, may you rest in peace. I am afraid I don't miss you. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3TmVcKZAWY