I’ve made the decision to purchase a green, off-the-track American Thoroughbred. Most people in the hunter and jumper arenas can be found on top of imported Warmbloods - mostly from Europe. While these horses are beautiful, I learned firsthand just how dangerous power in the wrong direction can be. Something changed in the early 2000s, when I really got serious about riding. The horses skyrocketed in price, but most notably got dumber and less resillient. The last thing you want is a 1,200 pound flight animal that only knows how to react and not to think for himself. It was the beginning of the downward spiral that is the modern day breeding of the sporthorse - where they made a decision to value performance and aesthetics over temperament and intelligence.

Back in the popular days of the sport - the era which Katie Monahan Prudent once referred to as the "good old days" during an interview for Sidelines magazine a few years back, the horses came from a diverse set of backgrounds. Some were farm horses, like the famous Snowman ridden by Harry deLayer. Few were imported. During the 70s and the 80s, average horse men and women were able to compete on good old fashioned American Thoroughbreds and even draft horses in the showjumping arena.

On one frigid January morning in Florida, I was having a particularly rushed and out-of-the-ordinary day. Since the beginning of the Winter Equestrian Festival show season, I had been working as an Assistant Barn Manager and rider for a large breeding and sales operation that was situated in Grand Prix Village. We had a barn of 20 something horses, all under the age of 6.

If you ever need a reminder of just how mortal you are, try a hand at working with young, athletic, wildly unpredictable Warmbloods.

The arena sand was still mostly solid from the winter freeze the night before. For some reason, Sergio had not dragged it like he usually did, which meant it was basically the equivalent to landing on rock. I paid little attention, already running behind for my workday (as usual) and swung my leg over Southern Star - a 17.2hh black gelding with, of course, a star on his face.

To be fair, I had been warned by the Barn Manager at the beginning of the season:

“This is the oldest and first horse we ever trained in our operation. 95% of the time he is a perfect gentleman. However, 5% of the time he can be very bad. He’s even gotten a few Olympians off...so, be careful!”

Though the season was just gaining momentum for that year, I felt as if I had gotten to know Star over the past few months. I had only ever seen the perfect gentleman side, with an occasional small kick out or buck; nothing I couldn’t handle. I was in my twenties and fairly convinced I was invincible after multiple previous brushes with death in the saddle - and one time only halfway in the saddle (a story for another day). On that particular day, I had no reason to believe Star was going to act any different.

I had selected to use draw reins, like I often did, to get him to better round through the neck and push through the hind. At the age of 7, he was quite educated on the flat and had most of the buttons. While I was just beginning to warm up, the arena was quickly filling with numerous riders I had never seen before. It wasn't uncommon for our arena to flood with sale horses - mostly other young, hot, European-breds. I was suddenly feeling like I was in a constant traffic jam, having to ride around and in-between some fairly unpredictable horses with even less predictable European and South American riders.

Certain men in this sport can be not only intimidating, but can carry a strong energy with them that permeates throughout the arena. I have seen firsthand riders who light up even some of the quietest horses - horses that I had previously never seen do anything out of line. Since horses are flight animals, their insticts when they are scared are usually to run and if they decide they no longer want you on your back - you won't be.

I rounded my least favorite corner - the one where the alligator pond met the giant 20 foot hedges that lined the side of the arena that separated us from our neighbor that was too close for comfort. That particular long side of the arena scared most of the horses, because they could hear - but they could not see - what was happening on the other side, which also happened to be another riding arena.

I cut across the diagonal to ask for a lead change when slowly, but intentionally, Star ran my right knee full force into a jump standard and I fell off his side, but landed on my feet. For a moment, I was pretty impressed with my ability to land so elegantly. I felt like Neo dodging a bullet in the Matrix.

Then, that moment was quickly shattered when the head trainer - and farm owner - began yelling at me in his baratone voice standing just outside the arena with one leg propped on the fence and all eyes on me.

“Get back on that damn horse and make him go forward.”

Not wanting to disappoint, I climbed back to the top of the mounting block and swung a leg over. I could sense an energy I had never felt permeate from Star before. It was a tenseness that was entirely unfamiliar underneath me. He found like a tightly wound coil that was just waiting for the right moment to explode. Unfortunately, my sixth sense, what many experienced equestrians refer to as "feel", was quickly muted by an even louder, second command from the same voice.

“What the hell are you waiting for? Go forward!”

With that I tightened my four reins, shoved my heels down, and picked up a left lead canter down the longside with the 20’ brush hedges. I could hear the bustling of the arena next to us and tried to block out the uncomfortable noises next door. I pretended not to notice all of the eyes that felt like were burning holes into me while I rode - many of the other riders having stopped at this point to allow me the space I needed. Star’s energy began to build as the head trainer continued to yell “forward!” from across the arena. With each canter step, I felt myself losing a little more control. It was at that moment that I knew I was toast and I had two choices: completely bail and emergency dismount or to ride it out and hope it didn't end badly. I had pulled off some pretty miraculous stick rides throughout my first decade and a half in the saddle - maybe I could stick this one and really impress my audience?

And then the crow hops started. And that's when I realized I made the very wrong choice.

Crow hop 1.

Crow hop 2.

Crow hop 3.

Crow hop 4.

Crow hop 5.

Crow hop 6.

Crow hop 7.

POW!

I lost count after 7, which is exactly the moment when my leg muscles refused to grip. I felt a sharp pop from my tail bone as I ejected from my stirrups. My fingers must have instinctly let go of the reins - I was always taught to spare the horse the pain of having a bit ripped from their mouth - and all I can remember thinking was "this is it". Star had built up momentum in the same fashion as a bucking bronco, but with a good six inches taller than a bronco and with the power of a very fit Warmblood bred for the hunter and jumper arenas. His 8th maneuver was similar to a Mortal-Kombat-style final blow, the kind where my brother would always win when we played the video game and you see "Final Blow!" flash across the screen. He promptly planted both front feet and kicked his hind legs so high they went past his head. And I catapulted.

I landed some 40 feet away from where I was unseated. I am told I flipped in the air - but I couldn't tell you what happened because all I remember seeing was blue Florida sky. I cracked sand with my left shoulder first, then my head, followed by my left hip. The entire right side of my body seized. And without thought, I attempted to stand - as I was quite convinced by his show of wrath that be might be coming back to deliver an actual final blow.

My legs refused to hold me as I flopped back into the sand onto my back. Then the pain set in, the adrenalin beginning it's descent. Everything hurt. Everywhere.

Staring at the sky that day, I had no idea that fall was going to change my entire life.

That fall is where this story begins

It took me nearly half a decade to get back to the kind of riding I used to do. The damage to my body, my confidence, and my soul was more that I ever thought I could burden. My road had been long - and painful, and heartbreaking, and frustrating - but I kept going. And now I'm ready to continue where I left off.

This is a story about second chances.

Will you join me on this journey?