Punchline

It didn't take long before my skills had outgrown the little Arabian cross mare, Jasmine. She was topping out at the 2-foot level and Chris was ready for me to move up into the bigger classes. I can remember being disappointed that first day that I saw "Punchline" written next to my name for horse assignments on that sticky summer morning.

When I was younger, I saw being assigned the been-there-done-that horses as a demotion.

I gathered my tack and made my way down the barn aisle. At least Punchline was in the nice stalls on the main aisle, having earned his keep throughout his lifetime. Punchline was a big, lanky chestnut Thoroughbred with white stockings and a white blaze on his face. His coat was mostly faded from the sun and scarred from years of turnout in the 80-acre pasture with the herd of thirty-something horses.

One time, I had heard Amy, the other woman that ran the camp, as a "jughead".

"What's a jughead?" I asked.

"It's a horse that has a head that's way too big for his body," she explained with a smirk. The thing I loved about Cedar Lodge was that they judged horses on heart and intelligence - not on how they looked. They knew that they could teach a horse with a heart and a brain just about anything.

Raw talent meant nothing if it didn't have a heart, and a work ethic, and a sound mind; performance was something that these horsewomen knew they could teach.

I set down my tack in the dirt aisle next to his stall and undid his gate. Chris had made sure to be clear that Punchline had to wear bell boots, and back then the kind with the velcro were more expensive. This meant that I was stuck with some old dusty flesh-colored silicon pull on bell boots.

I had never put on pull-on bellboots before, but I had seen it done. How hard could it be?

Punchline was entirely unbothered by my presence. As I flipped the first bell boot inside out and lifted his front foot, he continued to munch on his hay. He knew the drill. I placed the bell boot on the tip of his hoof and pulled straight back with all my strength.

The bell boot did not budge.

Punchline swung his head around and looked at me, as if to say, "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" I sure thought I did. But, this new challenge had me wondering the same thing.

I set his foot down, wiped the sweat from my brow, and sighed loudly. Not one to be easily defeated, I studied the other bell boot. It seemed to stretch, though not much, and I knew they were his because Chris had pointed them out.

So what gives?

Starting to realize I was going to be late for my lesson, I tried again. With no luck. The last thing I wanted to do was ask for help, but even more than that I did not want to be late for my lesson with Chris. She had been known to pull stirrups from kids if they were late to lessons.

So I sucked up my pride, flagged down a camp counselor, and she showed me the trick to putting on the bell boots.

"You have to get it in position, and then pull from one side at a time, then down the middle and - voila!" she said as she set his foot down and flipped the bell boot into place.

I hesitantly smiled and begged her to do the other one for me. At this point, I was running behind and my stirrups were at stake. Punchline also had to wear other leg gear, unlike the other horses I used to ride - two bell boots, four boots.

Every. Single. Time.

I can remember thinking this horse was a lot of work. Little did I know – he was worth it.

I swung my leg over Punchline, now running late for my lesson, and began to warm up. Chris let me keep my stirrups - I was grateful, but already exhausted from the tedious tack up session.

To my surprise, his trot was smooth and even. His canter was like riding a metronome. The longer I sat on him, the more I realized I had prematurely judged him by his looks and his age instead of keeping an open mind.

"He may not be as pretty as Jasmine," Chris said from the center of the arena, as if she had been reading my mind, "but this horse knows his job."

It wasn't long before the jumps were getting higher. I went from jumping crossrails and tiny 2 foot verticals with Jasmine to floating over 2'6" courses, with oxers, with ease. Finding a distance on Punchline was easy.

All I had to do was sit still, point him straight, and give a soft crest release over the fence. Punchline did the rest.

The first show we went to together, I was surrounded by much older girls who had been riding longer than me. These were the girls that were riding year-round with Chris because they lived close and their parents did not object to investing in the sport. I was the girl that rode her heart out at summer camp, but spent the rest of the year lessoning once a week at an eventing barn on a borrowed Quarter Horse named Hershey.

More than one lesson a week was financially out of the question, which meant every year I fell more behind as the other girls excelled. To say I was intimidated by my minimal time in the saddle was an understatement.

This was my first show where I'd be competing in classes that were 2'3" to 2'6" - a big step up from the crossrails and tiny 2 foot classes that did not have any oxers. The stakes were high and my nerves only grew as I watched round after round, knowing that my turn was coming soon.

We stood directly in front of the course that was posted ringside so I could study it. This course was much harder than the outside line-outside line-outside line-outside line crossrail classes I had done with Jasmine. Not only did I have to remember the course, but I also had to make sure I got every lead change.

It's a lot for a pre-teen brain to comprehend.

"Okay, let's go, you're up," said Chris as she patted Punchline on the neck. "Do you know your course?"

"Umm...yes," I said hesitantly, having stared at it for the last twenty minutes.

Chris smiled, sensing the nervouseness in my voice. "Don't worry. Punchline has it memorized. Just have fun," she said as she opened the gate.

As soon as we finished our courtesy circle and approached the first jump, my mind went blank. I had no idea where to go. Instead of panicking, I just decided to keep riding and see what happened. We floated, we changed leads, we rounded corners and we found the center of fence after fence. We left every single backrail to an oxer in tact.

Together, we flew.

To this day, I cannot remember what happened between the first fence and the last fence, but I do know the overall course was smooth, uninterrupted, and had timely lead changes in the exact places they should have been. As we ended with a courtesy circle, my stomach twisted into knots anticipating the scolding I was sure to come from going off course. To my surprise, Chris was standing at the end gate with a smile.

"Not bad," she said - her version of a compliment.

As I exited the arena and gave Punchline big happy pats and coos, I turned to Chris.

"I totally forgot the course. I had no idea where I was going," I said in shock and amusement. Whatever just happened, it was quite magical.

"I told you, Punchline memorized the course. That's why I put him right in front of it. You don't have to be nervous on this horse. He will take care of you, always. You just focus on you and let him worry about the jumps."

That summer and the summer that followed, I had a lot of firsts and breakthrough moments on Punchline.

He taught me the value of an inexperienced rider paired with an experienced horse.

He allowed me to make mistakes because he always corrected them without punishing me for it.

Where my inexperience could have gotten us into trouble, his experience took over and covered up the mistake. He was a lovely, smart, and wise old Thoroughbred with a heart of gold.

The most imporant lesson Punchline taught me was not to judge a horse by their looks, but judge them instead by their heart and their mind. Many would have written Punchline off - just like I did that first encounter - because he was a gangly Chestnut with a "jughead".

Many hunter/jumper riders would have taken one look at him and turned the other way, but the staff at Cedar Lodge knew he was worth his weight in gold. Because you can't teach a horse intelligence, and you can't teach a horse to have heart.

The best horsewomen and horsemen are the ones that know to look past the conformation, the price tag, and the bloodlines.

They are the ones that can see the whole animal, mind, body, and spirit - and say "that's the one I can make a winner."

Just like Touch of Class, Punchline may not have been anything to look at, but he sure did bring home a lot of blue ribbons, because at the end of the day, hard work (and heart) beats talent when talent doesn't work hard.