I am not a Cowboy

There is nothing more thrilling than watching a band of warriors or cowboys racing across the prairie on horseback. How exciting and exhilarating it must be to feel the wind blowing into your face, to feel the power of the horse beneath you. Anyway, that’s how it looks in the movies.

I haven’t had pleasant experiences with horses. When I was ten years old, I was thrown off a horse, a high-spirited racing horse, a stallion, and I rode bareback. My legs were too short to get a good grip. The horse wanted to run, but I wanted a slow ride. When I pulled on the reigns, the horse bucked and threw me over its head into the ditch. I landed on my rump and limped for days.

The last time I sat on a horse was when I was 21 years old. A bunch of us went horseback riding. We saddled up and rode out, down the trail. At least my friends did. My horse decided to take the day off. It just stood there. No amount of coaxing, yelling, soft talking, clucking, digging my heels into its flanks or anything else I tried brought results. My horse stood like a roman statue until my friends came back after one hour.

“What happened?” they asked.

“Nothing,” I replied.

As we headed back to the stable, my horse suddenly came to life. It was the first one to take off and it had changed into a racing horse. I hung on for dear life, my body pressed against the horse’s neck. That door into the barn was mighty low and I would have been scraped off the horse like a slice of ham off a sandwich.

That incident made me swear off horseback riding for good, but it was always in the back of my mind, on my bucket list so to speak. Therefore, when we were in Wisconsin Dells in early September, I suggested to my wife we go horseback riding. She had never been on a horse and was not breaking out into cries of joy when I suggested it. She was actually a little afraid to go, but she agreed to humor me.

We drove to the Red Ridge Ranch Riding Stable not far from Wisconsin Dells. They advertised gentle horses. We were with a small group of riders; a few claimed they went riding every year. They acted like pros. Well—we were beginners and I didn’t make a secret of it. There was another elderly couple from Chicago—also beginners. When we paid for the trip, they asked if we wanted to wear helmets. I declined. The couple from Chicago wore helmets and they looked ridiculous. Whoever heard of a cowboy riding a horse wearing a helmet? We had to sign a waiver in case we got injured or even died on the outing; the Riding Stable was not responsible.

Our guide, a young woman, brought out the saddled horses and we mounted. We used a platform to get into the saddle. I put my left food into the stirrups and swung my right leg up. At least that was the intention. It looks easy on TV. Actually, they don’t use mounting platforms. They just swing themselves into the saddle. I used the platform and as it turned out I could have used help to swing my leg over the horse's back to get it to the other side. I couldn’t lift my leg high enough. After all, I’m a senior and not as agile as I thought I was, but I finally did manage.

I sat in the saddle like a cowboy.

That’s when I realized I was no cowboy, because that’s when the pain began.

When you sit in a saddle, you have to spread your legs. Your muscles and tendons get stretched to the limit. Maybe a woman has no trouble with that, but I am a man and not used to spreading my legs. My hip-joints and my thigh muscles were on fire.

That ride was the longest hour I’ve experienced in a long time, maybe even the longest hour ever. I was hoping the pain would subside and finally go away as my muscles became used to being stretched, but it got worse. After a while my feet began to tingle from lack of circulation and my legs seemed to go into rigormortis. I didn’t see much of the scenery, because my mind concentrated on the pain in my thighs. I knew we rode down a forest trail, but the memory is vague. I kept checking my watch every 2 minutes, but the time seemed to be standing still.

The most beautiful sight after that eternity of an hour was the Stable. I knew salvation war near. The question now was: Would I be able to get off the horse? I was one with the horse, my legs frozen solid against its flanks. Everyone dismounted, quite easily, I noticed. Even my wife slid gracefully off her horse. I was the only one still sitting in the saddle. “Come on, get off,” she said. When I tried to lift my right leg I actually managed to bring it up and over, barely, but I cleared the saddle. Hanging on to the saddle horn for dear life I brought my right leg down while my left foot was still in the stirrup. Everything is a blur. I don’t remember how I got my left foot out. I expected to slump to the ground, fearing my legs may not have enough strength left to carry my weight, but I stood on wobbly legs, ecstatic to feel solid ground under my feet.

When I walked away from the horse, I walked like a cowboy who has spent a week in the saddle on a cattle drive. I didn’t think I’d ever walk normal again.

“That was wonderful,” my wife said, “I want to do that again.”

I don’t think so, sweetheart. This old cowpoke ain’t goin’ on no more cattle drives. Horseback riding is off my bucket list.

Don't be fooled by my happy smile. This picture was taken moments before I dismounted, happy the ordeal was over.