Month: November 2016

Remember how I freaked out there for a minute after Henry went to rehab and agreed to run a half marathon? Yeah… that happened.

It’s still two months away, and it’s probably a good thing that I entered it because otherwise I doubt I’d still be running much. Don’t get me wrong, I definitely needed the exercise. I’m stronger than I was before, and I’ve lost a little bit of weight (kind of. if you squint.). I’ve always had a huge mental block with running; I just don’t like it. Even when I was heavy duty into triathlons the running part was still like torture. Swimming, awesome. Cycling, even better. Running? Just effin’ kill me. So this time around I’ve tried a different approach – keeping it casual.

First: the schedule. I’ve been sticking mostly to a 3x per week schedule, trying to avoid running two days in a row. I need that day off in between so that it doesn’t start feeling like a job, and it helps keep my compartment syndrome in check. Sometimes I run 4 days a week, if I had to cut one short because of time or something, but 3 has been pretty standard. I do two weekday morning runs that are 3 miles (aka 2 cupcakes), and then I do a long run on a weekend morning. Right now the long run is at 6 miles (aka 5 cupcakes).

The second vital part: I don’t track my pace… I have a few set routes that I know the distance of (a couple different 3 mile loops, and a 6 mile loop), but I don’t turn on runkeeper or mapmyrun to track it. I just can’t. I’m so overly competitive (yes, even with myself) that I have the most amazing ability to take the fun out of literally everything. And there’s already basically no fun to be had in running. I know how long each run is taking me anyway, total minutes-wise, so it’s not rocket science to have a decent idea of what my pace is. I’m not worrying about negative splits or heartrate or any of that other overly analytical crap though… I just run however the hell I feel like running in the moment. It’s liberating.

And the last, but equally vital piece: I run alone, in private. I’m up early so that I can run in the dark, before dawn, just me and our big black dog. I don’t want people looking at me, I don’t want to be forced to make eye contact and say good morning to anyone, I don’t want to talk to anyone, and I sure as hell don’t want to run with anyone. Leave me alone to suffer in peace with Twenty One Pilots and Bastille, please. I need to pretend like I still have some damn dignity.

I burned myself out on all this stuff when I was doing triathlons, making myself crazy with my obsession with the numbers. Always trying to be faster and faster and faster. At the end of the day though, running isn’t my number one thing, I’m not that good at it, and I don’t particularly care that much. My new approach is a little bit unconventional but it seems to be working so far, since I’ve actually managed to keep up with it and don’t hate it yet.

I do think that it’s helped my riding though, especially while Henry has been recuperating. I’m still strong and reasonably fit, which has definitely helped. Will I actually keep running after the half is over? Who knows… we’ll see what happens in the next couple months…

Herrlerr!!!! Well… and Bobby too, I guess.

It rained a lot last week but the field at my barn dries exceptionally fast. The soil is a bit sandier than most areas around here, which seems to make all the difference. Because of all the rain, Halo hasn’t gotten to gallop for a while (he has this gross thing where he has to be able to clear his nose out really well all the time or he starts to reek of rotten food. Tie back surgery issues. Long story.) and Bobby said he was starting to get really stinky, so after clearing it with the barn owner I invited him over to ride. Henry can’t gallop yet, but he can supervise.

We trotted a few laps with Halo (Henry can’t keep up with him, even trotting), cantered a slow lap, and then hung back and watched him fly around the field. The footing really was perfect – just soft enough to be springy, but not so soft as to make any divots. Halo seemed thrilled. I’m not willing to say that I missed Bobby (gross… although I know for sure he’s missed me) but it was fun to have someone to ride with again. Henry and Halo slipped right back into their “wise older brother vs annoying younger brother” roles without missing a beat.

On Sunday I went out in the arena and set up two tiny jumps… some barrels, and a 2’6″ vertical with placing poles. Not much, but our first fences for like two months! I cantered him over both of them a few times (he basically started cantering in place when he realized we were jumping) and called it quits. At this point I live day by day with my fingers crossed, hoping that he stays sound.

Today he gets to go into his own normal sized paddock for the first time. The turnouts are totally dry now, and he’s been well-behaved in his round pen turnout, so everything is as ready as it’ll ever be. Hopefully he can keep his brain glued in and continue to behave himself.

But, you know… this IS Henny we’re talking about, so we’ll see. Please stay out of trouble, horse.

One of the first things I noticed about the new barn is that several horses have wooden stall signs hanging on their stalls. I’ve always liked the wooden signs that are handmade or handpainted… it might not look as uniform or professional as a traditional engraved plate, but there’s something very personal, genuine, and loving about them. It’s easy to buy something, anyone can do that… it’s a lot harder put your heart and soul and time into something that you’ve made with your own two hands. Maybe it’s because my mom used to paint a lot when I was a kid, and was always crafting, so stuff like that reminds me of her in a way and holds a lot of sentimental value.

I painted my first stall sign a decade ago. I was trying to come up with Christmas present ideas for all my barn friends but of course, as a 20-something horse owner, I was low on cash. I went to Hobby Lobby, bought some wooden plaques, a couple different paint colors, and spent the next few days handpainting those things in our barn colors. It was a labor of love for sure, because I soon found out that I was not a naturally gifted painter. After much cursing and even more trial and error, I was finally done.

While I was happy with the results, I swore up and down that I would never make another stall sign unless it was a) for myself, b) for a horse that I had no intention of ever selling. I’ve owned a lot of horses since then, and I’ve stuck to that. The only horse that has ever had a “fancy”, handpainted-by-me-with-love stall sign is Sadie.

So when I walked into the new barn and found myself smiling a little at all those signs, obviously handmade by people who loved the horse inside that stall, I started thinking about Henry. I had a lot of time to ponder our relationship while he was away at rehab… he was never meant to be a keeper. He was a project, a flip, something to keep me busy. Yet we all know that he’s a lot more than that by now.

I was talking to a friend a couple days later about his rehab process… how it’s gone so far, and what we still have left to do. I explained how I was taking the longest, most conservative route that the vet laid out for me, and what that entails. If it means we miss horse shows and clinics and all sorts of other fun things, so be it. This horse owes me nothing. He’s been giving me 110% of himself since day 1, and it’s my job to do right by him. And there it was, with those words: my lightbulb moment.

I went the very next day and bought a wooden plaque, some paint, and new paintbrushes. Last night I spent two hours (I told you I’m not very good at this) painting his stall sign. It’s certainly not perfect, but it’s very “us”. Other people might look at it and think it’s silly, or childish, and that’s okay. But I hope at least a few people are able to see what it means to me: the sign of a horse that is truly loved, truly special, and isn’t going anywhere for a long, long time.

There are a lot of things that I have felt in my 33 years as an American. Pride being the most common one… I am not the flag-waving, Constitution-thumping American that some of my friends are, but I have always been proud to be an American. Sure, sometimes I’ve been frustrated to be an American, or worried to be an American, but pride has always been the overwhelming majority. This morning I woke up with a totally different feeling: fear. Today I woke up feeling scared to be an American. As I set off on my morning run I found myself constantly looking over my shoulder, afraid of what it means to be a woman in Trump’s America.

Aside from fear, I also feel sorry… very deeply sorry. To all of my LGBTQ friends, to all of my Hispanic friends, to all of my African-American friends, to all of my Muslim friends, to all of my disabled friends, to all of my women friends, to anyone that has felt discriminated against or alienated by the Trump campaign and it’s affects: I am so sorry. I’m sorry that we as a nation have chosen to condone and even, somehow, reward this kind of behavior and exclusionary rhetoric. To all of my foreign friends who tried to warn us: I’m sorry we didn’t listen.

But if there’s one other thing that has been instilled in me as an American, it is hope. I refuse to give in to cynicism, and instead choose to proceed with skepticism. I am skeptical that a campaign driven by insults, lies, and fear mongering can result in something different, but I am hopeful that it will. I hope that the man we have elected into office realizes the gravity of his words and actions, for now they have the potential to do irreparable harm. The fear and dread that have now taken root via a knot in my stomach are real, but I am hopeful that I’m wrong. I hope that Mr. Trump is a wildly successful president. I hope that I look back on this post a year from now and feel silly for having written it. And mostly I hope that despite what so many of us are feeling now, we are ultimately able to prove that Americans are still inherently good, still unfailingly decent, and still compassionately kind to one another. We need it now more than ever.