Type 2 Fun
The three of us cantered our Quarter Horses up the grassy hill, away from the starting line. I rode past the first two jumps, gathering confidence. My trainer Rich on his chestnut mare Skipper and Melissa on her pretty buckskin Jolene were both riding Western and unlikely to take many jumps. Rich lead and I hung in the rear, getting a feel for my horse’s mental and physical state.
Freckles, an aging but lively red roan gelding, was headstrong and this was my first time on him in a couple years. I hoped the strength and skill I’d gained as a rider would help make this an easier ride than my usual horse, MJ. My ring fingers tapped the reins rhythmically, right-left, right-left, jiggling the bit in my horse’s mouth to establish contact and to help soften his mouth and jaw so he’d be more receptive to my signals.
We were approaching the next obstacle, a low stack of logs. So far Freckles was responsive and the ride felt good, so I steered to the jump and we sailed over. Whoo! I was beaming. It felt liberating, this cantering and jumping outside the structure of a lesson in a fenced ring-- like we were skipping school and running wild.
It was a beautiful, blue skied late autumn day in New York’s Hudson Valley and I was both excited and nervous to be riding my first hunter pace, a casual competition across open land. On a hunter pace, teams of two or three ride on a long, marked course at various paces through fields and woods. The route features obstacles like jumps and water hazards that riders can opt to go over or around. It’s relaxed and meant to resemble the experience of a foxhunt without the hounds. It takes a couple hours to complete, and the team that comes closest to a set time wins. In previous years either the timing hadn’t worked out, or our barn’s roster had been full, and the closest I’d gotten to a hunter pace was the photo of helmeted riders on horseback coursing across a field on my vision board. Now my chance was finally here!
Rich slowed his horse to a trot as the path narrowed and curved along the trees at the field’s edge, but Freckles did not want to slow down. We passed Melissa on Jolene and then Freckles reluctantly settled into a trot behind Skipper. Rich picked up a canter again as the path widened and straightened out. Freckles and I soared over another jump and after we landed, I could feel him growing more powerful and gathering speed. Uh oh. I’d been looking forward to riding Freckles because his love for jumping makes for a joyful ride. Now I remembered that jumping also fires him up, and once Freckles gathers steam he can be hard to control.
We were gaining on Rich and Skipper. Determined not to get carried past them, I sat back and seesawed the reins, nearly standing in my stirrups. It’s hard to describe the intense full-body effort required to slow a hard-charging horse-- think vertical one-arm rows while straddling a fast-moving animal with his own ideas. The path began to narrow as it lead into the woods. Rich began to trot Skipper, and Freckles and I fell in line behind them.
Now I was breathing hard and the tendon on the outside of my left leg was screaming. I sat bumping against the saddle so I could turn my toes outward and back, down and up, relieving some of the pressure. Freckles was feeling his oats, tossing his head and taking advantage of my distraction by straying into the branches of trees just off the path. This ride was getting tough. I told Rich I needed to slow down and let him know I was struggling. “Freckles can be difficult,” Rich acknowledged. “Take your time and let me know what you need.”
As we emerged from the forest into an open field, Rich brought us to a halt. The route was here was U-shaped, with a pair of log jumps in succession visible on the second leg. He told us, “I’m gonna take those jumps, but feel free to ride around them.” We nodded and trotted off behind him, with Melissa bringing up the rear.
I calmed Freckles as we neared the turn, softly telling him “Ho.” Then we kicked into a canter behind Rich and Skipper, sweeping through the curve and heading for the jumps. They went up and over. Then we flew over the first obstacle and then I sat back and pumped the reins, keeping him under control. Stride, stride, stride, UP! As Freckles launched, my left lower leg seized up and my foot curled inwards. I tried to rotate my sole away from the horse to distribute the weight evenly across the ball of my foot in the stirrup iron, but my ankle was frozen in place. On landing, the outside of my left foot took the brunt of the impact and pain shot through my ankle. It wasn’t a serious injury, but my ankle felt unstable and its capacity for bearing weight was compromised.
We’d all dropped to a trot and Rich proposed another canter. “Actually, we just walk for a bit?” I asked. “I jammed my ankle coming off that last jump.” I hated to slow the group down, but I needed a break. Both he and Melissa assured me they didn’t mind. Rich asked if I was okay and I filled him in. He told me we’d proceed at my pace, and I was immediately able to relax a bit. Melissa had been tracking our ride on her watch and took this opportunity to check our progress. We were only 30 minutes into a two-hour ride, and I was already exhausted. Great Spirit, please give me the strength to get through this.
By the time we reached the mandatory rest stop at the halfway mark, I was miserable and exasperated. My seat felt insecure and I’d fallen into near-constant battle with Freckles over his speed. Now Rich suggested I try giving Freckles his head more. “That can be scary, because he will go faster, but it will allow you to save your energy and you’ll be less aggravated with each other if you’re not fighting every step of the way.” I knew he was right.
It worked. I stopped micromanaging Freckles and our conflict subsided. I began to trust that he wasn’t going to bolt away, dumping me on the ground in the process. He began to trust that I’d only pull back on the reins if and for as long as necessary. Feeling more relaxed, Freckles became willing to take the lead. We cantered hard up the hills, and he was content to walk and trot at a reasonable pace in between, giving my leg a rest.
There were even moments when I could look around and enjoy the surroundings. Although most of the trees were bare, a few were still dressed in gowns of gold or red. We rode across the rolling countryside under the bright blue sky, kissed by sunshine and caressed by gentle breezes carrying the dried earthy scent of Fall.
After loading the horses into the trailer, Rich, Melissa, and I climbed back into the truck, groaning with age and aches. I doubted I’d ever go on a hunter pace again. But by the time we arrived back at the barn, I was already looking forward to another one next year.
When I told my friend Kelsey this story, she laughed. “Oh, you had Type 2 fun.”
“What’s that?”
She explained that when it comes to adventure, there are three types of fun. Type 1 is fun while you’re doing it and fun in retrospect, Type 2 doesn’t feel fun while you’re doing it, but afterwards you think, “That was fun!” Type 3 isn’t fun while you’re doing it and isn’t fun in retrospect, but you’d do the activity again. Type 3 fun often makes for a good story.
The concept helped put things in perspective. This hunter pace wasn’t some personal failure because it felt like a slog and I couldn’t wait for it to end. It was Type 2 fun. I’d gotten to spend a gorgeous afternoon riding horses with friends in open country. This ride had also given me practice advocating for my needs even when it affected the group. Plus, I’d doubted I had the stamina to ride a hunter pace on a challenging horse, but I’d done it and my arthritic thumbs felt and worked just fine. That’s a lot of wins for a ride that I’d struggled to get through.
What activities provide you with Type 2 fun?
I believe that horse-riding is to you what road cycling was to me for several years.
For me, there’s nothing more sensual and liberating than to gear up early in the morning, hop on a good road bike—destination unknown—you and nature alone, wind in your face, rolling hills upon rolling hills; miles and miles of ocean. It’s thrilling: you see everything in a new way and every little hill becomes a personal challenge. I joined the San Diego Team-In-Training the organizational arm of Leukemia & Lymphoma Society of America. Members solicit funds to help find a cure for blood-related cancers. First day of practice for the Solvang Century ride, I flew off my bike. I thought of quitting. I talked to my coach. ‘Two more falls to go, May. And then you’re a certified cyclist.’ So, for four months, I threw my bike in the trunk on Saturday mornings, and set out with the TEAM on remorseless routes in preparation for the Solvang Century ride. Some Friday nights I lay awake for hours agonizing over the prospect of careening down Torrey Pines or ‘Champagne’ at 30mph. And then there were the uphill battles to fight. On the last day of practice, four months later, I climbed ‘the inside of Torrey Pines’—a very steep hill—three times. I can still hear Coach Keith’s voice as if it was only yesterday: ‘Amazing May!’ Not many moments in my life have matched that one. Nor could any moment distil more vividly what I had come to TNT to find: the nobility of having a social conscience.
Then came Event Day, March 11, 2006. I befriended the Heartbreak Hill, scaled the Wall, careened down the ‘technical downhill’ and bounded across the finish line with the rest of the San Diego TNT in tow. A most inclement weather, nevertheless.
Perhaps, more important than the physical challenges, is knowing I raised some money for continuing leukemia research for a cure. That I’ve made a difference.
That was fun! Type #2 fun…because I did it again and again and again…Tour de Tucson; Maui; Honolulu…etc etc…