Shades of Gray

I watched in horror as my husband tilted sideways, his white knuckle clutching the horn of his horse’s saddle.   The wrangler straddling the fence tipped his cowboy hat my way, Ma’am, he’s going to have to go in the children’s class.

We were on a dude ranch vacation. The morning started with a test of each guest’s riding ability and to my surprise, my husband had none. I’d met him online. He was an accomplished silver haired fox, who also ran marathons, boated, skied and rode horses.

The first week after meeting, he left a box of apples on my doorstep prompting my closest friend to caution me, He might be a stalker. I thought the apples were a sweet gesture, - and later married him.

After he failed the riding test, I asked about his ‘polo riding days’.  

Did I say I rode? He said. I thought I said I owned a pair of polo boots and a mallet.

Later that week, the owners of the ranch, John Muir and Iris Behr, hosted a wine tasting for guests. John was the great, great cousin of the famous naturalist, John Muir - ‘Father of National Parks’. Iris – part of the Behr Paint family.

I was late for the wine event, so I cut through a pasture where John and Iris’s personal Arabian horses grazed. One horse watched me so I approached and petted him.

Unbeknownst to me, John observed us from the balcony.  Later he mentioned, Magnum doesn’t let anyone near him.  The next day he gifted me the horse.

After bringing Magnum home, I intended to learn to ride dressage, a style of English riding. A friend gave me a book, ‘Dressage, The Art of Classical Riding’.  But plans to learn dressage went awry, and the book got shelved.  

Almost 2 decades later, life hit pause when my parents passed within weeks of each other leaving a void in my life. One evening, the forgotten book caught my eye.  I opened it and was swept into the history of the cavalry, wars and Iberian horses, the roots of classical dressage riding, and stories of equestrians known as ‘The Masters’; Xenophen, Gueriniere, Colonel Podhajsky, Baucher, Nuno Oliveira and others.

The book sparked my interest in the Iberian horse. I jumped on the internet and accidently embarked on ‘online dating’ for equines. Then I saw him - a magnificent dappled grey horse.

He was perfect, with one exception - he was 5,300 miles away. When I’d dabbled in online dating for humans, I'd set the radius for a potential mate at 45 miles, and that seemed far. 

But I couldn’t get the stunning grey out of my head. What’s a mere 5,300 miles away if it’s the right one? 

Over coffee with my pseudo polo player husband, I broke the news. I want to go to the Iberian Peninsula. Portugal’s on my bucket list, and there’s a horse in Spain I have to meet. You understand don’t you?

He contemplated his coffee.  Sweetheart, when you go, take a cowboy with you so you don’t get duped.   

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Two months later I took my first dressage lesson in Portugal.  Caught up in the thrill of the ride, I didn’t notice the broken saddle. By the end of the day, I had a skinned bottom cheek. With 9 days of riding ahead, I might not be able to ride the horse I’d traveled to see unless my patchwork of bandaids held up.

With our lessons in Portugal completed, my friend and I headed to Spain.

Rerouting. Karen said. Make a U turn.   Karen is the voice for Google maps. She had us driving in circles and I was getting weary of her upbeat perky accent.  I looked at my friend at the wheel. I’d nicknamed him Uber for the trip. Turnaround, I said.

Uber’s facade was cracking.  I’m going to end up in jail in Spain, he said. I’ve broken more laws here than in my entire life. He whipped the car around. 

Not my fault, I said. Talk to Karen.

Turn here, she said.

Karen directed us to turn into a cement wall. Instead, Uber veered onto a dirt road.  He’d engaged the car GPS system to compete with her. This is right, he said.  

Reroute, Karen said. REROUTE!

Uber’s eyes were fixed straight ahead. I kept quiet.

We bumped along the dirt road couched between endless solar panel fields, a wake of dust billowing out behind us. We were somewhere in the middle of Andalusia Spain.

I held myself in a one-legged squat, keeping my patched up ‘bottom’ hovering above the car seat. The car hit a pothole, and my squat collapsed. That hurt. We’re going to get a flat. I’m not going to have enough skin left to ride. We’re so lost.  I need a bathroom. The car skidded to a stop before a chain link gate. Four wheeling was over.  

Oh, oh, Uber said.

 Karen was silent.

Let’s stick to paved roads. Okay? I said.

Back in town Uber found a good Samaritan to navigate us to the magnificent grey horse. The horse was striking, but giant as an elephant - and I didn’t pack a ladder. We lacked any chemistry, which turned out to be a huge relief because it would’ve taken a freight ship to get him back to the United States. I was glad we met though, otherwise I would’ve always wondered if he was the one.

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On the flight back to the states I thought of that first dressage lesson and the instructor barking, Legs Rebecka! Where are your legs?

Like the test my husband took at the dude ranch, my lack of skill performing the intricate dance of dressage riding was on display in front of accomplished equestrians, many who rode as if Centaurs. In this style of riding, I was a notch above beginner. I could ride a horse, but I couldn’t dance with it.

Yet.

Then I remembered the misty grey horse that snuck me a kiss towards the end of the trip. It turns out there is more than one shade of grey, and this one doesn't need a ladder - and he can dance.

Life. It’s yours. Go all in.