BACK IN THE SADDLE

As flight animals, most horses devote some portion of their energy toward avoiding danger. As a rerider, your job is to subdue your own anxiety while potentially coping with the fears of your prey-animal partner. That’s your role: You are the leader of the dance.

The rerider movement, one that sees mostly middle-aged and older women return to horses years after giving up riding, has given Li Robbins a chance to continue her lifelong quest for human-equine connection

My mother used to say I came out of the womb wanting to be a horse. She might well have been right. As a child, trotting and cantering the sidewalks of my neighbourhood, I believed myself to be half-horse, half-rider. But all of me longed to understand what it was to be a horse – and how a human girl could befriend one.

Author Jane Smiley, one of the essayists in a recently published anthology called Horse Girls: Recovering, Aspiring, And Devoted Riders Redefine The Iconic Bond, would likely understand.

In her girlhood, Ms. Smiley was smitten with the notion (gleaned from kids’ books on the theme) that a horse was better friend material than a human. A horse wouldn’t overcomplicate everything. A horse would always be there for you.

Ms. Smiley’s real-life riding experiences didn’t line up, though. Her instructors were mostly U.S. Cavalry-trained men who taught her that horses existed to “serve and obey.”

Her graceful bay thoroughbred did not become her friend; at best, the mare merely tolerated her.

Eventually, Ms. Smiley went off to college and quit riding. It wasn’t until meeting a handsome ex-racehorse called Mr. T. – 25 years later – that she began to understand the reciprocal process of befriending a horse. Mr. T. showed her “connection is a form of equine intelligence.”

Ms. Smiley is not only a Pulitzer Prize-winning author who writes beautifully about horses (her latest, Perestroika in Paris, is a delight), she’s also a forerunner of what’s now sometimes called the “rerider” movement: mostly middle-aged and older women returning to horses many years after giving up riding. I’m one of them.

As a teen, I was lucky enough to go from cantering imaginary horses to real ones, and only quit when adult life (i.e. lack of money) got in the way. I had no choice; I had to sell my horse.

Anyone who has ever deeply loved an animal will understand how wrenching that was. For years afterward, I was haunted by a recurring dream where my horse was waiting for me, silently asking how I could have forgotten him.

Finally, by this point from beyond the grave, he wore me down.

A few years ago, I moved from a big city to a small one, where horses were more accessible and affordable. Ish.

On some primal level, nothing had changed. Horses still felt like the definition of home. There was the sensory rush of walking a horse through an autumnal field. There was the adrenalin rush when the horse spooked, leaping sideways when something – an inconsiderate bird, a stray bucket – set her off.

But at the same time, a lot had changed: for instance, advancements in equine learning theory and new ideas about how the biomechanics of a human’s body can work best with those of a horse’s.

All of the above tallied up to a greater recognition of the idea that horses do not exist to “serve and obey,” that what a human should seek from a horse is partnership.

Of course, this doesn’t mean the serve-and-obey mentality has entirely disappeared – witness the pentathlete at this summer’s Tokyo Olympics who savagely wielded her crop when her mount refused to jump. But at least she (and her coach, and the regulations governing the equestrian portion of the competition) were widely denounced.

As a horse girl, I sometimes took a daredevil (i.e. foolish) approach to riding. I taught my horse to rear as the tourist steam train chugged by, impressing (I hoped) gawking passengers. I prided myself on my ability to spring from the ground onto my sixteen-hand horse (not a giant, but no pony).

As a rerider, I wouldn’t dream of such antics. Teaching a frisky young horse to rear is a bit like teaching a puppy to bite. As for leaping aboard, these days, my first thought is for the horse’s back – and my own. Having an older body and mind comes with both the blessings and curses of experience. Awareness is a useful thing. Fear, less so.

Of course, riding a 1,200pound animal when you’ve reached the age of diminishing bounce-backability means fear is inevitably a factor. It’s a factor for the horse, too.

As flight animals, most horses devote some portion of their energy toward avoiding danger. As a rerider, your job is to subdue your own anxiety while potentially coping with the fears of your prey-animal partner. That’s your role: You are the leader of the dance.

It’s helpful to have an experienced horsewoman as your teacher, as do I. It’s also helpful that there’s a burgeoning community of reriders ready with advice.

Both online and in-person groups of women strategize tirelessly about how best to deal with a spooky horse – or a human spooked by the amount of time you’re suddenly devoting to horses.

One of the most invaluable lessons I’ve learned is how much knowledge can be gained from the ground – no riding required. (Not surprisingly, the “nonridden equine” movement is also spearheaded by older women.)

And unlike horse girls, no one pays much attention to us reriders. Fine by me. As a girl, I dreaded the mockery – predictable snickering in the school hallway about saddles and crotches; assumptions that a horse girl was by default rich, clueless and shallow. The attitude still prevails. (Google “horse girl energy.”)

Horse Girls editor Halimah Marcus sees it this way: “so-called horse girls have been both fetishized and made fun of in our culture, infantilized, sexualized, and mocked … the very term negates the athleticism and bravery required to ride a horse.”

Where I ride, a clutch of girls show up early weekend mornings and muck out stalls to defray the cost of their lessons. They practically hum with a collective energy, waiting to park the wheelbarrow and swing into the saddle. I get it. The possibility that a horse may share some of its beauty and power with you is gold. As the saying goes, “in riding a horse we borrow freedom.”

These days I find freedom in a dignified former show jumper called Whitey. Whitey tends to put energy into what I want if I’m considerate about what he wants.

For instance, he prefers to be approached in measured fashion so I take my time getting him from the field. On occasion when he sees me coming he walks toward me, ears up. Then we head for the barn, both of us knee-deep in wildflowers, me feeling ridiculously grateful that he was so willing to come with me.

When I get on the mounting block in order to scale seventeen-hand Whitey, there’s usually a small ping of nerves. I’m acutely aware that, yes, the ground really is that far away. And yes, gentle giant though he is, I could still end up eating dirt.

But being a rerider is a way of consciously approaching old age. How do I want to approach it? Sitting in a chair or in a saddle?

Ultimately though, I’m seeking connection both in and out of the saddle.

All of my Whitey time involves observing his slightest reactions, conveyed through tilt of ear, shift of haunch, splutter or sigh. And while it’s exhilarating when we click during a ride, I suspect it’s the postriding rewards we both enjoy most. Apple bits for him; grooming for both of us. Whitey likes the scratching and soothing of the brush; I like the way he puts the mindfulness in mindful meditation.

There is nothing but this horse in front of me.

Finally, I take him back outside, slip off his halter. The rest of the herd may or may not be in sight – it’s a big field, filled with trees and dips and hollows. Sometimes, Whitey immediately rejoins the other horses. Other times, he stays at the gate and we watch each other, his eyes luminous. While I can’t speak for him, I know that for me those moments are boundlessly beautiful.