Falcon

Falcon

All anxious. Ready to soar. He has no attention in the ring today. Prancing and unfocused dancing, waiting for me to give the command. The one time I do, he flies, lying in the turns as though we are not in a disciplined and concentrated work out.

I take him across a couple jumps to let out his energy. No result. He is still latching onto the bit and tightly twisting his back. He does not want to relax and demands more. More speed, more release, more freedom.

Ok Falcon, I jump off. Opening the gate, I hold him as he jigs, attached to my right hand, across the street. The road is soggy and cars are driving too fast, only slowing down as they glance up and see a big chocolate horse tripping along side his rider. We are out to the trail.

Within five minutes on the trail it starts to pour. Pour, torrentially. We are not turning back, he’s a horse. It’s not as though when he’s out to pasture he’s not exposed to the rain. I’ll dry the leather and towel the wetness off warm muscles when we return. It’s time to let Falcon run and the rain is not going to stop us.

We arrive on the fields just as a colossal soot-colored warmblood careens by. His master is riding him hard, also oblivious to the rain.

Falcon starts off at a slow trot and unexpectedly he loosens up his back, relaxing so that we begin to meld, one body into another. He collects his physique into a faultlessly shaped sinewy form listening for me to signal that I am ready. I don’t kick, I don’t whip and I don’t push him. I whisper in his ear. And he picks up a blinding pace. We are swallowed up in a trail that has turned to an earthy mulch; leaping puddles and covering ourselves with sprays of water and mud. His pale yellow mane lashes at my arms as we pick up speed. I taste the sweet, sweet rain as it comes flying into my open mouth.

We race past wet verdurous trees. I can hear the rush of speed and don’t know if it’s the sound of air flying past my face or the racket of heavy rain falling into the young and spindly woods. The more I tell him to go faster the more speed we gain. Finally taking wing at such a pace that I get worried for him. But it’s too exhilarating.

We hit a small hill with little rocks that might hurt his legs, and I take the tempo down. Reins, wet with the shower, slip through my hands, disconnecting us for a moment. His back tenses, not loose like it was. But we have fused; my legs into his sides and my voice into his ears. And all of a sudden we’re back in the sweeping pasture and I let him regain momentum. His mouth salivates, releasing flecks of white foam. Dirty grass carrying us along; getting its first wash of the season. We take flight across open fields, feeling the delight of a mutual love of gritty speed.

Finally, we break the pace; finding an easy walk.

The quiver running through his muscles is a mix of excitement and exertion. It was not enough. He starts to trot lightly, not swiftly enough for me rise to it, but telling me that he craves more. I feel like I do after a workout that was straining but entirely worth the toil.

I’m drenched. The rain got me to the skin; but I am burning. Vitalized to the tips of my fingers, feeling speed.

Slowly we head back to the barn, cooling off muscles that need to stay whole and supple. Because tomorrow, we run again.