No Better Time To Ride

Many of my friends who turned 50 last year celebrated with parties at Boston steak houses, elegant catered picnics at the poolside and exotic trips to Europe and beyond. When it came my time I chose to commemorate the day in a stable set in the hills of rural Massachusetts, with a beautiful school horse named Clyde. The ring was full of young girls, women who looked like they’d spent their whole lives attired for dressage, and me – shaky but excited, wearing my 14 year old jobhpurs, as I waited for my turn at the mounting block.

This would be my first time in the saddle since summer camp, some 40 years earlier. Back then, riding meant going round and round in a ring, attached to a metal bar while the instructor called to us from the center. It felt a lot like riding a merry go round, and I did little more than sit on the tried pony, surrounded by flies on a steamy, humid midsummer day.

Summer camp horseback riding was not my thing – nor, I discovered, were most of the other activities that took place in the great outdoors. I preferred to lie on my bunk in an A frame cabin in the coolness of the woods curled up with a paperback, awaiting the day’s mail call. Arts and crafts, swimming, earning a blue bathing cap that signaled I was ready for the deep end – these were my accomplishments.

Years later my youngest daughter Caroline became an animal lover, first of dogs, then of horses. She took lessons at different barns in the area, falling in love with a beautiful Quarter Horse called Molly. At the start of every lesson Caroline greeted the mare with a kiss on the neck. Clearly my daughter, as young as she was, had found something special in her life. I began to want that, too.

I decided that turning 50 should involve more than sitting on the mounting block cheering her on. It was time for me to ride, so I signed up for the beginner’s class and joined the plethora of prepubescent girls dressed to the nines in the latest equestrian gear. The young instructor, a college student herself, couldn’t have been more encouraging. Before I knew it, I was in the saddle and a new phase of my life had begun. No one every laughed when my first dismount landed me under the horse’s belly.

Now I divide my time between two barns, my daughter’s and mine, and I ‘m learning to love the soft skin of a horse named Rader and the funny he sticks out his tongue. The gentleness these creatures show with every move inspires me to keep going despite the soreness in my midlife body.

My friends still have their fancy lifestyles, but none of that can compete with my dirt-stained chaps, the loose strands of hay in my hair and the apple bulging from my pocket for Radar. I’ve traded House & Garden magazine for EQUUS, and I am the first to open my daughter’s club box each month to pore through the horse books, videos, charm bracelets, bookmarks and trading cards.

Turning 50? It’s not so bad as long as you share it with someone special like a gentle horse that will help you through your midlife crisis better than a red convertible ever could.

By Debbie Spingarn