When I am dashing about on my various travels, picking up space hoppers in Kidlington, storing giant chilli stalks in the back of my car and directing mayors in car parks, I often think to myself what a relief it is that I know how to drive. Without any effort, without having to think about it or plan, I can glide about hassle-free and transport all of the ridiculous paraphernalia of Guiding around with me with ease. I enjoy driving because it’s something I can feel effortlessly competent at. And sadly, it doesn’t feel like there are many practical skills that that is true of.
Weirdly, it strikes me that there were more things that I was actually really good at when I was 18 than there are now. Really? I know that seems illogical and that over the years I should have developed some facility at something (deciphering editorial hieroglyphics? Talking extreme bullshit? Lifting a pint glass repeatedly to my mouth?), but I sometimes get nostalgic for the days I could leap on a horse and subtly control it with an imperceptible leg movement and shift of balance. So I have taken up riding again.
For some reason in doing this I was roped into doing a Scottish Borders rideout last weekend – a glorious cavalcade of horses parading through towns in the Borders to commemorate the repelling of the English away from their beautiful rugged lands. English as can be, Isla and I gamely joined the pack that left from Jedburgh to complete the circular route via Redeswire, the site of an infamous battle where the Angles were royally whipped by the bagpipe-toting Scots (insert Braveheart-inspired racial stereotype here). Despite having been warned that the rideout was a seven-hour-long 20-mile odyssey involving up to 80 horses, I seem to have been surprised by the fact that it turned out to be a seven-hour-long 20-mile odyssey involving 80 horses – about a third of it completed at full-pelt gallop. It’s different knowing something logically and knowing it by the debilitating aches and pains of your vulnerable body complaining that you have entered a marathon when the only running you’ve done recently is for the bus.
We felt pretty prestigious as we paraded through Jedburgh in our finery (tweed jacket on a boiling day anyone?!) behind a marching band and the red-coated herald, in front of whom one must avoid riding at all costs. He tootled away on his bugle and we jogged happily up a hill road towards the stunning countryside: dark hills and lush fields spreading out before us. And the galloping! So thrilling – 80 stone of muscular horseflesh pounding away as fast as it can, given free rein to reach top speed. Your heart flutters and tears stream down your face as your burning eyeballs push the air forward in front of you.
Four hours later and my body was starting to groan under the pressure: ankles weakening and buckling when rising trot was attempted, arms fixed in rein-holding position, bottom unable to bear the unrelenting pace of trot for much longer. The physical weaknesses start to impede on the psyche, and contrary to my youthful riding days, characterised by the arrogant belief that no ill would ever befall me at this dangerous pastime, I started to catalogue the things that could go wrong, from horse heart attacks to tramplings to head-splitting. Curiously, I recalled a whole database of incidents from my own horsey folklore to fuel my imagined tragedy (Willow the chestnut pony who collapsed into a ditch on Fens Lane rider on board; poor old Sun-Up who broke his leg and was put to sleep in a shavings-lined box to the extreme distress of his teenage owner) – incidents that never worried me much at the time, but that now acted as scaremongering doom-sayers on our interminable ride.
Still, I was enjoying the thrill and the feeling of being on the edge between control and anarchic galloping, along with the increasing in-tunedness you get as you start to mould yourself into the animal. Losing both my stirrups in gallop I thought I was going to come a cropper, but in the end I wasn’t the one person who fell off. Just before the last leg I nearly had a bit of a cry, but a friendly shot of port perked me up and we gritted our teeth and concentrated hard on not falling off.
Dismounting was a tricky affair, with legs buckling underneath me on contact with the ground. With relief we returned our mounts, removed our chafing chaps and staggered to the pub for a well-deserved pint.
And now I have experienced what being really old will feel like. All-over body aches, slow, stilted walking, a groan and a wince when sitting or standing, and the need to lower myself gingerly onto the loo. And have my butt cheeks fused together into a single mono-butt (like Barbie, as Abi commented)?! They used to be two "U"s - now they are two capital "D"s back to back. I need to get used to the idea – being really old strikes me as feeling achy all over, like this, plus permanently drunk, like early Sunday morning (oh and wetting yourself and all your friends dying – excellent). Anyway, I became painfully aware of my own mortality as I felt my knees crunch about and made a genuine decision to buy a stock of cod liver oil.
So what am I going to do with my life before this temporary decrepitude becomes a permanent feature??
No comments:
Post a Comment