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The following feature story was posted on the November 2002 issue of the Auriga Farm Welsh Ponies website. It has been achieved for the enjoyment of our readers. To view photos taken by Charles Yates of the Saturday competitors on the ride click here.

The trees have finally started to color the Blue Ridge in bright splashes of scarlet, gold, and orange. The air has chilled up considerably, and all the horse blankets have been brought out of storage, aired, and now are being gleefully rolled in the mud by the ponies.
The foxhunts start formal hunting season this month, each to it's own design, and the ratcatcher jackets and field boots have been pushed to the back of the closet to make way for the black Melton coats and formal dress boots. The horse clippers seem to be working overtime, depositing heaps of fur on the aisle way floor, leaving shorter coats under winter rugs to take their place.
The driving ponies still have their wooly coats, but my endurance pony, Itch, got a full body clip in mid October to get rid of his already thickening winter coat. We were gearing up to compete in the Fort Valley Roundtable 50/50 2-day 100 Endurance Ride on October 26th in the Massanutten Mountains of Virginia, and with full knowledge of how difficult the trail would be, plus October's "iffy" weather, his coat needed to be as light and short as possible. The Massanutten tops over 1725' elevation -- the trail taking us up a tough 800' vertical climb over old stagecoach roads and rocky hiking trails on the west side of the mountain rising up from Fort Valley, then later looping us back to an even tougher 1050' climb up from the Shenandoah Valley along a very steep, very rocky trail leading back to the summit, and then down once again into Fort Valley.
Living only an hour away allowed us to drive into base camp at Camelot Farms on Friday afternoon in leisurely style, arriving in plenty of time to set up camp and be vetted, with five hours to spare before dinner and the ride briefing.
The impending rain that night into the next morning was looked upon as merely a unavoidable nuisance by the riders, and the need for extra rugs for the horses, but the chilly forecast in the face of the challenging terrain had been of more than a little concern to the vets.
"The cool weather is going to tempt you to try and do more than your horse can handle," warned head vet Art King to the group of 60 riders at the briefing dinner. "You heard the Ride Management -- this trail is difficult, and strenuous. There are no roads over the mountains and you must be aware it may take us well over an hour to get to you if you get into trouble on the far side. So…if your horse isn’t feeling right by the time you hit Milford Gap (7 miles out from base camp), then don’t fall prey to the "TSTS Syndrome". Do you know what that means?" He looked around at his audience. "It means ‘Too Stupid To Stop’." This newly-coined endurance term was received with a roar of laughter from the competitors; however, the point was made. They were serious. One of the vets would be stationed at a "fly-by" vet stand near the bottom of Milford Gap to catch any horses that might have been already experiencing difficulty, but to the best of my knowledge she saw nothing but energized horses and waving riders
The evening had progressed well into darkness before the forecasted rain began to make an appearance. The first drops splattered softly on the roof of my gooseneck trailer as I finished tucking in Itchy for the night, then snuggled myself into bed under the warm blankets, sliding "Cats" into my CD player, and relaxing back for an hour to re-live that wonderful Broadway musical.
I must have dozed off, sleeping through the lighter downpours until I awoke to the sound of a ferocious downpour pounding the roof of the trailer. I peeked out the window to see if Itchy had gone under the nice, dry pavilion tent I had set up for him to get out of the rain. But there he was, only two steps away from the overhang standing smack-dab out in the roaring deluge, back leg cocked patiently, waiting out the storm as his heavy waterproof rug took the brunt of the downpour.
I couldn't believe it. I got out of bed, slid into my wet weather gear, stomped out and dragged the pony under the overhang, pointing out how much trouble I'd gone to in order to put the canopy up, and how much drier it was than standing out in the rain. Itchy took one look around, turned on his heel, and marched back out in the rain to park himself in the same spot as before. I gave him a dirty look. "Fine." I said. "Stand out in the rain if you want." I slogged back into the trailer, and tried to go back to sleep.
The on-and-off-again storms kept up until finally fading away about 2AM. I dozed off then and awoke two hours later to a vast silence. The night was utterly still, not a sound to be heard. I slipped out, gave Itchy an early breakfast, then tip-toed back to bed to rest until the wake-up call at 5:30AM.
By the time the camp began to stir, an early morning fog had also drifted in, reducing visibility down to about 3 feet. Horses and riders moved in and out of the mist like ghosts, waiting for the 7:15AM start. The crowd at the out-gate began to thicken as the time grew near. The word was finally given to go, and 26 50-mile riders set off into the pre-dawn to tackle one of the most grueling and difficult endurance rides on the East Coast.
The first loop was 22 miles, and even with the heavy fog I had no trouble following the plethora of ribbons dangling from every tree. The fog was gradually lifting by the time we hit Milford Gap at the 7 mile mark. I was traveling with a pack of several other riders as we waved a happy hello to the fly-by vet, Dr. Jennie Waldron. Ahead of us lay an 800' vertical climb to the ridge of the Massanutten. Although I had concentrated these past several months on training Itchy exclusively with uphill work on the slopes of Blue Ridge mountains only 3 miles from my farm, I still anticipated a heck of a lot of walking and tailing was going to be done on my own part.
Before long the rise going up Milford Gap became far too steep for anything but a walk, and the horses in front of us, and those behind, all slowed to that gait. I dismounted, unsnapped one end of the reins to run them out as a lead rope, and clucked to Itchy to move on. I fell in behind him, grabbing a hold of his tail. Despite the beautiful changing leaves, the crisp air, and the cold fog, the climb up was brutal. As we approached the higher elevations the fog faded away like a specter at dawn, allowing the sun to break through in all it’s glorious warmth. I shrugged off my lightweight windbreaker arm by arm and threw it over my shoulder, switching hands to hold tight to Itchy’s tail as I stumbled and clawed my way up the mountain behind him.
Even with all the conditioning walks and runs I did myself to get ready for this ride, I was still gasping for air and dripping sweat by the time we reached the top. How those ride and tie people do it, I’ll never know, but at that moment I could feel nothing but admiration for them all. I knew in several hours we’d be seeing a host of them on the trail. Their first loop was our second loop, and they would be following the Limited Distance (30 mile) horses. The climb up Milford Gap made me determined to give each and every runner I passed a rousing cheer.
There was barely enough time to stop and admire the breathtaking view from the 1700'+ summit before the ribbons plunged downward on the notorious "Trail of Tears". I’d been told that Stonewall Jackson routinely ran his Confederate troops up into these mountains during the Civil War, keeping just one step ahead of the Union Army. Running down the trail was less of a challenge, and I took advantage of gravity, half skipping/half bounding between the rocks, my pony wisely leaving me plenty of room as he trotted capably behind me on the far end of his rein. Towards the bottom of the mountain the rocks began to recede and the path start to level out. I remounted, both my pony and I refreshed and ready to go. We trotted on at a good clip, enjoying every step that took us towards the more civilized gravel roads and dirt trails running alongside the lovely Shenandoah River.
Part of my ride strategy was to keep food in front of my pony the whole time, offering treats as he trotted along. I had suffered a devastating, humiliating lesson in the spring at the Fair Hill 50 Mile Endurance Ride when, trying to force Itchy to eat just beat pulp --which he despised with a passion -- resulted in him running completely out of gas at 45 miles. We managed to complete, finishing in 25th place, but I had been forced to walk almost the entire 5 miles to the finish. It was a lesson I'd never forget, and I was bound and determined NOT to let that happen again. So, I changed his diet to oats and Equine Senior (which is highly digestible), and for this ride had stuffed carrots, apples and horse cookies in every available nook and cranny in my saddle packs. Itchy was as agile as a cat and could actually turn his whole head and neck at a flying trot and take a cookie or carrot or apple slice from my stretched out hand without missing a beat. I had become pretty adept at leaning forward to fuel him "on-the-fly", and astute enough to keep my fingers out of the way since I learned quickly that horses use their lips only when they're standing still -- when moving they grab with their teeth. His bit less bridle made the process even easier, and as he motored around the loops happy crunching his treats, I noticed more than one nearby horse look rather longingly in our direction.
We had just really begun to enjoy the lovely trails at the bottom of the valley along the flat stretches of rain-softened gravel roads, and springy grass meadows, when the streamers suddenly took an crafty turn, angling suspiciously back towards the mountain again. We had been told that our second climb would be up the Indian Graves Trail, an innocuous name that completely hid the ambush of a 1,050 foot ascent alongside a sheer cliff on a trail composed of little more than rocks, boulders, and shale.
Once again my pony’s tail became my lifeline as the incline reared upward, changing from moderate to difficult to near impossible. I was to learn later that the very rocks we were lurching and sliding over were Cambrian, Ordovician, Silurian and Devonian sedimentary limestone, shale, and sandstones. The limestone terrain resulted in numerous springs and disappearing streams -- many of which were bubbling across the path, added for the most part by the heavy rains of the previous evening.
My pony ignored the august history under his feet as he scrabbled up the steep rocky slope like a mountain goat, his aluminum shoes gripping like suction cups. My mountain running shoes were less effective, and several times I was saved from a bad slip only by the fact that I had both hands wrapped in my guy's long tail.
Halfway up the trail I was already under torture. The sun was beating down like a furnace, my mouth was dry from the exertion, the drinking tube of my Camelback tucked in the cantle bag was just out of reach, and to top it all off my left inside thigh suddenly cramped all the way to my groin. I began to limp groaning in pain, seriously wondering if I should just stop my pony and mount up. But a voice in the back of my mind barked out like a drill sergeant to "tough it out". I did, trudging on behind my pony like a prisoner of war, the sun beating down on me like a whip. The rocks and stones slipped and slid under my feet, doubling the pain in my leg. I was gasping for breath, my chest feeling like it would explode from the pounding of my heart. I couldn't hear a thing for the roaring rush of blood in my ears, and began to wonder why in the world I ever gave up the cool glamour of Ski Patrol, the delights of downhill skiing, and apr�s-ski evening with drinks and friends to take up this sweaty brutal, solitary sport. Was I insane?
Just ahead of us were about six competitors, most still mounted, letting their horses carry them on up the rocky course, step by step. Itchy finally reached the rest of the pack and fell in line, still towing me along. There was absolutely no room to pass, and not an inch to maneuver. Like a chain gang we all scuffed slowly upwards, heads bowed, eyes to the ground, silently listening to the endless rhythmic, sound of steel striking on stone.
Suddenly a voice spoke, and we all looked up. The summit was in view, only yards away. I felt my heart lift. It was the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. The last few rocks were a torture, but suddenly the trail twisted to the left, heaved itself over one final boulder, then fell prostrate with an exhausted sigh beneath my feet. The trees at the summit leaned forward, graciously closing their colorful branches over my head to cool my sweaty face. I had reached the top of the world, and could finally turn my gaze to look out over the valley.
Far below the wide waters of the Shenandoah River wrapped the deep green woods and manicured fields in a glittering ribbon of silver as it looped back and forth 5 times in perfect symmetry. At the far end of the valley, like a magnificent sentinel guarding the sky, stood the tree-shrouded shoulders of the ancient Blue Ridge Mountains, the first to ever rise on our planet several billion years ago, and the first of all our national treasures to be declared a national park. Over the valley the bright sun glowed like a golden ball, and high on the thermals hawks floated like kites in the faultless blue sky. All around me trees were decked out in flaming reds, oranges, and bright yellows, several with branches also sporting blue and white trail streamers waving gaily in the breeze.
I smiled, drinking deep of the peace and tranquility. The view was beyond beautiful. It was absolutely awesome.
But there was little time to dawdle as my pony insisted upon pulling me onwards. The trail down was just as rocky, but less precipitous. The horses continued to negotiate it at a walk, but as the path descended and mellowed it began easier to bounce among the rocks at a trot. The sunlight faded and the temperatures dropped as we moved into the deeper woods where the remnants of the cold fog still lingered in solitary patches. Jackets were untied from waists and shrugged back on, but our spirits were already reviving in the cooler climate, and conversations began to float back as the riders slowly spaced out, moving back into pairs and trios once again.
Itch and I took off at a trot once again, following the blue trail ribbons of the first loop until they joined up with the other colors indicating we were now only 7 miles from base camp, and the first hold of 45 minutes.
We rode directly to the P&R, shedding the saddle before checking pulse. We met criteria in less than 5 minutes, and the crew at P&R recorded us and waved us on through. It was two steps from there to the vet check where we got a perfect CRI, and all A’s on the exam. The vets smiled and gave us the green light. We were "good to go" for the second loop.
Back at our trailer I gave Itch as much racehorse oats and sweet feed as he wanted, then grabbed a sandwich myself to wait out the 45 minutes. I had a clear view of the vet check just 100 yards down the slope from where we were parked, and as time flew by I kept looking for an acquaintance, Miriam, who had started out the ride in my company. Unfortunately, her horse "Clipper" wasn't a downhill horse, and we had soon left them behind. She had found others to travel with who moved more at her pace, and I caught sight of her at one point, but she fell behind again, stopping a short time later to graciously lend aid, and water, to another rider who was adjusting her saddle. Unfortunately, she and the other gal turned the wrong way while returning on the 1st loop and became horribly lost for over an hour. I was already 5 miles into the second loop when I met them coming in. They had finally managed to find their way back to the trail but the stress of the extra miles without electrolytes was having an effect on poor Clipper. His vet scores were not good, and Miriam, very disappointed but also very concerned about her horse having to face the rest of the grueling ride, decided to pull.
I hadn't known of her decision by the time Itchy and I were back out on trail, heading once again to the Massanutten Mountains for another climb up Milford Gap. Down the other side the second trail split off from the first, taking us on a 21 mile loop this time. At the bottom of the mountain in the Shenandoah Valley once again, my pony and I were pretty much by ourselves, cruising along the woodland paths with bright sunshine twinkling through the canopy of tall trees. There were some beautiful stretches of gentle paths along the Shenandoah River, rolling canters on easy gravel roads, and always the lovely Virginia countryside at every twist and turn.

View of the mountains from Fort Valley
photo by Dr. Amy Worrell
During the turn of the century the demand for charcoal had led the old-growth forests of the Massanutten to be logged without restraint. Within a decade the mountains had been completely stripped of all its old hardwood and pine trees. The Forestry service stepped to protect the nearby Blue Ridge from the same fate, it later enveloped the Massanutten Range under the government’s conservation umbrella with the creation of the George Washington National Forest. Maple, oak, and tulip poplar had returned to stand tall and stately on the lower slopes, Scotch pine and firs dominating the higher elevations. It made for a beautiful trail, full of color at every twist and turn. At times we came upon other riders but most were now stretched out along the miles of trail.
The competitors were now stretched out along miles of trail. At times I came upon other riders but they were few and far between. Enjoying the solitude I started to sing from the musical Cats. There was another a good reason why I was singing. Hunting season had opened already, and there seemed to be more deer hunters on this side of the mountain than on the Fort Valley side. Unfailingly polite and friendly, they immediately yielded the path the moment they saw me coming. Since we all enjoy the same shared territory for our separate sports, I have a policy of stopping for a few seconds to chat with each hunter, finding how their sport was going, even as they inquired with interest about mine. It was always interesting, but there was one chance encounter that I know I will never forget.
It was on the first loop, on this side of the mountain. I was flying along a path in the company of another rider when we rounded a corner and saw several camouflaged hunters standing in the center of the path. I hallooed, and my companion and I began to pull up. The trio looked up in surprise. The two in front were cradling their guns in a perfect textbook example of gun safety, and as we came closer I saw they were actually two young boys -- one about 7, the other about 9. the man behind them began to hustle them off the trail, and I noticed he didn’t have a gun. Then I saw way. As he tried shepherd to the two awe-struck youngsters to the safe edge of path, I saw the crutches, and only one camouflaged leg touching the ground. The other leg was missing. The soft ground grabbed at his crutches, making it awkward for him to maneuver off the path himself to stand behind the boys. He was a handsome young man, not more than 29 years old or so, and his protection of the boys made me suspect he was their father. Vaguely I wondered if he’d lost his leg in a war, but he seemed too young to have been any conflict that I remembered. Later I decided it was the camouflage and rifles that led me to that conclusion.
We pulled up to a halt directly in front of the two boys. They gazed up, totally in awe of these two beautiful ladies on their huge white horses. I smiled down at them, inquiring politely if they had had any luck that morning. They stared up wide-eyed for a moment, finally getting up the courage to mutely shake their heads "no".
"Well," I continued encouragely, "did you see any deer, then?"
The older lad nodded shyly, his younger brother following suit. They were still hopelessly tongue-tied. The man standing behind them smiled up at us, releasing one crutch to lay a gentle, fatherly hand on his eldest son's shoulder.
"We did see one this morning," he explained to me, "but we haven't seen anything since."
I nodded, and looked down at the boys again. "Well, I'm sure those deer are out there," I stated with conviction. "And you'll get one -- I just know you will."
The two little faces lit up with a shy smile, secretly excited and pleased with the compliment. Their father literally beamed, the pride in his sons shining in his eyes. "Thank you" he said gratefully.
The other rider and I waved goodbye to the trio and continued on our way, traveling back to the base camp together. The encounter, and the image of the loving father with his two sweet young boys had been a moment that I would reflect upon for a long time.
On the second loop, however, I had an encounter that really topped them all. I was riding alone and had rounded a woodland path at a trot, coming upon a hunter standing in the path several strides away. He looked up and immediately moved aside to let me pass. Instead, I surprised him by stopping to say hello. He gazed at my pony in open admiration.
"Gosh, he’s a handsome horse." he said, looking up at me. "Can I pet him?"
"Oh, sure," I replied, relaxing in my saddle. "He loves people."
The hunter stepped in carefully and reached out a gentle hand to pet Itchy softly on the forehead. To his utter delight my pony returned the kind gesture, stretching out a friendly nose to nuzzle the camouflaged-covered chest, and then the man’s grizzled beard. The guy was totally smitten. "You’re the most beautiful horse in the world", he said tenderly, caressing my pony’s velvet nose and cheeks. I sat watching in amusement as this grizzled old hunter, crooning sweet nothings to my pony, finally gave way to his emotions, leaned forward, and lovingly kissed my pony on the forehead.
It just made my day. His, too, I reckon.
He was the last person I would see for a while. The trail soon led to a wide grassy stretch of logging road riddled with switchbacks, snaking an interminable crawl upwards. There were few flat sections of the road to allow a recovery, and the effort of endless incline was draining. A few moments of walking interspersed here and there, however, were all Itchy needed before rising back a trot on his own. However I was getting so sick of the monotonous road that I practically cried for joy when a set of bright pink trail streamers coaxed us onto the rocky path leading straight up the mountain.
I dismounted, unsnapped the end of one rein to run out as a lead rope, picked up a thick stick lying on the side of the path and set off, staff in hand and pony in tow, to surmount the final climb. The first half of the mountain path ambled pleasantly in the cool woods. Midway up, however, the trees abruptly retreated, leaving me alone in a wilderness of rocks and twisted scrub. The trail led me directly into a waiting army of ferocious gnats who descended upon me from all sides, laying siege to my unprotected face and arms. Fighting off the little critters was a loosing battle as I accidentally kept clucking myself in the forehead with the butt end of the rein in my attempts to thwart their attacks. To top it off, my right leg suddenly cramped, the pain radiating from mid-thigh straight up to the groin. I stopped and groaned, then glanced back at Itchy, wondering if I should let him carry me up the mountain. He gave me a dark look, suspecting my intentions. I sighed and turned back to the trail to trudge onward and upward with limping stride, leaning heavily on my staff.
Fortunately this trail was less agonizing and less steep than Indian Graves, and we finally hit the top of the mountain. After sharing an apple in a victory celebration, we headed on down the other side, happy to be on our way home once again. The cruise home was pleasant, but we motored into base camp perhaps a bit quicker than we should. It took about 10 minutes this time for Itch’s pulse to meet criteria of 64 beat a minute, but once again his CRI was perfect, indicating that he wasn't fatigued in the least. His trot-outs were great, showing him still fit and in perfect condition.

Itchy and I heading out on the third loop
digital photo by Charles Yates
The second hold of 45 minutes was much appreciated, and we stood refreshed and ready to roll at the out-timer two minutes before our appointed time. Itchy was standing quietly, like a show pony waiting his turn at the in-gate, watching a trio of horses trot down the driveway one minute prior to our time. I knew he was watching those riders, knowing he'd catch them in no time as soon as we were given the word to go.
During this past season -- our first full year of endurance riding -- I hadn't bothered paying much attention to my out-time, often spending 10 to 15 minutes extra in the hold to make sure my pony had plenty to eat and was rested. But I had decided that we'd finally gotten our program together the way I wanted, and since this ride was one of the last rides of the season for us, my goal to approach it with a more professional, focused attitude. Being on time at the out-gate was part of that program.
However, that didn't negate the need for fun. Our Trail Master, multiple times World Champion endurance rider, Valerie Kanavey, had stated that the third loop was going to be "a gift", taking us on a leisurely jaunt through some of the most beautiful sections of the valley.
True to her word, the trail led us gently across ambling streams, deep grassy fields and pristine pastures, rising up from time to time to show us vistas that simply took your breath away. The first 43 miles had been a tough haul that had taken no prisoners, but this loop was nothing short of heaven. The stunning beauty of the land wrapped itself around you, inviting you to canter along the green fields, and breath deep of the autumn air.
But it was the moment we reached the center of the loop on a high knoll over looking the valley that the full impact of it's beauty hit home. I pulled up, gazing out in unmitigated awe. The whole earth had been laid out as a banquet at my feet. Down below the valley floor stretched on forever, a narrow rolling carpet of green velvet that finally touched the horizon far beyond the point of infinity. The gentle landscape lay nestled between twin mountain ranges that rose up on both sides like a giant wave cresting in on itself, their majestic height mantled in dappled threads of scarlet, orange and bright gold as it towering far over the valley, curling up to push against the very depths of the heavens. It was as if Mother Nature herself were standing in all her glory before me, sweeping her ageless arms up to embrace the skies.
The view was beyond beautiful. It was glorious.
I took a deep breath, and breathed softly... "Thank you, Valerie."
However, my pony was less interested in the views than he was in the two riders he spotted in the distance, disappearing up over a knoll. I grinned down at him. I had been so impressed by his willingness and ability to surmount the grueling trail of the first 43 miles at my direction and bring us in at 11th place thus far, that I had promised him at the start of the final loop that he was free to go at whatever pace he wanted. He was still moving out strong and happy, so we'd left the first half of the final loop behind us at a flying trot, with some pleasant canters thrown in for variety. Now it was his turn have a bit of fun. "Wanna catch them?" I asked playfully.
You bet he did. He took off down the hill at a hand-gallop, rounding the mowed switchbacks like a motorcycle. We reached the second rise in a matter of minutes, Itch’s ears pricked alertly, his head sweeping from side to side like radar, searching for the riders. We spotted the tail end of the second rider disappearing into the woods at a trot, and Itchy broke into a hand-gallop, determined to catch them. The two riders were surprised to see us. Reluctantly they gave way for us to pass and for a few strides tried vainly to keep up with us on the rolling terrain. But Itchy was having a blast, and swiftly left them in his dust, zipping up and down hills like he was on the flat.
They soon disappeared from view far behind, but their evident displeasure at my appearance, and in my passing them, struck a chord. For the first time I realized that was I doing for a lark was very serious business to others. Each time we passed someone we were taking placings away from them. The two riders behind us, and the three we had passed only a half mile from the start of the third loop, had fully believed they were going to finish in a certain placing. They had never expected anyone to come along, especially in the last few miles after such a grueling ride, and snatch that prize away from them.
But Itchy was moving out strong and happy, covering ground as effortlessly as if the last 45 miles had been merely a walk in the park. This was his loop, so I let him go, enjoying the freedom of just sitting there, doing nothing more than following the trail ribbons and admiring the view.
I had no idea how many more competitors were still in front of us, but the out-timer had said there were six in front at the time I went to get my out-time. I had suspected there were others who were scheduled ahead of me but it was still a shock when at the creek about two miles from the finish I came upon three riders who had stopped to give their horses a chance to drink. I knew I surprised the heck out of them, too, because as Itchy dropped his head to slurp up water, they moved out of the creek, breaking into a trot across a short field which led to a paved road crossing.
Itchy continued drinking as fast as he could, watching the three riders out of the corner of his eye. As soon as they were halfway across the field, he'd decided he'd had enough water, leaped up the embankment, and zipped across the muddy field at a flying trot. We caught the three just as they began walking across the road, cautious of their slippery steel shoes. Itchy had no such qualms. Dressed in aluminum shoes that gripped rocks and pavement like radial tires, he whipped right past the trio at a big trot, breaking into an easy canter as few yards further as the pavement changed into the gravel road leading back to the base camp... and finish line.
I glanced behind me. The three riders still remained at a walk, seeming to ignore the fact that my pony was leaving them behind. Amazed that they appeared to care less, I shrugged my shoulders, turned back to the road, and sat back to enjoy the ride. Itchy was in heaven, cantering along like he owned the road, even pretending little spooks at imagined roadside boogie-men -- just to show me he was still full of zip and energy. I laughed, enjoying his silliness. It was only 1 3/4 miles to the finish. We were on the road to home, carefree and happy, and all by our happy selves.
Suddenly I heard a sound behind me. Ta-dum, ta-dum, Ta-Dum, Ta-Dum, TA-DUM, TA-DUM! I looked behind me in alarm. Coming up on us like the 8:09 express was one of the three riders -- a man on a big 16.1h thoroughbred-looking Arab. Obviously our passing him at the road crossing had not been taken lightly, and now he was galloping towards us at full speed, fully intending to retake his lead.
I saw Itchy lift his neck a bit and turn his head just enough to see what was coming up behind him. He saw the challenge ... and accepted. I felt our speed move from a canter to a hand-gallop, to a gallop, then to a flat out, ears back, dead-on run. The ground was flying past under our feet so fast it was nothing but a blur, but still that big horse kept thundering on, closing the distance. The road increased incline, becoming more uphill. The terrain not Itchy's strong point, but he kept on at full bore, never letting up. I could hear the big horse behind us, still pounding the gravel in a full out gallop, still gaining on us. Even so, it took him a full half mile to catch us, his big chestnut Arab thundering neck to neck with my pony. As the road inclined even further uphill, our opponent began to pull away, his horse's long legs devouring the ground in huge strides. I could feel a wave of disappointment come over my pony. Itchy was giving it all he had, but the stride and speed of a 14.1h pony is rarely a match for that of a 16.1h horse.
I bent down and ran my hand in consolation down Itch’s neck as the big horse began to open a lead, afraid that such a defeat would take the wind out of my pony's sails. I watched with sinking heart as the big horse lengthened his lead to three, now four, now five strides. He was swallowing ground with huge strides, impossible for us to match. I sat up in my saddle, ready to pull up and let the other horse go. We could never catch him.
But still my pony kept on, galloping hard, his stride continuing at a full, powerful rhythm. Unlike other horses who would struggle to catch up, exhausting themselves in the process, or others that would simply give up, my pony was doing neither. I began to realize in astonishment that my there was now a determination there I hadn't seen before. I looked down at him in amazement. I knew the Welsh were fierce fighters, gutsy and tough, but I never knew that Itchy had that much fight in him.. until this moment. His Welsh blood had risen to the fore. He was determined to get that big horse, no matter what, and he wasn't about to beaten. Not now. Not ever.
I felt my own Welsh ancestry rise up with a rousing cheer. We shared the same blood, and if my pony was determined to fight, then so was I.
At that moment, something clicked. It is hard to explain even now but ... suddenly we were no longer horse and rider -- we were a team. A pilot and co-pilot, with one goal, one mission. I leaned down, still stroking his neck, but this time crooning encouragement. "Don't worry, Itchy," I urged. "Just keep on his tail. As soon as we get to a downhill, you'll catch up. You're the better horse, I know it." His ears never moved from the flat of his head, but he seemed to understand, and the tempo of his gallop changed to one that was more airborne, more sustained, more focused.
The big horse in front continued to open a deciding lead of 8 lengths, then 10 lengths, as the road flattened out, allowing him to take full advantage of his massive stride. I stayed low over my pony's neck as we galloped in pursuit, my eyes locked on the big horse, studying every stride, every kick as the heels flung skyward, every pulsing muscle. Like a hawk I was looking for any weaknesses, any flaws that would work to our advantage. I noticed he was racing in the center of the road where the ground was softer, but slower. As if by instinct my pony altered course, shifting slightly to the right off of the soft center to where the ground was harder, but faster. The tactic worked. The natural rebound effect of kinetic energy increased the power and length of his stride with virtually no effort, increasing his speed to that of the galloping horse in front of us.
We were now holding our own, maintaining the distance, the sounds of galloping hooves thundering in my ears.
A pair of riders casually trotting towards us on the road as they started the 3rd loop, saw us flying in from a distance and quickly scurried out of the way. The road had begun to roll at that point, taking a downward dip. I noticed the big horse began to weave slightly as he passed the two riders, his stride becoming a bit disorganized. His speed began to drop as he struggled to continue the extreme speed and handle the down slope at the same time. Itchy noticed as well. The tempo of his galloping stride never changed, but I felt the acceleration as we hit the down slope. Now only 8 strides separated us, then 7 as the road took another roll. The big horse, less agile than my pony, was loosing the advantage as the race-track flat road began to roll like waves on the ocean. He was on our turf now, and my pony was closing in on the down slopes like a fighter jet -- flying low, fast, and mean... and just under his radar.
I noticed my opponent never bothered to look behind him. Confident that he'd left us far behind on the flat, he never saw we were gaining on him with every stride. With only a little over a quarter mile left to go from the finish, I knew at that moment that it would not be just speed that would win this race -- it would be strategy and agility.
The gap continued to shrink. Six strides away. Now five. Now four. We were within striking distance, our target now in range. I felt Itchy lock on.
Three strides.
We were at the final dip in the road to where the trail turned a sharp left at the bottom onto a private drive. At that moment our opponent realized that we were right on his tail. He gunned his horse hard and the big Arab barreled around the turn, gravel flying. We took the turn on vertical wings, closing in fast.
Two strides.
We were less than 2 tenths of a mile from home, yet still I held tight, watching, waiting to see what my opponent would do. The trail followed the drive for a few strides, then hopped off to run down across a muddy lawn to the left of a bank barn, over a small creek at the bottom, then up a hill. All three loops had taken the same route coming in, and while coming in on the first loop I noticed that several riders ahead of me ignored the trail ribbons and continued instead to follow the gravel driveway down the right of the barn where it bent around the building before heading straight to the creek. It puzzled me as to why they would go 10 to 12 strides out of the way, off-trail, but I figured they wanted to avoid the potmarked ground, mucky and deep, turned to shoe-sucking mud from the heavy rains and multiple hooves. What I didn't know until later was that the trail from previous years had always run to the right of the barn. This year, however, the Trail Master had decided that a big, solitary tree to the left of the barn was perfect for hanging a ribbon. And it was -- dangling the colorful streamers out in full view. Riders that were new to the trail, and those whose eyes were open, dutifully followed trail straight down the lawn. But there were more than a few hoof prints on the driveway to prove that some had instead blindly followed last year's route.
My opponent reached the spot where the trail continued across the lawn... and that's where he made his fatal mistake. Pushing his big horse hard, he angled to the right at a full gallop, thundering down the driveway on last year's route, running full blast the wrong way .... completely off-trail.
The trail in front of me lay wide open. It was all I needed. I touched my left rein, and gave the command.
GO!!
I felt the aft thrusters fire, and we screamed down that slope like an F15 coming in on intercept mode. I don't think my pony's feet even touched the ground as we flashed past streamers, barn, taking the creek in one leap just as our opponent emerged from the far side of the barn.
I felt Itchy give a mental whoop "YES!!". We had retaken the lead!
We rocketed up the hill, jet engines on full, weaving among the trees at the top as quick as a cat, gaining even more precious seconds over our opponent. It was then a few strides to hard left hand turn opening up the trail wide at the top of hill overlooking the finish line.
Across the vale I could see the crowds of people gathered on the final stretch, the two white poles of the finish in full view. Only a straight steep downhill grassy run to a bog made deep from last night's rain and then an upslope on the other side lay between us and the final right turn. From there it was a gentle grass down slope to the gravel drive taking us across the finish line.
I threw a fast glance over my shoulder, but my opponent was no-where in sight. I knew that he was probably thundering up the hill above the creek, mad as a wet hornet for being passed. There wasn't a moment to lose. I looked ahead. We were coming to the top of the steep slope at a strong canter. I knew that nothing on this planet could catch Itchy on a downhill. It had been his race from the beginning -- and it was still his to be won. I had been the pilot up until then, but at that moment I made a decision. I handed him the reins, and said -- "It's all yours now, Itchy. If you want it... go for it."
He did, taking off down that hill so fast that for the first time my reason panicked. It reared up in horror, screaming "He's going too fast! If he trips, you'll break your neck! You'll be killed!!" Photos were suddenly being flung at my face -- my husband, son, house, rose garden. When that didn't work, a whole box of photo albums was dumped over my head, pictures of my life fluttering around in bits of bright kodachrome as the voice shrieked "You're going to die! You're going to die!"
But the words could barely be heard above the wildly, vibrant orchestra thundering in my head pounding out the leaping, dancing music of The Jellical Ball from the musical Cats. And just above the deafening music I heard another voice shouting in delight "He won't trip -- he's a cat! Let him go!"
We hit Mach 5 at the bottom of the hill, leaped the bog like an Olympic level eventer, and sling-shotted up the other slope on the sheer of momentum alone. We rounded the turn on two wheels, flying towards home. I could hear the crowds screaming and cheering as we galloped in, racing off the grass and flashing past the vet check as we hit the gravel road.
The finish line was only 50 feet away, directly in front of us when, suddenly, I felt my pony's jet engines shut down -- and all the system switches being flicked to OFF. In horror I looked down at him and saw his head twisted slightly to the right, his eyes looking up the small slope above the vet check, directly at ... our trailer!! I panicked. "NO!" I roared, pushing his mane, my heels digging into his side. "Keep going! Keep going!". I could sense his hesitation, his uncertainty. "But... the trailer is that way," I heard him think. "I know, I know!" I cried aloud, "but the finish line is this way! Just a few more strides, Itchy. PLEASE!"
Bless his sweet heart, he kept on going, and we crossed the finish line at a canter, the crowds cheering all around us. I pulled him up, my chest gasping for breath, my hands shaking, my body utterly spent. People gathering around us immediately, cheering and applauding. Exhausted, I dropped down on Itch’s neck, hugging him tight. "You are the BEST horse in the whole world." I said breathlessly, almost in tears, meaning every word. I had never known he had that much courage, that much guts, that much toughness -- but he did, and proved it that day.
The cheers were still ringing around us, hands reached up to pat my pony, and myself, in congratulations. I heaved myself upright, and turned to the In-Timer. I knew only that in we had passed 8 riders, and that was it. I had no idea of our placing. But he did. He smiled as he slowly held up three fingers. My jaw dropped in disbelief. Third place? Was he serious? He nodded, his smile growing broader. I closed my eyes, mentally trying to comprehend the feat of going from 11th to 3rd place in those few final miles. I shook my head. It was unbelievable.... no, it was close to impossible.
It occurred to me then that our Trail Master, multiple times World Champion, Valerie Kanavey, had brilliantly designed a course incorporating such a wide mixture of terrain of various degrees of technical difficulty, had she had ensured that no one type of horse had the advantage. Neither flat racers nor mountain climbers could dominate, or even claim the upper hand. In order to succeed, each competitor had to ride to their horses’ own strengths, do their best to minimize the weaknesses, and focus on when to push, and when to back off.
Valerie had brilliantly succeeded in doing the near impossible. She had leveled the playing field -- and allowed us to shine. We had completed the ride... and done it in style!
Prologue: The most rewarding part of our placing was that we were now able to stand for Best Condition. This is a very high honor in Endurance riding, and is strictly regulated and judged based upon the final evaluations by the vets 10 minutes, and then 1 hour after crossing the finish line. Weight carried, and the time on course is also taken into consideration. I was so proud when the head vet finished his exam with the comment that Itchy looked absolutely terrific -- giving him just about all "A's".
Itchy, however, was intent upon in getting back to his paddock at the trailer to munch down a well deserved dinner of race horse oats and sweet feed. I was still on cloud nine, but my pony was more interested in chewing his hay while he watched the horses on the slope across the vale making their way towards the finish line.
We had to wait until that evening before the awards were given out. It was super hearing us called up for Third in the Top Ten. I was especially excited because this placing helped qualify us for the 2003 AERC National Championships. (We need one more 50 mile ride completion --which we should get at our first 2-day 100 in NJ this month --in order to be fully qualified.)
Sadly, we missed the Best Condition award -- that went to the second place horse and rider. She was so excited to receive the award that it was hard for me to feel disappointed. I'm sure there will be other chances for Itchy and I to win B.C. ... someday.
In the meantime, Itchy is enjoying some time off in his pasture, rolling his new Noresta blanket in the mud to his heart's content. He was perfect, his legs sound and tight, from the word Go. It took me three full days to recover. I woke up the next morning feeling like I'd been in a car wreck. Just trying to walk downstairs was done to a chorus of "oooh!" "yowza!" and "ouch!" But... I've since recovered and am back in the saddle, getting ready for some serious foxhunting now that the weather is turning frosty and cold. I get the feeling that snow is just around the corner. So is Thanksgiving.
If November is anything like October, it's going to be a great month!