"You must in all Airs follow the strength, spirit and disposition of the horse, and do nothing against nature; for art is but to set nature in order, and nothing else." – William Cavendish, 1st Duke of Newcastle

I was riding my black gelding in the outdoor arena. It was mid-July, about two o’clock in the afternoon.

The sun was unforgiving. The sand glowed white in the heat. The air was as still as death. Sweat pooled down my arms into my gloves, making them slimy and hard to hold onto the reins. My entire body trembled with effort.

I sat tall and brought him into a halt transition. It was rough. He was as spent as I was. I could barely hold enough power in my core to brace against him while he plowed into my hands. We certainly weren’t going to the Olympics. My thighs were trembling. No stirrups in ninety-plus degrees, in the sunshine, on a black four year old horse. The bar was high.

“Again,” my instructor called. He didn’t praise unless it was clearly earned. A bad transition onto the forehand was not praiseworthy. I kicked my horse back into the trot, holding on for life with my thighs. My guts were churning. He huffed and went forward, slowly, like his hooves had sunk into mud. I pressed my hips forward, trying to get more energy but unable to really carry any in myself.

Sweat stung the corners of my eyes as it dripped down my face. It was too hot.

As we passed through the short side, I started to brace my core again for the halt transition. Then I felt it, bile rising through my throat. I tried to swallow it back down, but it was having none of that. In one short motion I stopped my gelding hard. His hind legs swung under us. He didn’t expect me to be so strong in the hand like that.

“Good!” I could hear the surprise in my teacher’s voice, but I wasn’t looking at him. I was leaning over the far side of my horse’s neck as I threw up the sweet potato I had eaten for lunch.

“Now if you could do that without throwing up, we might be onto something!” I couldn’t reply. I was just trying to get my thoughts in order. My brain felt like it was being cooked in my helmet.

“Christ. Are you okay? You really ought to say something. I would be easier on you.” Now he appeared to feel bad that he had pushed us.

“I am alright,” I said.

I wasn’t.

“I just need a sip of water.” I turned and we walked to the only spot of shade in the entire arena, by the entrance under the maple tree. There was a shelf built up so that I could reach my water from my horse. He seemed relieved for the break. His sides were heaving so hard my hip kept popping. Sorry, buddy. I patted him. Sorry about the heat, but not sorry enough to cut us any slack.

“Let’s just do some canter when you are ready. You can put your stirrups back on for that.”

My heart sank. If I had only managed not to throw up, he might have trusted me to continue working on my position. Somehow, I felt like I had failed. I put my feet back in my stirrups. Absent-mindedly, I noticed how this pair of boots had started to come apart at the toe. Nothing lasts forever.

I put my horse on a large circle around my teacher. The end of riding in this horrible hot arena was in sight, just a canter each direction away. He reminded me that I need to maintain my strong upright position. Internally, I groaned. Externally, I heaved with my body as I dragged my horse and myself into the canter. He had no energy, desire, or elegance. It was clumsy at best, potentially dangerous with how unbalanced we were at worst.

We were not complimented on the canter.

When we finished, I felt as though I had successfully accomplished nothing. My trainer didn’t have much to say. He just reminded me again that the next time I start to get too hot, it is my job to speak up for myself. I nodded. Yes, it was my fault I threw up. Being twenty, I hadn’t wanted to back out on the work or for him to think I was lazy or not trying.

The walk back up the hill to the barn felt like a hundred miles. My horse and I went at a snail’s pace. Everything hurt. My head, my guts, my legs, and my feet. Every joint felt like it was braced. We fell into the wash stall, where I immediately started the cold water and hosed him between his hind legs to cool him down faster. He stood perfectly still, his black nostrils flaring widely. I could see the pink skin inside. I sprayed myself down too.

When my horse’s respiration slowed, I paused the water to untack him and then finished hosing his entire body. He still wasn’t normal when I finished with that, so I placed him in the center aisle, with a large fan blowing from each direction to better cool him off.

I felt horribly sick. But there wasn’t time for fussing over me. There were horses that needed to be tacked up for the head trainer. I got to work.

The afternoon was somber. I had failed the unspoken, invisible test. I had gone without stirrups on all my horses for nearly six months at this point. And my leg was still disobedient to my will.

I was very unhappy with both myself and my gelding. We needed to be better than that. Tomorrow, we would do a better job.

Tomorrow, I would wait to eat until after I rode.