The Dismount

I would be lying to say that I feel no effects from the days of riding I’ve subjected myself to. On the contrary, my 32-year-old legs and, more to the point, Sitz bones, are generally a little stiff by the time I make my way back to the yard and slide off. I’m pleased to report that removing the horse from under me takes away the bulk of the discomfort (which really doesn’t form until near the end of two hours, anyway). The deep-seated knowledge of my own discomfort, however, makes me all the more impressed with Mom.

For several years now, Mom has carried on conversations (or, more appropriately, monologues) with various of her body parts, to get them to do what she wants. If I happen to be around for a clothes-changing, I frequently hear “Up leg. Good leg,” as she’s putting on pants. Therefore, I was not surprised when this method of limb-encouragement was employed during the dismount. I had dismounted from Sikum, swinging my right leg over his rump so I was facing the saddle, pulling my left foot out of the left stirrup, then using my arms to lower myself to the ground. Mom and Toby were behind a tree, with only her left leg and Toby’s head and neck showing. “Up, leg,” I heard. The left leg remained where it was. “UP, leg,” a little more assertively. The left leg rocked a bit, and I started to turn away, as it appeared she was going to be successful. “UP LEG!” came again, then “Creeeeeak,” she said as she slowly lowered herself down.

And she rode the next day, too.