An excerpt from my new book coming out Spring 2009...

The first time I got thrown from a horse. I wasn’t even riding one. Jody Campbell took care of the actual physical experience for me and my young, unbridled imagination handled the rest. Word had spread throughout the day camp how “Old Red” had run off with the ten year old girl, a rumor, in retrospect, that was grounded more in fantasy than reality considering Red was about 150 years old and the circle he routinely gave campers rides around was the size of a postage stamp. Still, the impression it left on my young psyche was permanent and images of her limp, lifeless body being carried off by a camp counselor as the mighty stallion reared up into the sky tempered the way I looked at horses for the better part of my life.
I ran into Jody some fifteen years later and asked her if she remembered that day.
“Yep,” she replied. “Bruce (the camp counselor) had just lifted me up on Red, who was bareback and very furry, and I just accidentally slid off the other side. I was more stunned than hurt. I don’t think ‘Ole Red ever moved an inch during the whole thing.”
Despite the clarification, it would be twenty years before I’d actually have the courage to climb into a saddle. Aided in part by my wife’s lifelong love of horses and a strong curiosity about the spell these magnificent animals have cast on so many people, I decided to give it a shot.
My first three riding experiences were less than inspired. My initial outing was a trail ride with some friends from Linda’s barn.
“We can put Gary on Max,” one of the riders suggested.
“Max?” another rider asked. “Are you sure?”
“He’ll be fine,” another piped in.
I looked at Linda, a little concerned about the “are you sure?” comment. I spoke up.
“I’d feel most comfortable with something that’s partially crippled,” I said.
Everybody chuckled.
“You’ll be fine,” they all assured me.
Things started out OK. Max, a nice enough eight year-old gray quarter horse, seemed perfectly content to just walk along the ridge trail overlooking the valley. Then a voice from the front of the pack made a suggestion.
“Let’s run a bit!” she said
Before I could voice my opinion on the proposal, the six horses in front of me took off. I was not pleased. Max was not pleased. And he was not about to be left behind.
As if shot out of the starting gate at Hollywood Park, Max bolted past the entire group in a dead gallop. Then, like a scene out of an old Hollywood western, where the hero rides up beside the runaway stagecoach, I saw one of the ranch hands gallop up beside me. He grabbed one of my reins; all the while saying “Whoa” and “Easy boy”. He eventually slowed my charging mount to a dusty stop. To this day, I have no idea how I stayed on.
“Forgot to tell you that Max likes to be out in front,” he said matter of factly.
“He’ll be fine, my ass,” I mumbled to Linda, while prying my Samurai death grip off the saddle horn.
After that, I decided to limit my riding experiences to the arena. A couple weeks later while watching Linda work her horse over some small jumps, a young English rider named Jessica, asked if I wanted to ride tandem on her big 16.2 thoroughbred.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I’m a pretty big guy.”
“Dakota won’t mind,” she said. “Use that step stool and just hop on right behind me on my saddle pad.”
Knowing how skydivers often make their first jump strapped to their instructors, her offer seemed like a sound and safe idea. So I climbed aboard. Dakota wasted no time in letting us both know that he didn’t want another passenger. The big gelding immediately reared up high in protest. Somehow I managed to slide off his back haunches, landing on my feet just off to the side, away from danger. Jessica wasn’t so lucky. Dakota fell straight back and under his full weight, landed squarely on her left leg, fracturing it in three places. It would be six months before she could ride again.
“I’m so sorry,” I said the next day when she showed up at the barn in a full leg cast
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said.
But it sure felt like it was.
By this time, the whole horse thing had turned personal. I was determined to at least sit on the back of a horse for a minute or two without it running away or throwing me off.
The following week, I asked Linda if I could sit bareback on her stocky quarter horse, Eighty, who was quietly grazing in the upper pasture. It was a perfect summer day and he looked peaceful and relaxed under the midday sun.
“Sure,” she said. “I don’t think he’ll mind.”
Wrong. No sooner had I swung my leg over his furry back that I was airborne, compliments of a very swift and efficient buck-off. I landed unhurt, in a pile of fresh manure.
“What the hell is going on?” I yelled. He gave me a brief side-eye look and resumed foraging through the tender grass.
“You looked like you popped out of a jack in the box,” Linda laughed.
“I’m done with horses,” I said.
And I was. It would be twenty years more before I would even think about riding again.
That didn’t mean I stopped hanging around barns and horses. And I still loved the idea of riding. But the older I got, the more afraid I was to get on. And I had no idea what to do about it.
Then, one Thanksgiving, about two years ago, over a bowl of potato chips and Lipton’s French Onion dip, I met a cowboy from Arizona. I told him about my dilemma.
“They’re predator prey animals” he snapped. “That’s all you need to know to get started.”
“Predator, prey?” I asked.
“Most people think they’re just big dogs,” he continued. “Can’t look at them that way. They are prey animals always on the lookout for predators. Mow you and anything else down to get away from danger. But it’s nothing personal.”
For years, I had been searching for some kind of idea, some concept I could grasp that could help me get over my fear of horses. For some reason, the fact that a horse
would run me over to get away from danger was the piece I needed in helping me to approach horses in a whole different light.
“Predator. Prey. Always on the lookout,” the cowboy reminded me as we said goodbye at the end of the evening. “Start there and you’ll be on your way.”
A week later, Linda came home from the stables after riding her thoroughbred, Buddy, and told me that one of her friends was looking to do a partial lease on one of her horses.
“What kind of a horse is it?” I asked.
“He’s a mustang.”
Immediately, every National Geographic television special that I had seen on the majestic wild horse filled my mind.
“A mustang, huh?” I replied.
“Actually, a mustang/Appaloosa mix.”
An Appaloosa! The magnificent horse of the Great Plains Native American Indian? I pressed on.
“What does he look like?” I asked.
“He’s very handsome and stocky with a flashy white diamond on his forehead.”
My first horse was not going to be a retired old plug from the local riding stables. It was going to be a magnificent mustang/appaloosa with a white diamond on his forehead. I could only imagine what his name was, something, undoubtedly that fit his wild-western and earthy mix-perhaps Cheyenne, Cochise or the like.
“What’s his name?” I asked eagerly.
“Bob.” Linda replied.
“Bob?” I said.
“Bob,” she repeated.
My first horse was going to have the same name as our local TV weatherman.

haha, thats awesome!!

Cool!