I had an 11 a.m. lesson on Chester, and for the first twenty minutes or so, I watched Dottie ride. This was so I could get a better sense of what she was asking me to do. Being a spectator allowed me to observe and process what was going on.

Dottie got on Chester, and he walked on in a very animated fashion. She said that he’d been full of himself. Nevertheless, he immediately began listening to her. Chester tucked his head, and arched his neck, not because Dottie had extreme contact, but because she was using her seat to get him to be more engaged. It was a good thing that Dottie was talking, because her moves were so subtle, it was hard for me to see them. She was still, very still. Whenever she moved, it was to signal Chester to do something. Her elbows were heavy, her legs were long, her seat where it should be. Dottie was the one in charge.

I was momentarily envious – I thought of what I called “the wasted years,” those years I didn’t ride. Here, before me, was an individual who’d kept at it. I remembered what Charlene said, that when she was the State Fair ribbon girl, that “Dottie was the one who got all the ribbons.”

As I watched Dottie, it occurred to me that I need to be in charge when I ride. Dottie described this as a “black and white” situation. The gray area is the rider’s indecisiveness, which counters everything one is trying to do. Say, the horse falls in while doing a circle. Saying, oh well, he was getting bored with the same old same old does not cut it.

Dottie finally had me get on Chester. I paid closer attention to the outside rein when circling, so as to keep Chester from falling in. I noticed that at times that I’d be “one minded” meaning focus on my elbow and forget about the rest. Dottie also noticed – a gentle reminder got me to using my seat to maintain momentum.

Chester finally began moving nicely beneath me. In fact, this time around, he wasn’t doing the drunken sailor or high-headed giraffe routine. Dottie suggested that I next do walk/trot transitions. This time, my hands were steadier. Still, it took a few strides to again get used to being on a bigger, longer strided horse.

The hardest part of the lesson involved thinking ahead, focusing on what I was going to do, and deciding where I was going to go next. It’s quite hard, because my mind tends to drift. I had lapses, but as best I could, I pulled myself back to the present.

There were several ahh haa moments. Dottie said something really interesting about Morgan horses, which is that because they were originally bred to pull carts, that they are more used to contact. This made sense, as did her suggestion that while posting, I remain up just a tad bit longer before coming down. When I did this, the trampoline effect became negligible.

My shining moment was when Chester spooked. It happened so fast that it took a few seconds to get a grip. I didn’t yank on his reins, nor did I grab at his midsection with my legs. I did collapse into the fetal position, but quickly pulled myself out of it. Dottie said that it was my having a good seat that saved me. This harkened back to my days in college, and one time in particular, when I was riding a horse named Goldbob. He always, when asked to canter, bucked when he had a new rider. Goldbob did this to me. I remember nearly being sideways, and then coming down. My teacher and I both knew that had this happened the year before, I would have gone flying over this head. This was a similar kind of deal.

Chester and I also worked on fast and slow walk transitions. The former required me to squeeze my gluts and take up more contact. And the latter required me to relax my gluts and use less contact. In both instances, I got the desired results. This reinforced the concept of using my body to get the desired action.

The lesson was about over. I let the reins go to the buckle, and did a few circles, focusing exclusively on my own movements. I was told that had I attempted this at the onset of the lesson, Chester would have done the giraffe thing. I was by now mentally fatigued. I told Dottie that it was the most difficult lesson yet, and it was. It required more concentration than previous ones. Still, I decided to ride Raudi when I got home. I wasted no time. I got her tacked up and off we went, down Murphy Road, to the Murphy Road trail. Raudi was, from the onset, very energetic. I tried as best I could to do as Dottie said, and at one point asked her to bend her head from side to side. I was firm about this – she did what was asked, and then walked in a more relaxed fashion.

Nevertheless, Raudi grew increasingly more antsy. I asked her to trot, and she resisted, by pacing. So we resumed walking. Being on the trail gave her plenty to think about. About three quarters of the way around the two-mile trail, she bolted. I said “whoa, whoa, whoa” in a calm voice, and tried to stay relaxed. Raudi did, after a few hundred yards or so, return to her senses. I recomposed myself, resuming contact on the reins, and focused again on my seat.

I became fearful after the fact. But I stayed on, and remained the one in charge. Home was up road, so I asked for a trot, and for the next half-mile insisted that she maintain it. She did so willingly. I kept posting, to keep her from falling into pace.

As we were coming to the rise in the hill, I saw two neighbors coming towards us. Without thinking about it, I cued Raudi to canter. She took up her wonderful rocking horse gait, and we stopped next to them. Kirby asked if I’d asked her to do this, and I said yes. As we talked, I could feel her breathing heavily. A good sign, she’d gotten some much-needed exercise but was none the worse for wear.

Raudi and I continued past the turnoff to Oceanview, trotted up to Sybarite, turned right, and kept on going. Raudi hesitated, passing the turn towards home, but did as was asked. “It is,” I said to her “my way or the highway.” Her energy level picked up again. There must have been a moose nearby because she did the chuffa chuffa thing. I worked with her head and neck, and as we went downhill, did serpentines. And we made it home safely.