Page 114 of My Queendom for a Horse

We may have been seated near the bottom, but now we’re out in front.

The crowd goes wild as we clear the smallish ditch and cross Melling Road, swinging past the completely packed stands. People are wildly waving signs. I tune it all out, and prepare for the Chair, the biggest and narrowest jump, with another massive ditch on the back. We clear it, but Obsidian’s tiring and birch branches fly on all sides as we land. One of the branches gets lodged between my leg and the stirrup, scratching my leg through my pants with every stride. I ignore it as best I can as we breeze past the water on sixteen. We must’ve gotten lazy at the front, because as we circle the winning post, I notice the horses trailing us out of the corner of my eye. They’re closer than I thought.

I urge Obsidian ahead, but I can tell he’s flagging a bit on the nineteenth fence, yet another ditch. He knocks a whole flurry of branches down, which is normal for most horses, but it’s anything but for Obsidian. That birch from the last jump’s still digging into my leg. “Let’s ease up a little. We’re out in front—don’t worry so much.”

We take the next few fences slow and steady, and I focus on keeping calm, balancing perfectly, and ignoring the infernal branch that seems to be digging its way into my body, one bounding leap at a time. By the second fence of round two, I can’t take it anymore. I push up harder on my right leg, to relieve some pressure on my left, and I reach one hand down to grab the branch. I’ve just touched it when my girth strap snaps and the entire saddle cants to the right. I’m almost flung onto the ground as the saddle slides sharply. I reposition my legs, pushing hard on the stirrups on the left to adjust the position. The only thing connected to my saddle at all now is the breastplate that circles Obsidian’s neck, but that won’t hold it steady.

How could my girth break? It was almost brand new.

My panicked mind reviews the past fifteen minutes frantically. John saddled Obsidian, and obviously he checked and double-checked everything. I’m distracted from my rehash by a fence approaching. It’ll be our first fence since the saddle strap gave out. The cinch is still dangling on the left side, slapping against Obsidian’s legs and occasionally his belly.

I consider giving up and going around it. Equipment malfunctions suck, but bowing out is the safe move.

But Obsidian shows no fear, surging ahead, trusting me to stay on. The least I can do is follow his lead. He leaps as smoothly as he can, but even so, the saddle shifts. I slide right and my heart flies up to my throat. This jump was a simple one, and it almost unseated me. I’ll never make it when we hit Becher’s, much less the dreaded Canal Turn. I consider unlatching the breastplate connections and just tossing the saddle. I could probably do it without losing my seat. I’ve ridden bareback since I was a child, and I regularly take jumps bareback as well. The saddle’s more of a liability than anything else at this point.

But losing the weights would disqualify us.

We manage to clear the next fence too, and now we’re bearing down on Becher’s Brook fast. Riding on an unsteady saddle feels like trying to stay on a bucking bronco. The thought of hitting that ditch without a solid connection to the horse makes me want to hurl.

I do reach down and snag the unruly girth when it swings up high and flip it over the top of the saddle, clutching it as tightly as I can while still managing my reins.

As we approach Becher’s for the second time, Brigadier General pulls up behind us on the right, and Some Like It Hot races toward us on the left. Obsidian has slowed dramatically to keep me safe, which I appreciate, but we’re not going to keep our lead, not if we keep hanging back. I wish I could drop my feet from the stirrups and cling with my thighs, but the saddle will swing loose for sure without my legs in the stirrups to keep it centered.

With the other horses approaching, I urge Obsidian to greater speed. His ears lay flat. He doesn’t want me injured. We clear Becher’s Brook, and I manage to keep the saddle steady. I’m getting better at it, but it’s not enough. Brigadier passes us on the outside as we pound toward Foinaven.

I made it over before, but I can’t stop thinking about my mom’s fall. The closer we get, the harder it is to put that image out of my mind—her small body, crumpled on the sod. All it’ll take is one misstep or one out-of-control horse to slam into us and we’re goners.

A commotion behind me pulls my attention, and I glance back to see that Finn’s horse clipped the fence at Becher’s.

Finn loses his seat, rolling over himself into a heap at the corner of the jump. Two more horses are close behind him. I don’t even look forward as Obsidian clears Foinaven, because I’m too worried about Finn. Surprisingly, even with the slight curve and my inattention, my saddle stays upright. I must be learning to compensate for it better.

When Finn stands up, I breathe a hearty sigh of relief. Some Like It Hot, now riderless, thunders along next to us going into the Canal Turn, with Brigadier General now a full length ahead. We apex the turn, just like we’re supposed to, but Some Like It Hot bumps into Obsidian and sends me and my cursed saddle slamming into the side rail, effectively crushing my left leg.

An inferno burns its way through my thigh, and I drop down into the saddle, unable to post. The pommel slides back and forth, and I know I should just swing off.

It’s too many problems.

I need to quit.

Another horse passes us on the left. Earl Grey. And yet another edges past us on the right, a white horse, The Masochist, I think. I can’t help thinking about my mom and the pileup she caused when she fell. The horses careening over her. One of them clipped the back of her head as she was sitting up, and that’s the blow that killed her. It’s too dangerous, what I’m doing, and we clearly aren’t going to win.

If we can’t win, what’s the point?

I pull back on the reins. Obsidian glances back, one ear cocked. He whinnies. He’s clearly asking whether I’m alright.

My leg howls at me while my saddle slides back and forth like a stumbly drunkard on ice, and we’ve fallen back from first into fourth. Soon to be fifth.

No, I’m not okay.

I want to scream and cry and shoot something. My mom’s face swims in front of my eyes, and I want to explain to her that it’s not my fault. I made it here, and I did everything right. Someone must have sliced my girth strap. No one could win under these circumstances. Tears well up, and when I turn my head to shake them off, I glance at the stands. An elementary girl with blonde hair and a cute little navy coat holds a sign that reads, “Kris and Devil. For Your Mom. For girls everywhere. Girl jockeys are here to stay.”

I can’t quit now.

Women have always had the odds stacked against us. Nothing’s ever fair, and even though one of us won, once, that doesn’t mean it’s enough. A hundred plus wins by men aren’t leveled with one girl winning. We can’t ever give up. We have to try harder, because for us, things are harder. I lean forward into a post and my leg screams so loudly that I almost black out, but I tell my body to shut up.

My mom wouldn’t quit now, and I won’t either. I pat Obsidian’s neck. “Let’s do this. Catch them.”

We clear Valentine with Some Like It Hot still rocketing alongside us like a bumper car. My leg’s throbbing, and every time I use it to keep from sliding off, it practically buckles, but we manage to pass The Masochist anyway, which feels fitting, with the pain this race is inflicting on me.

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