Embarrassing moment? Only one? Once you’re a certain age, just showing up in the ring can count as an embarrassing moment. It’s the self-conscious curse of the aging adult rider, at least we ordinary amateur ones. We’re not talking the echelons of Beezie Madden here.

Many of us are late equestrian bloomers, whose riding careers didn’t even begin until we were self-sufficient adults who’d finally achieved the means to chase horse dreams that had eluded us all our lives due to circumstances beyond our control—mainly lack of money and not being able to drive.

We’re the ones who missed out on pony pals and bareback races, junior hunters and lifelong friendships forged alongside the show ring. That wistful awareness of what we missed is at the heart of our drive to make up for the lost years, knowing we’ll always be a step behind those with the natural balance and engrained muscle memory to confidently sit a buck that routinely dislodges us in the most unflattering ways.

There is an embarrassment that comes with arriving at a barn as a fully grown woman for a beginner lesson, wearing too-tight breeches and too-shiny boots, nervously clutching a too-expensive helmet, completely out of tune with the comfortable hum of the barn and all those who are a part of it. Up-down, up-down, will I ever learn the rhythm of the trot? What’s a diagonal? How do those little girls canter? Those teenagers aren’t even using stirrups when they jump!

The yearning inside keeps us persevering in our own little worlds though, until we gain enough steadiness and steering ability to join the group lessons with the novice kids, where we stall out once again until we master canter leads and two-point position and mostly guessing when the blessed school horses are going to (barely) leave the ground before the cross rails.

The young riders I’ve ridden with in lessons over the years are all very special to me. And as much joy as I take in seeing them grow, it’s a humbling experience to watch them pass me by in their skill level and their equestrian accomplishments. It was bad enough when I was twice their age or more. But I’ve been in the saddle long enough that I’m now well past their moms’ ages and gaining on their grandparents.

These kids who were lesson students with me are now driving, competing in Maclay Regionals, heading off to college, even having children of their own. Their aspirational jump heights of 3’ 6” derbies and grand prix fences have eclipsed my own by a foot and more.

For the aging adult rider, lessons themselves can be a source of embarrassing moments of forgotten courses, awkward distances and more falls and near misses than I care to think about. I’ve been sprawled on the neck, hanging off the side, even found myself in front of the pommel on special occasion, not to mention in the dirt. I joke that I work hard to just not get any worse, but it’s a fact.

I half-wonder if I embarrass my horse in his mysterious equine social order. If he were human, I’m sure I’d get the eye-roll, forehead-slap, head-shake, sullen mutter usually reserved for moms of sassy teenagers demanding to be dropped off a block from school so as not to be seen with the ‘rent by their friends. Does my horse make excuses for me in the pasture to his buddies? Do they snicker behind his back?

Despite the physical challenges and questionable sanity that have come with making my childhood dream come true at an age when many would be hanging up their stirrups, there is nothing I would change, except to somehow turn back the clock and do it all again.

I’m well past the self-conscious embarrassment of my beginner and novice days, and content with my riding goals. I love my mostly perfect horse, I am grateful for my exceedingly patient trainers and I am proud to be venturing into the local show ring.

The years are waning. My jumps are numbered. I’m cantering as fast as I can.

Despite her childhood dreaming and scheming, Kim Kitson was deprived of her true horse obsession until climbing into the saddle as a beginner rider at the advanced age of 27. By day, she dons a corporate suit as a public relations professional for a St. Louis health care system to desperately support her horse habit. Evenings and weekends find her at Katana Kennedy O’Brien’s KEE West Farm tormenting her saintly Dutch Warmblood, Sox, who wonders what he did in life to deserve this fate. She can be reached to commiserate about the foibles of the aging adult rider at kimimac@sbcglobal.net

Kim is one of the winners of the Chronicle’s second writing competition, and she answered the question of most embarrassing moment in the saddle.