There is a camaraderie amongst travellers. They share stories, meals, secrets, sometimes beds. People met are nostalgically remembered months, years, decades later. On the road conversations are more interesting; silences are understood and appreciated.

From the window of a train countries seem more scenic; events are remembered more clearly. The senses, when so sharpened, fill us with wonder of the world we travel. The traveller absorbs, unwittingly, the best and the worst of all he experiences.

It’s been almost a year since I came back from Germany. One night soon after I arrived home, I met an old friend for a drink.

“I need to talk to you,” Hilary, a fellow traveller, (she was born in England, raised in Singapore, and now lives in Vancouver), had told me earlier that day.

“Well?” I asked her as we slipped into seats at the bar. Sitting next to her felt safe, like burrowing into a comfy sweater. I leaned back and watched the bartender place our drinks on the table.

“I heard about the lessons you gave today,” Hilary said, as I ordered our second round.

“Yeah?” I watched her run her fingers through her tangled brown hair. I leaned back a little, leaving room on the counter for the beer.

She looked back at me, full in the face, for the first time since I’d picked her up, “You made Miya cry, you know.”

I moved my beer around the table. I could feel the condensation from the glass running onto my hands. “What do you mean?” I asked. “I was helping her.”

“My God, Tik, she was in tears after! I’m glad you don’t help me. What did you do?”

How to explain? How to say that I only pushed her because she is so talented, because I see so much potential.

“I was working on her position. Asking her to keep her hands still mainly. Shoulders back. Working on transitions.”

She took a sip of her beer and looked at me, “You have to be careful. You don’t want to turn into that person.”

“What person?” I asked, still holding the full beer.

Hilary laughed. “She’s 16 you know. Riding is supposed to be fun.”

“Riding is dedication and perseverance. Hard work.”

“Sure,” Hilary slipped her almost-empty pint glass to the back of the table and stood up. “I have to visit the loo,” she said and turned away.

When she came back we talked about her horse and her plans for next year. We didn’t talk about my lessons again. We didn’t need to.

And now, a year later, I arrive home again—from Texas this time. I see the same people, and I teach the same students. Some of them, I hope, are glad to see me.

“When are you going away again?” Miya asks after her lesson. I tell her I’m not sure, it depends on where I can find a job.

“Why are you going away?” Miya looks down from under her helmet at me.

I pause. I stand there and all the reasons flash through my head like in a child’s flip book. What would she say if I told her I was on a personal journey? What if I explained that I’m on a transcendental bus ride that leads to understanding—understanding I say—combined with the need to learn and excel? What if I told her it was not about medals at all? What if I said I was leaving because? Just because I want to.

Marcel Proust once wrote: “We cannot be taught wisdom, we have to discover it for ourselves by a journey which no one can undertake for us, an effort which no one can spare us.”

Richard Spooner once said: “It is easy to teach someone to ride, it is much harder to teach someone to think.”

And I say to Miya: “It’s kind of like more school. . .for riding. It’s fun.”

“More school?” she frowns as she walks a circle around me on a loose rein.

I don’t tell her that I’m leaving for no other good reason than I want to. With adventures, people ask why; with jobs, with careers, with school, they sympathize, and they understand right away. 

“This kind of thing is good for your résumé,” I explain.

And then she nods in understanding. Her nose twitches as she thinks. “Do you get paid?”

“In kind, I guess.”

She looks confused, and so I add, “No, not really. But it has its rewards.”

A feeling of incompleteness itches my soul, the way my beard itches after a week without shaving. I feel like I’m in a temporary state: at home and teaching but wishing I was travelling and learning.

And so, now, I have one final task: to work with a show jumper. I try Rodrigo Pessoa, Beezie Madden and Eric Lamaze. No luck. I start looking at other opportunities. Maybe Ingrid Klimke will need somebody again since she is pregnant? No dice. I email Christopher Bartle in England. His secretary writes back: Could we have: “your height, weight and more specific dates that you would like to come?”

All reasonable questions. When I apply places they often ask for height and weight. Most places want to see a video. Surprisingly, I am rarely asked for references. “Are you wanting to bring a horse?” is a common question. A couple stables have asked if I was single.

“Six feet, 180 pounds, I want to come for three months, and I am flexible with dates,” I write back. But then the trail, as it were, goes cold; a month later and I haven’t heard back from them. What am I left to assume? I need to move on.

I decide to apply with Anne Kursinski. She’s a student of the George Morris system. People say her riding is impeccable but that she can be tough. I send her a résumé, and she writes back the very next day. “Thank you for your email. You sound interesting.”

Interesting. That’s good I guess.

“Could you send me a DVD or video of you riding?” she continues. “At the moment I have enough grooms but could use an extra rider.”

I send her the video.

While I wait I continue to teach lessons. I try not to make anybody cry. And I think about something else that Hilary told me that night, one year ago. As we left the bar her fingers brushed my arm, and I looked at her. “Think about what kind of rider you want to be, but also think about what kind of person you want to become.”

And then she was leaving, leaving me something to think about.

In the summer of 2008 Tik Maynard came up with a grand plan. He decided to spend a year working for some of the greatest horsemen he could find in different disciplines and writing about his experiences. So far, he has worked for Johann Hinnemann, Ingrid Klimke, David and Karen O’Connor and Bruce Logan. This article was written in January of 2010. For more information on Tik, visit www.tik.ca/.