PrintThe Conclusion: The Foxhunt
If you’ve kept up with this little saga, you’ve heard me tell people over and over that the last time I rode a horse, I was pretending to be Roy Rogers.
That isn’t a joke; it’s a statement of fact. My grandfather bought me a pony when I was 6. He built a corral for it behind his store on Rte. 46 in Parsippany, N.J. The pony used to get out a couple times a week and graze between the east and westbound lanes until the police suggested he sell it back to the guy from whom he bought it.
I’ve gone up in a glider because flying fascinates me. I drove onto a mountain in Colorado in the midst of a thunderstorm because my best friend, nuts to this day, assured me a car was a perfectly safe place (“Four rubber contact patches—nothing to it!”). I’ve driven fast cars on a racetrack.
So why am I timid about horses? My best excuse is that machines are (supposedly) fixed and dependable—at least, they have no mind of their own. A horse, on the other hand, is a horse of a different color, as Emily’s gray proved just yesterday. So now it’s the morning of the hunt, and I’m harvesting excuses but not finding any takers.
“I’ve left your clothes in the closet.”
“Clothes?”
“You don’t have anything proper to ride in.”
“I’m a Democrat. The PETA contingent will skin me.”
“Don’t be such a snob. You don’t know any animal lovers but me. You’re lucky if you know someone who owns a dog.”
“You win.”
“So ride the horse, will you? Just to make me happy? I picked a nice safe one for you. You hold the reins, and he’ll follow the pack. OK?”
“And grab the neck strap when the horse jumps, right?”
“What?”
“That’s what Moira said last night. The thing’s going to jump with me on it?”
“It’s the easiest way around obstacles,” she says and wanders away like that’s all there is to it.
Dressing The Part
The getup is hanging on my closet door. I pull it on, just for laughs. Black riding jacket, tan breeches and helmet, knee boots gleaming like a midnight ocean—as spectacular a suit of clothing as I’ve ever seen, much less put on.
The arms and legs are a little short, and there’s a patch on the seat—it’s rented gear—but I still look like Errol Flynn except not as good. I admire myself for long minutes in the mirror, until Malcolm arrives with the trailer. “Roy Rogers, I presume,” he snipes, and I ignore him. I’m a gentleman in tails now.
No sign marks the hunting grounds, but they’re impossible to miss—follow the other trailers through the gap in the stone wall surrounded by chanting, screaming protestors waving placards and specific fingers at you as you pass.
We hop out as four or five men appear out of nowhere to open the trailer and pull down the ramp. I expected everyone to be dressed as formally as we are. I’m surprised (and not happy) to find us the fashion plates. The man next to me wears what were surely—20 years ago—expensive riding breeches now overrun with patches, a dusky-colored moth-eaten undershirt and suspenders falling loosely off his shoulders. On his hat nestles a wonderful-looking cap with earflaps pinned along the sides like unfurled wings.
I wag a finger at the crowd. Their chants are increasing in volume. “What’d we do?”
