Tik Maynard

The man was still as he sat in his golf cart. His body looked sinewy, but also old, like an elastic band that is drying up. His voice however, as it came over the loudspeakers, was strong. “Where did they go?” he asked.

The crowd looked around. The kids the man was enquiring about had been absorbed into the grandstands, but now they were being summoned back. They were teenagers acting as jump crew, and they had obviously, mistakenly, believed the session over.

“Where are they?” His voice was louder now, not angry, but accusatory and demanding. “I told them not to leave.”

There is an old saying: “There are two secrets to be successful in this business. The first: Don't give away all your secrets.”

Some Masters guard their methods like a bag of cash, arm slung obstinately behind their back.

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.

Mouse darts through the middle, throwing his head, the wind grabbing his mane. Chrome, all knees and hocks, bucks once, twice, and follows.

The two chestnut foals gallop toward Doc, a tall bay gelding, who flattens his ears and lets fly with his hooves. Then his head goes down, back to the tough winter grass—long stalks that wilt at the top and turn brittle near the roots, the season’s last available forage.

The calves trot into the arena. A mosaic of shape, size and color—brown, dun, chestnut, rust, white and black—slowly fills out the back wall. Bruce's stallion, Joker, flings his head as the two of them stand by the gate; he is getting the worst of the dust.

From where I sit—the passenger seat of the Ram 3500—the horse is black, possibly dark bay, about 16 hands, and seems curious enough. He trots to the center of the corral, which is about 15 x 30 meters, pushing his nose up, sniffing the air and looking out at us.

On the drive here Bruce explained that he was to take this horse on for 90 days and start him. The owner, a cattleman, apparently by inclination more than need, wants a new ranch horse. “He's 4,” Bruce told me, "and he's lived out most of his life. This will be all new to him.”

I rip a square of paper towel off the roll beside the sink—dishes overflow onto the counter—and fold it in half to form a pincer between my thumb and forefinger. The satiated tick is still as I pick it up from where it fell off the dog. Its body is smooth and spherical as I roll it between my fingers, and smaller than a pea. I palpate it a couple times. Its texture reminds me of a paintball, or a fresh egg after someone has peeled away the shell, leaving only the thin membrane that seals the yolk and white inside.

“Are you going to squish it?” Rhiannon asks while petting the dog.

My dad is cantering along next to me. He’s riding a big grumpy gelding, Salvador, and I'm riding Amadeus, a Lipizzaner pony, who is struggling to keep up. The track is easily wide enough for both of us, and the footing is excellent; the rainy days are still ahead. My dad looks at me, and I know he’s going to say something inane. It's his eyes—bright and curious—that give away his enthusiasm. And he is always is asking the most obvious questions when he is enthused. It drives me crazy.

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 and David and Karen O'Connor. Although he spent the summer of 2009 at home in Vancouver, B.C., Canada, he's still working on expanding his equestrian education. 

A platinum sponsorship package for the Rolex Kentucky Three-Day Event costs $20,000. The cheapest sponsorship package, bronze, is $6,000. Both packages include grilled vegetables, sautéed snap peas, chicken paninis, tomato and herb soup, organic spinach salad and an open bar with a bird’s eye view of the main arena. Access to the sponsors’ tent also includes an outside viewing area, which was crowded with young ladies and gentleman, all sporting Ray Bans or Maui Jims.