Perseverance

As I dragged myself back to the trailer, relying almost entirely on the fifty mile an hour winds to hold me up, my thoughts revolved around one thing. My questionable sanity. Because, one must obviously be mad to suffer through literal blood, sweat and tears, only to say: "Yes, I have ridden a horse fifty miles, in the middle of the desert, in horrible conditions, for no apparent reason."

On a miserable Saturday, at six am, in the middle of January, I was sitting on the steps of our trailer glaring at the ominous gray clouds that loomed above the deserts of Ridgecrest, California. I had been preparing for the Fire Mountain 2012 race, for months and now the weather seemed resolved to ruin it. Because of the conditions, the start of our race had been postponed by a half hour. While we were waiting, the thirty mile an hour winds howled their glee. During the wait, I went over in my head the layout of the ride. We had three loops, the first lasting twenty-two miles, the second, eighteen and the last only ten. Each one began and ended in camp, and we had mandatory thirty minute holds at the end of the first two loops. Vets were required to check our horses at each hold, ensuring that they were fit to continue. Finally it was time to go, and my trainer, Shelley, and I swung up onto our horses. Along with forty-one other riders, we set out onto the trail, the sound of one-hundred and sixty-four hooves marking the beginning of what was to be a grueling day.

Picking up a swift canter, Shelley and I flew down the trails of our first loop, calling, "On your left!" or "On your right!", warning riders of our intentions to pass. In no time at all we were leading the pack. Eventually we were so far ahead, that those behind us weren't even visible. Ahead of me, Shelley and her horse Impact, slowed to a brisk trot, not wanting to tire out our horses, but still keep good time. My mount, an average sized bay named Journey, quickly made his displeasure at his position in the rear known. Jerking his nose forward, he tried to yank the reigns from my hands, so he could rush to the front. Despite his lack of success on the first try, he continued to pull the reigns and toss his head. As the horses hooves ate up the miles, Journey's antics ate up my hands. At only a fifth of the way in to the ride, my hands were ripped and bleeding, the nerves in my hands waving pathetic white flags, begging to surrender. I ignored them, gritting my teeth and steeling myself to the pain. Almost two hours after the start, we arrived back at camp. Pulling my horse to a stop, I peeled the reigns from my hands, and grimaced at the raw, crimson digits. Peggy, a friend of Shelley's who had accompanied us, took Journey and had the vet check him over, while I tended to my hands. Our hold flew by, and it felt like only a moment passed between the end of first loop and the start of the second.

As we set off for the second time, the wind's enthusiasm rose. That morning the gusts had been thirty to forty miles an hour, now the gales had risen to a brutal sixty miles per hour. Pressing on, Shelley and I did our best not to be swept right out of our saddles. The horses dropped their heads against the wind and pinned back their ears. We trotted on. Then we kept trotting. And we trotted some more. I found myself almost in a trance, hypnotized by the steady motion, oblivious to the wails of the wind and screaming of my overused muscles. Abruptly, my blissful meditative state was interrupted.

"We lost the trail," Shelley announced. Disoriented, I scanned the area and realized she was right. The hoof prints we had been following had disappeared. As we retraced our steps, the muscles I had previously been unaware of began to clamor for my attention, like overzealous kittens with no regard for their claws. The rain that had previously been light enough that is was not a bother, chose that moment to release a furious downpour, soaking each of us and washing away our hoof prints. A poor imitation of Hansel and Gretel, we were forced to wait until another rider came by to redirect us. After what felt like hours shivering in the rain and wind, the clipping of hooves could be heard and a soggy blond and her bay could be seen heading towards us. We met them halfway, and working together made our way back onto the correct trail. Our second break and vet check, I slid off Journey, and with all the grace of a dead fish, collapsed on the ground.

Lying in the dirt, watching as stars twinkled in my vision, I prayed for the day to finish. Once again, Peggy took my horse, looked me over and banished me to the trailer for repairs. The wind that had once seemed like a curse, suddenly became the only thing between me and a face plant; the gusts formed hands that held me up till I flopped into the trailer. I took inventory of my body. Hands: shredded. Head: felt like it had been hit by a semi. Actually, everything felt like I had been hit by a semi. Shelley and Peggy eventually made their way back as well, and Shelley collapsed onto the bed next to me. Her wavy blond hair was matted around her head, and the black, waterproof rain jacket she wore now resembled a used garbage bag. Choking down a Gatorade and half a peanut butter sandwich, I drifted into restless unconsciousness. Peggy woke me twenty minutes later and pulled me to my feet.

"It's time for you to get back on." I swayed; she frowned. "You can quit if you want. No one will blame you." Quit? That had never occurred to me. I could stop now, and not have to suffer through those last ten miles of hell. However, in a sudden fit of madness, I pulled up my hood and stepped outside.

"I am going to finish this ride if it kills me." Peggy gave a satisfied nod while she helped me onto Journey. Fifteen minutes later, I was regretting ever having sat on a horse in my life. The desert looked as bad I felt. Its skeletal hands reached for us, trying to hold us in place; and it's screeches warned us of perils to come. Releasing its final act of fury, the sky liberated a nation of hail, that pounded us relentlessly. Each turn we made, I told myself the finish was just around the corner. After I had convinced my enervated body dozens of times to hold out just a moment longer, the finish line came into view. Never have I been so happy to see white chalk in my life. Summoning the remaining fumes of our energy, Journey and I stepped over the tarnished white boundary of the finish line that marked the joyous end of our race.

Trekking the short way from the finish line back into camp, my adrenaline spiked, giving me much-needed boost of energy. I was high off my accomplishment. Few people can say that, "Yes, I have ridden fifty miles, in the desert, on horseback, in seventy mile per hour winds, rain and hail." Journey and I won First Place Junior, and the plaque still sits on the fireplace mantle at home. When I look at it, I am reminded that if I can make it through fifty miles of hell, there is very little I can't do. Although I still wonder what in the world compelled me to get back on my horse for those last ten miles, I would do exactly the same thing again today. Whether I am at a race, or attempting to complete some other seemingly impossible task, this incident acts as my inspiration to continue. Fire Mountain taught me that, regardless of the circumstances, if you persevere you will be rewarded.