Nag, nag, nag

I was supposed to write this article two weeks ago. I was going to say that riding was wonderful, a little dangerous of course, but in three years I hadn’t fallen off. Amazing, must be a record, too good to last … I cannot now write that article because last Sunday I came a cropper. I pen this with my right leg aching, my neck muscles whiplashed, and my ego severely bruised.

I and my trusty charge Thomas – big, burly, very keen – were careering around our usual end-of-ride field when the saddle started slipping. It was an odd sensation: I knew I was going to fall off and that the ground was quite hard. My life didn’t exactly flash before me in the 10 seconds or so that I had to contemplate the impact, but I did manage to compute quite a few possible injury permutations.

When the crunch came, it wasn’t too bad, though I was dazed for a few minutes and had a decidedly numb bottom. But nothing was broken – except the reverse jinx of never having fallen off. On reflection, it was probably all for the best. Never having fallen off had become a millstone. I had even had a premonition that this would be the week I lost the record – perhaps it was all wish fulfilment. So here endeth the first lesson: when you learn how to ride, you must also learn how to fall.

The willingness to risk life, limb and dignity all started on a whim. It was New Year 1992, and time for the annual, hastily abandoned resolutions. Proust? No, tried that, took a month to get to page 73. Learn Italian, buy a saxophone, cross the Sahara in an open-top 2CV? All ruled out by time, expense and thermophobia.

From somewhere came a crazy idea: learn to ride. Crazy because I’d only ridden once before, aged 10; because I was now in my mid-thirties and about four stone heavier than the ideal riding weight; and, at six feet four, would have to ride very large horses. My qualifications for this challenge: an interest, at times financially debilitating, in horse racing, and close proximity to Wimbledon Common and several stables. I plunged in, expecting a brief flirtation. Almost immediately, we were talking love.

I now ride about once a week, but if time, money and my creaking body would allow it, I’d ride every day. It is a marvellous physical experience, but it also has a psychological value. You stop worrying about job prospects and the mortgage when briskly trotting along a woodland path. You just have to concentrate, to the exclusion of everything else; and that makes riding the perfect therapy, and cheaper than any analyst.

Put aside your fears that you will have to mix with the “county set”. I ride in the heart of stockbroker Surrey and have yet to encounter any double-barrelled debs. Sure, they exist, but they’ll give a wide berth to your friendly local stable, preferring livery-only yards (ie stables that cater only for owner-riders).

The key to learning to ride is finding that friendly local stable. It took me three attempts, so don’t be put off by the odd bad experience – surly owner, unfriendly staff, petulant horses. Just don’t go back. A good yard has an undefinable “buzz”. The owner is always around, friendly, visible, voluble, sometimes having a joke at your expense (horsey folk don’t stand on ceremony). The staff – usually girls working for a pittance, or just to get the chance to ride – are having fun, even when tacking up (putting the saddle and other gear on the horse) and mucking out. The customers are chatty and generally get on with each other. Don’t worry too much about the state of the yard – stables were never meant to be pristine – but make sure the horses are well cared for, not too thin, not overworked, and that the tack is in good condition.

You will only like riding if you like the stable you ride at and the people you ride with, so getting that right it the first priority. A good owner will make sure you get a horse that suits your size and ability – a temperamental horse would be the worst possible start. The reason it took me three years to fall off was that I rode “bombproof” horses – not too fast, untroubled by traffic, highly unlikely to do anything untoward. Thomas is faster and less phlegmatic, and I now have to up my game accordingly.

Horse riding isn’t always a comfortable pursuit – drenching days, stroppy horses, the odd tumble along the way – but it’s worth it in the end. Which is why this Sunday I’ll hoist myself back in the saddle – and this time, I hope, stay there.

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