Let’s imagine that you’ve strapped yourself to a rocket. Now add muscle, flesh and a brain to that rocket. Seeing as the rocket now has a mind of its own and muscle to control its every whim. What would you say to that?

Maybe you already know where I’m going with this, but saddle up with me for the ride anyway.

I used to say ‘it’s all in a days work’ but this time with this horse it was different and it was the one ride that changed my life for a long, long time

Her name was Caddy, short for Cadillac. Not that she looked or rode like one. It was due to the fact she was built like one.
I wanted to call her Tonka, like the truck. That’s what she reminded me
of but the owners thought better of it.

Until I’d come along the owners would rarely name their horses because it was a step closer to getting attached to them and that meant that they would end up hanging onto them longer than initially intended. They owned a large Quarter Horse breeding farm and were very passionate about their business.

Well, when I came into the picture that year, they had 12 foals left, 9 yearlings and 5- 2 yr. olds most of them of the highest quality.

I had come into financial difficulty and asked a favour of them, to board my yearling filly in exchange for me working and handling their herd. They agreed whole-heartedly.

In the beginning I took the young horses and worked them to enable the vet or blacksmith to handle them safely as well as load into the trailer when sold. I also started working a few older horses to be used as trail
horses.

Even after the course of two years that I worked there, I still felt that I got the better deal. I still owe those two a hell of a lot for the opportunity. I say that because it was so enjoyable to me. Previously to this I was starting
horses or breaking them as they used to call it. But I sure loved working with the youngsters.

Now back to my rocket ride, I’ve never driven a Cadillac nor do I wish to, as the memory is still embedded in my temple. But when a simple chore turns rancid, is when you check your birth certificate for your age and then check your shorts.

Caddie was destined for the auction as she had proven she ate more then she was worth. She was the odd duck on the farm too, being a Belgian Arab cross. Don’t ask. The owner was a collector with camels, miniature donkeys and even racoons. We will put Caddy in with this bunch.

My task was to exercise her and tune her up a little for the sale.

Now, I’ve always round penned then lunge and then line drive when I train. Make sense right?

I was told she was green broke and she was. I was told that she could drive and she could. I was told she doesn’t buck but she did.

So, tell me what was the size of the last rocket you strapped your ass too? Some say size doesn’t matter, fine for them. I’m 5’2” 130# and Caddy was 16h and 1300#.

We all know that horses sense fear, well that is not all they sense. For whatever reason I was in a bad mood when I arrived that day. Not in my normal serene, Zen-like kind of place that I usually work in and she sensed it. Either that or we will have to put credit to the old adage ‘the infamous 9^th ride’, where things usually go awry.

I had had every sign not to ride that day and I chose to ignore them. I even opted not to lunge first like normal. Testing fate so to speak. I usually always worked with someone watching and even chose to forgo that small consideration.

After mounting and warming up at a walk I pressed Caddy into a trot to start. We didn’t even make it one revolution around the outside arena before blastoff. There was no countdown, no message from mission control; it was 0-60 in less than 3 seconds.

Houston, I think we have a problem. She just went rodeo on me from one end of the arena to the other. Now, I know I did everything right from that
point on. I sat back, heels down and I thought I had her at the ¾ point when she eased up slightly. But for whatever reason, not even my cursing
at her was going to slow her down. The fence came up faster then it should
have. I think it was the Belgian in her that turned the football field sized arena into a golf green.

I had already been buckling her up to the left with no effect, when she became conscious of the barrier and at the last minute agreed not to argue with it and cranked to the left.

From the ground I watched as she continued to pivot and buck the circumference of the arena and headed back towards me. I un-wedged my helmet from between the ground and the bottom board of the fence
and tried to get up in a slow and pensive way so as to not to disturb the
gravel in my ‘gitch’. Caddy, given a second chance to finish me off came back around to where I lay. I was thankful to see two people come
running to my aid but I was afraid they were moving too slow. If I had yelled for help, I didn’t think they’d have heard me over Caddy’s hooves pounding in my direction.

Hanging from the second rung, they got to me just in time to wave her off her path. As I hobbled to the house half carried by my boss, I could taste the warm salty brine drizzling from my head. His wife, who was on the phone
gave a quick “Call you back” and ran to the sink for a cloth. I let her nurse my head for all of five seconds not wanting to show weakness and hobbled off to the bathroom to survey the mess. Joking and laughing all the way but I am sure it was nervous laughter because I knew I was banged up pretty
bad.

My husband met us at the hospital to wait and I truly believe that if your wounds are self inflicted that your penance is to sit longer in the hospital waiting room.

Even though I landed and slid on my right side, the left hip wouldn’t hold up my weight. The longer I sat, the stiffer I got. So in time I needed a wheel chair to get me through to the viewing room.

To make a long story, not as long as it could be, I’ll skip down to where nothing was broken but my pride. I received four stitches, ripped tendon in my hip and I hyper extended my elbow. I couldn’t take a full stride for 5 months. I know I was damn lucky.

As all of you may know, the pain eventually subsides and we are left with the scars to write stories around or scars on our minds to hound us when we go to get back in the saddle. But nothing else is so embedded or engraved in my head as the look on my husbands face when
he first saw me. The anger and frustration didn’t out weigh the fear and concern, but it was still there all the same. We’d been here before a few
times but this time was different. To me it truly had that “this is the last time” feel to it.

I was turning fifty, I had a son who needed his mother and a husband who, up until now had not stood in my way so I could follow my dream and to let me hone my craft.

He’d been there the time before to drive me to the hospital for a broken leg. It was his show of support even though he didn’t like it much.

If the timing of my fall had been one to two seconds later my body would have either straddled the fence or I would have hit the fence post. Either way I’d be in a wheel chair right now or not here at all. Yes, it was a big
eye opener, and the pivoting point that changed my life.

So, to my son and my husband whom I owe the rest of my life to, I promised I would stop ‘breaking horses’. Oh, sure I’m sad about it but the reality of it all now, is at fifty I don’t bounce the way
I used to, simple as that. Now I’ve turned my experiences and my passive energy into writing fiction, dramatic horse stories and some poetry. It wasn’t
an even trade but I’m cool with that.

Oh and Caddy. She was eventually sold and with a warning sign around her neck from NASA “All systems go, 10, 9, 8, 7…

Cheryl Bruder

Author of My Mezeppa & Half Assed