Has it really been 13 years?
I remember the beginning... the ornery filly, orphaned, bottle fed, and raised more with people than those of her own kind. Gary, living in her stall for months to keep her alive. Doctors, inserting IV drips for vital fluids... barely keeping the fragile life sustained... The life her mother tried to end. In the herd, a premature foal often has to be killed. It can be easier that way.
I remember my birthday, the day I got to take her out for the first time. Two years old, she was flirtatiously full of herself. She didn't walk, she strutted with springing gait and snorting fire with head held high. I let her loose and our interaction turned into the first of a game of 'chase.' Back and forth, one chasing the other, reversing roles at the turn. Once, I stopped for a break, only to look up and see her racing directly toward me in a dead run. I was about 75 lbs. to her 800+ and had nowhere to go. All I could do was continue to stare her down as time slowed to a frame-by-frame sequence. In the last moment, she tossed her head, sprung up in the air and twisted in the fashion of grace and flexibility into a half turn, landed and ran around my frozen body.
I remember her first rider. The poor cowboy whose job it was to get her used to the concept of saddle and rider. She was fine with the tack, with the weight, but not with the man! She had no brakes, and he had little to hold onto. Her arena work resembled a cutting exercise, breaking into a sweat-flecked flurry of hoof and flying tail, she was small and spry and could turn on a dime to shoot off in the other direction, spraying a cloud of sod as she skidded and spun in gleeful independence. With me, it was always different. I was 'hers.' If I so much as looked at another horse, she would fly into action, rearing on the hot walker, calling out, and having a full-out tantrum until I turned back. On her back, I was well cared for. She was quiet and gentle, her mind always at work.
I remember the shows. David, her first real trainer, was the crazy alcoholic with shaggy blonde hair, false front teeth, and a shady business reputation, but he liked me though, and taught me a wonderful foundation for future success. He too, had problems with my little rebel. She would grab the bit and just go when frustrated by his hands. This sometimes turned into, bashing his leg into the wooden fence as she strayed dangerously close to the railing, or tossing her head into his face, trying to break his nose. They never really did get along, unless harnessed to the cart. I became her sole rider. With David ready to jump in if Fastlane got out of hand, I taught her, and he taught me what we needed to know.
I remember high school. When no one understands, when sometimes you don't want to talk about it, when the world seems cruel and disjointed. There was nothing like the sight of my horse perking her ears at the sound of my car and running over to greet me with a loud call. In those moments, I couldn't wait and jumped onto a post. She would side-up to me so I could throw a leg over and we'd take off. Her mane in my face, the world at our back in complete unity and peace. There's no better therapy.
I remember our adventures. The mountains of Pinetop, the prairies of the midwest, the desert of Phoenix, the paved nieghborhoods... we did everything together. I taught her to walk on river rocks, carefully sliding and navigating with her nose low to see her way. We went to garage sales and let the nieghborhood children pet her nose. In the mountains, I was always up for a challenge... the steepest climb, the complicated decent... navigating trees, finding deer, scaring up quail. I taught her to manuever from my hands on the sides of her neck for guidance so I could focus on maintaining balance. We navigated past a shooting range once, over narrow bridges, and past a bonfire. I even taught her to open and shut gates for me and bow on command. Trust goes a long way. On the prairie, she stayed at our farmhouse during the fall and summer visits. Otherwise, Jean watched over her on the dairy. I was at college, she was only ridden when I visited twice a year, but she was always right where I had left off, although a little stiff at first. Fastlane would climb onto our porch for treats, allow my cousin's small daughters to ride bareback behind me with only a halter and rope... or nothing at all. There was the night of the tornados... she was shivvering from cold and I ran out to help. 70-90 mile per hour winds, sheets of rain, and nowhere to put her. Nowhere but the machine shed! The metal roof made a thunderous noise, but I covered her in blankets, brought out a hair dryer to blow her off, and talked to her until Lee came with a trailer to put her up in his barn overnight.
Now, it is time for her experience to be passed on. Watching her care for the youngest, most inexperienced riders reminds me of our years together. She is still mine and always will be, but there has come a time that she should be allowed to 'mother' the only way she can. She takes care of little girls whose shining eyes remind me of what that stage was like. When large horses are scary, but ponies have been outgrown. She still never ceases to make me laugh though. After my own ride today, the busy lesson schedule left us no room to tie up. As always in this situation, I just drape her leadrope over my arm and untack as usual. Today however, instead of sticking her head into the tack room as I put away the saddle, she decided to step up and through the door, squeezing into the tack room to check things out for herself. I turned around, face-to-face with her big, curious eyes. Nothing's a big deal anymore. Nothing seems unordinary with her. She's more intelligent, more kind, and has more heart than any other.
One of a kind, she's just Fastlane.
