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While I have riding students more than half my age, I have to admit a slight bias to the group I affectionately call my ‘Boomer Broads.’ These are lifelong riders who perhaps took a break from horses for various reasons but are now back on their game, super focused and excited with the prospect of training regularly and perhaps even competing.

(Even if that means taking a discreet trip into one of the horse’s stalls for a wee before swinging their leg over the saddle.)

One has to give a nod to one’s age, but that’s all age gets: a nod, then it’s elbowed out of the way as training commences. The breed origin of each horse sounds as if one closed their eyes and stuck their finger on a map of Europe: Lower Saxony, Oldenburg and Norway. Brutal South Carolina summers were never considered when these breeds were developed. Even in cooler months, these horses, unlike, say, the fine-skinned American Thoroughbred, are heavier, hardier and sport more of a diesel engine. They take a little extra time to warm up, and like all horses (as well as humans), they are either right-handed (hooved) or left. This means it’s up to these lady riders to keep the 1,400 lb bodies of their mounts aligned and balanced with a touch (or shove) of their calf, knee, thigh or all three, as well as have the ability to weight a particular seat bone to influence direction and bend in the horse’s body. 

Calves, knees and thighs that in the past, along with a shoulder, have been encased in plaster and held together with plates and pins after bad falls (not always off a horse, but enough about that pitcher of ‘Ritas…). Despite this, we Boomer Broads, serious as a heart attack (and taking daily aspirin to prevent one), are out in our respective barns before the sun is up, mucking out and feeding before gathering, often at my farm, for their twice, and even thrice weekly lessons. One rides a very young and green gelding, about three stories tall, blithely ignoring the potentially raised eyebrows of others (‘Are you sure you should be riding a youngster? You know how unpredictable and nervous they can be…) and I generally get on anything. The secret is to ride as correctly as possible and hope you can trust the consistent training you’ve given your horse. But at the end of the day, just as dogs are natural predators and despite all efforts, Fido might ignore your command to sit and dash across the yard to savage your neighbor’s cat, horses are animals of prey with their giant eyes—the size of 8-balls—stuck on either side of their heads, like Annie Lennox, and unbeknownst to their rider, have spotted a dog in the field behind them and bolt, as they are animals of flight when frightened.

Essentially, we’re riding giant deer. Giant, carrot-eating deer.

And we’re riding them in helmets and sports bras (so that we don’t have to redo our make-up when we trot), although I don’t include myself in that group—I actually just wear a sports bra to be sarcastic. But we are riding these huge, young horses boldly forward, giving them confidence, even when we feel their backs and necks tensing as a neighbor begins target shooting or when July 4th fireworks are finally used up just before New Year’s. We ride them in the woods, in fields, and trailer them to different locations. We rarely go to, or host, dinner parties because we’ve got to be up early and besides, we’d rather hang out in the barn. We’re so sweaty Spanish moss is growing in our bras and hay is sticking out of our hair.

I have this vision that when we’re training, we Boomer Broads secretly morph into a scene from the film, ‘Cocoon,’ and we’re all 19 again. Until we vault from the saddle to the ground, and then wonder who these non-botoxed, creased-faced women are that we see in the mirrors following us around. We’ll defiantly keep riding until concerned family members pry the reins from ‘our cold, dead hands.’

And then maybe we’ll try pickleball.