Leslie Law and Shear L'Eau at 2003 Rolex Kentucky CCI****

Among eventing's sometimes larger-than-life personalities, Leslie Law is about order and understatement. His performance at the 2003 Rolex Kentucky CCI**** with two horses, for instance, happened more or less under the publicity radar while three of his countrymen waged a high-profile tussle for the top placing. Yet, to use a favorite phrase of his, at the end of the day he'd …

• compensated for a sticky start in the dressage phase with immaculate cross-country (two of only 16 double-clear trips among 55 entries) and careful show-jumping, finishing fifth—up from 15th after dressage—on worry-prone Shear L'Eau and 14th (up from 47th!) on volatile Diamond Hall Red.
• highlighted his cross-country coup by being the first and one of the few to take the direct route over the intimidating new double corners atop the Lexington Bank.

Whatever the riding level, there's always more to learn about every horse, and Shear L'Eau's foot-perfect trip in particular left Leslie "terribly excited" about the Irish-bred gray's future. Against this background, an opportunity to spend time watching and talking with Leslie during the Rolex weekend became a look inside the thinking, as well as the riding talent, that go into his producing a consistently world-class performance.

'Riding in a Ring Comes Later'
Leslie's career—among whose highlights are team gold in the 2001 European Championships, team bronze in the 2002 World Equestrian Games, team silver at the 2000 Sydney Olympics and a Badminton second (2000) and third (2002)—got his start when he joined Britain's Pony Club after learning to ride at age 10. He was "bitten by the bug" of eventing as a result of Pony Club activities, helped along by hunting-field mileage: a background he says many top British eventers share. "There's probably no better grounding for riding cross-country than going out on a cold, wet, dark winter day, slopping around in mud, and learning to tackle whatever comes your way. Riding in a ring comes later."

His parents provided plenty of support, though not the financial kind. "My father had a small transport business; my mother did the secretarial and book work. They couldn't afford to buy me good horses, but they've been very good at encouraging me in what I wanted to do. It was up to me to find a solution to the problem of getting access to horses."

To build a foundation in the sport, Leslie also needed access to quality training. "I think it's very important in the early days to base yourself with a good professional rider and learn the trade—not only the riding aspects but the business side, how to work with owners—before you try to set out on your own." An opportunity to do just that arose in 1983, when, near his parents' home in Hay-on-Wye, 18-year-old Leslie happened to meet Virginia-based jumper rider Ian Silitch. Their conversation, comparing US and British systems, resulted in an invitation to come to Ian's as a working student.

Thanks to Ian, Leslie spent "a very beneficial two years" in the States. "I learned to ride in a soft, forward seat with the horse's rhythm, using very little hand. On the US hunter/jumper circuit, I wateched great riders like Rodney Jenkins, Leslie Burr [now Howard], Conrad Homfeld and Joe Fargis. I did very little competing, but I rode Ian's horses—mostly American Thoroughbreds then—at home. Watching at ringside what he was doing so well helped me visualize what he was trying to educate me in. The more you can see how different people do different things, the more goes into your own riding 'encyclopedia.'"

Other top British horsemen Leslie cites as influences include Christopher Bartle and jumper rider and trainer Rowland Fernyhough, from whom Leslie's sponsor Jeremy Lawton of Shearwater Insurance brought Irish-bred Shear H2O—full older brother to his Rolex mount Shear L'Eau—as a 5-year-old in 1995. And, he says, "You can pick up an awful lot just by watching—for instance, watching what the good riders are doing as they work their horses in for dressage. Use your eyes; that's for free."

More than 15 years of hard work and watching have brought Leslie to his "very fortunate" situation, with five horses capable of competing at CCI**** level, others coming along at Advanced, and a group of 5 year olds just getting started.

A key part of Leslie's role in the business is working with his horse's owners. "I think you have to give owners fun. That means you have to give them time. They want to talk about their horses, which is why I make phone calls at the end of the day when I've been riding since 7 a.m. I want to ride' I live for it, it's what makes me tick—and they make it possible."

Leslie also makes time to help eventing's next generation. Riders who train with him include Kylie Roddy, who rode on the gold-medal British team for the 2001 European Young Rider Championships. In 2002, Leslie accepted an invitation to coach California's North American Young Riders eventing team for the NAYRC, held in Illinois; he enjoyed the experience so much that he signed on to coach the same team for the 2003 Championship, in Bromont, Québec.

Wilson, North Carolina, has been warm, breezy and hazy. The haze, however, was different than that I remember settling around Denver and her foothills. You could play Coldplay's first single right now if you want; it would fit. The haze, like everything else--well, it was all yellow.

Sidewalks, windows, front porches, children, shopping carts, pastures--and especially cars--were covered in a canary yellow patina of tree pollen. And I'd never seen such aggressive pollen.

My daily routine was to drive to the barn before I headed to the restaurant. I'd hose off the car, but it was yellow again before I reached the end of our driveway. Nothing could escape being dusted, including the horses.

The horses looked like knick knacks from the home of someone who never cleaned. Vander, Brownie, Mandy and Justin were dusted yellow, but Madison had it the worst. With the coating of fine, golden pollen her beautiful, black coat actually looked green.

"Oh!" exclaimed Madison, looking at her coat with a horrified expression. "Oh, my! I've mildewed!"

Brownie, oblivious to Madison's commentary, stuck his face deep into the new, lush carpet of Bermuda grass and took a mouthful. When he lifted his head his entire muzzle was yellow.

He sneezed and blew his mouthful of half-chewed grass all over Vander. Vander looked with disgust at the bits of moistened grass mixed in with the yellow pollen on his back.

"Thanks, Brownie," Vander said, "but I can get my own."

"Sorry," said Brownie sheepishly, wiping his nose on his front legs.

"That was hilarious!" remarked Hazel. "You horses are covered in dust!"

Our dog Hazel, still chuckling, rose from her resting place in the grass beside the horse trailer and instantly disappeared in a thick yellow cloud. She coughed continuously during the seconds before the pollen was carried away by a breeze.

"What was that you said?" asked Vander.

Except for several additional coughing fits, a very yellow Hazel disappeared silently behind the barn.

Kimberly figured this pollen attack was as good a reason as any to teach Justin how to take a bath. As usual, he stood still for her as she put his halter on. Justin also led like a little, four-legged angel.

He even cross-tied in the wash stall like he'd done it a million times. But, as soon as Kimberly turned on the water, he began flipping out like he was being attacked by thousands of crinkly plastic bags.

Justin kicked with his back legs, he kicked with his front legs, and he even bucked. Kimberly kept a hold on his lead line and, despite his tantrums, Justin remained securely latched into the cross ties.

Kimberly resumed spraying his legs and belly. Justin kicked, but with less energy. After a few more seconds of being sprayed, Justin relented. He stood still as Kimberly moved the spray of warm water up his legs, across his belly and over his back.

In typical Justin fashion, he took about 15 seconds to get used to this entirely new activity. Kimberly sprayed his back, returning to his belly and legs before turning off the water.

Kimberly walked to retrieve a squeegee from the trailer.

"Was that it?" Justin asked me. "Sure didn't seem like much of a bath, if you ask me. I think I need a massage, too."

"Let's not push it," I responded.

Kimberly returned and squeegeed several small sheets of water from Justin's coat. She then detached the cross ties and led him back to his pasture.

"He's really a great little horse," Kimberly said. "And look how clean he is now."

Kimberly had barely finished her sentence when Justin threw himself to the ground--in the most dirt-bare, pollen-covered patch in his pasture--and rolled like he was trying to rub his hair right off.

Justin rose in a thick cloud of dirt and pollen with a few coughs. His damp coat now held about 40 times the amount of dust and pollen it had before his bath.

Kimberly just sighed, shook her head and headed back to the barn.

"Wow!" exclaimed Justin. "I feel great! How do I look?"

"Yellow," responded Vander, with a pollen-coated muzzle and mouthful of grass.

"At least you're not mildewed!" whinneyed Madison.

Vander burst out laughing and blew his mouthful of half-chewed grass all over Brownie.

"Okay," said Brownie. "I deserved that."

Mandy wasn't interested in the shenanigans. She didn't care that she--or anyone else--was yellow. Mandy was only interested in the grass. In fact, she didn't even notice when Jack and Claudia pulled up by the barn with their pollen-covered horse trailer in tow.

Our kids grow up so fast these days. They're moving faster into life than I remember doing myself--in every respect. I don't know where the time goes.

Justin had gotten huge without me noticing. I was obviously spending way too much time at the restaurant. At least I had a chance to reacquaint myself with the horses while Kimberly spent the weekend taking in a horse show with her trainer.

Our new farmhand, Joe--together with our long-time horsey neighbors, Jack and Claudia--were taking care of the daytime farm duties. I was covering the late night snacks and bed checks.

Justin was growing up fast. In fact, he had grown so much that he could easily get his head over the top of the 5-foot-high no-climb fence. I barely recognized him. And apparently he barely recognized me.

"Who are you?" Justin said, tilting his head.

I was unshaven, without my glasses and still wearing my pinstriped skull cap. I couldn't shave, but I removed my hat and put on my glasses.

"Dad!" Justin shouted.

"Is that beef I smell?" Mandy said to me, making an unpleasant face with a wrinkled up nose.

"Ribeye steaks," I said, "among other things. I worked the grill station tonight."

"Ugh," Mandy added. "You stink. You stink as bad as those 1980s fast food television commercials."

"Where's the beef?" I asked.

"Where's the beef!" Justin shouted, seemingly amused with himself. "Where's the beef!"

"Alright, alright," I said.

"Where's the beef!" He exclaimed again. "Zoooooom!" he shouted as he disappeared into the darkness.

"Nice," I said. Mandy just smiled before turning and walking away.

Vander, Madison and Brownie were in their stalls. I gave them their late-night flakes of hay.

"Orchard grass?" Vander asked. "Where's the beef?" All three burst out laughing.

"You guys don't even know what you're saying," I commented.

"Wendy's," Madison responded.

"1984," Brownie added.

"It sure is a fluffy bun," Vander said. And with that, all three burst into another round of laughter.

"Touché," I said.

"Never underestimate the power of the internet," said Vander.

"Or horses," said Brownie.

"You guys use the internet?" I asked.

"Mom leaves her iPhone in the barn a lot," Vander responded.

"Aren't your hooves a little big for the touch screen?" I asked.

"No," said Brownie. "There's an app for that, too."

"Granted," said Madison, "a laptop and WiFi in the barn would sure be nice."

I said nothing, but simply turned off the barn lights and retreated to the house.

I lay down on the living room couch and glanced at my watch. It was almost 1:30 a.m. I was nodding off when Pepper climbed up beside me on the couch.

"Mmmmm," she whispered. "New cologne? It sure is...beefy."

"Um...I'm not sure I'm comfortable with this," I said, sitting up.

Pickles and Jack appeared on the back of the couch. They both squinted and sniffed the air.

"HA!" Pickles exclaimed. "Where's the beef?"

"What did you say?" I asked.

"Vander texted me a link to that YouTube video the other day," Pickles answered. "So, I emailed him back with a link to 'I Can Has Cheezburger.' I love it!"

"Mom leaves her iPhone in the kitchen a lot," said Jack.

"I see."

I don't remember falling asleep. But an earthshaking clap of thunder woke me up just before 5a.m. I was still on the couch. Pepper was snoring beside me. Pickles and Jack were asleep on my chest.

I pulled my phone from the pocket of my kitchen pants and checked the weather radar. Mandy and Justin usually stayed outside at night, but not during storms.

As horse owners, I think Kimberly and I used our phones to check the weather more than for making phone calls. In between television weather reports, and in the absence of internet access, cell phone weather forecasts were time--and life savers.

I glanced over the small, animated weather map. For such a tiny map, it looked pretty ominous with its bright patches of yellow and red. Also, a tornado watch had been issued for our county. Another clap of thunder woke the cats and dogs.

I slid out from under the groggy animals and into a rain coat and rubber boots. The rain was coming down in sheets and all routes to the barn were flooded. It would have almost been easier to swim.

As I grabbed halters for Justin and Mandy, I could just make out two miserable, soaked, horse-shaped forms in the rain.

It seems summer is almost here in eastern North Carolina: The thermometer hit 70 a few times this past week. While the large maple in our backyard budded and the lawn sprouted, I sighed. Seventy-degree weather is fantastic, but experience tells me it won't stop there.

Gone are the cold days and romantic, roaring fires in the wood stove. Gone are the surprise snow storms and driving with the windows open. Soon here are the sweltering summer days, struggling air conditioners and me, baking like a loaf of bread every time I get in the car.

I've never been a hot weather guy, but since everything else in eastern North Carolina is nearly perfect, I do my best to make it through the summers. Besides, maybe it'll help me sweat off a few extra pounds.

In addition to a change in weather, the new season also brings with it a new farm routine--though for us it's the transition between routines that's the toughest, especially with regard to blanketing.

One day the weather may be 66 degrees and rainy. At night, the temperature drops to a damp 44 degrees. The next day it's 60 but bright and sunny.

It's not warm enough to turn out the horses at night, but almost too warm to blanket during the day, though we don't want the horses' coats to bleach in the sun. And dealing with the borderline weather is exacerbated by the fact that some blankets are on their last legs come the end of winter.

Things that put blankets on their last legs: 1. Rips, tears and shredding.

"Look, Dad!" Justin shouted. "I got racing stripes!"

Justin jogged around in a circle as I approached his pasture. His blanket had new tears down each side.

"Wow," I said flatly, "and they match. How did that happen?"

"It wasn't easy!" Justin responded as he broke into a gallop. "Zoooooom!" he shouted as he ran down the fence line. "Vander, you were right! I can go a lot faster now!"

I shot Vander a look as I headed to the barn for the duct tape. Vander looked up at the trees as if he were bird watching and then casually walked away.

2. Disassembly.

Some disassembly is unavoidable. For example: losing a rubber grommet from the T-shaped clip on a belly surcingle. Then the surcingle comes unclipped every time the horse shakes or rolls. Usually you only notice this once you're inside your house, freshly showered and wearing clean clothes.

Then you change back into your barn clothes (unless, like us, you spend your entire day in barn clothes) and return to the pasture to fix the surcingle. Once in the pasture, however, you realize that the grommet is still in place and that the surcingle's clip is securely closed.

It is, in fact, the other side of the surcingle--the side that was, until very recently, expertly stitched into the blanket and now flaps lifelessly in the breeze.

"How did this happen?" I asked Vander as I waved the orphaned surcingle before his eyes.

"Those things just fall off," he responded, taking a slow sip from the water trough. "We really need better blankets."

"This used to be the most expensive blanket in the barn!" I shouted.

Again, Vander looked up at the trees as if he were bird watching and then casually walked away.

Other forms of blanket disassembly are less mysterious.

"Madison!" I exclaimed. "Where is your tail flap?"

I glanced at Brownie, who stood behind Madison with a bright blue tail flap hanging from his mouth. I held my hand out and gestured for Brownie to come closer. He walked to me and dropped the flap into my open hand.

"Those things just fall off," Brownie said. "I saw you coming and picked it up for you. We really need better blankets."

"Yeah!" shouted Justin. "We need better blankets!"

"Justin," I said, "duct tape will stick to smart-alecky horse muzzles, too."

"Zoooooom!" Justin shouted as he galloped away.

Disassembly can also lead to other problems.

3. Full blanket removal.

"It rained last night," Kimberly said. "I though you blanketed Mandy."

"I did," I responded as we walked towards Mandy's pasture.

Mandy glanced up at us as she picked at the new shoots of pasture grass. In a distant corner of her pasture lay a crumpled and soiled mass. Kimberly walked over to retrieve it.

"What happened to your blanket?" I asked Mandy.

The soundtrack of my life is greatly varied. Since becoming a sous chef at a top North Carolina restaurant, I've grown accustomed to the music of a professional kitchen: pots and pans clanging on the cook top, the rumble of high-powered ventilation hoods, screeching ticket printers, knives against cutting boards, and the chef's voice calling orders against a background of intertwined dinner conversations.

When I return home to the farm, it takes a few hours before I stop hearing the kitchen. It's like the ocean's echo in a conch shell, or the strange feeling of wearing shoes after hours of roller skating. (Yes, I'm old enough to remember many a junior high date at the local roller rink, as well as the rink's "referee" with the feathered hair and a whistle around his neck.)

After a shower, I crawl into bed beside Kimberly. Pepper is asleep on the floor beside the bed--her dog tags jingle and she sighs in her sleep. It's 2 a.m. and silent. For a long time I strain to hear anything other than the bed sheets rustling as I get comfortable.

Then, slowly, the country soundtrack surfaces. I can hear the hum of the fan in the wood stove. Our cats Pickles and Jack usually sleep in front of the stove. In fact, Jack is happiest when he's almost too hot to pet.

Pickles can't stay put for too long. Soon he's up, batting around a rubber ball. It makes a low rumble across the wooden living room floor, then falls silent as he picks up the ball and carries it upstairs. A moment later there is a series of hollow knocks as the ball bounces down the stairs and ricochets around the living room before the bouncing--and Pickle's footsteps--fade off to the other end of the house. Pepper sighs again.

Then comes a deep rumbling--so deep I can feel it before it's even audible. A train's horns call out into the night, and Hazel answers back from the front yard. Her barking continues after the train is long gone. I get out of bed and go to the window. I pull back the curtains and see Hazel jogging across the yard in the moonlight.

She disappears from view. It's quiet again as I return to bed. Kimberly shifts in her sleep. Pepper sighs. I'd never heard a dog sigh before I met Pepper. It's as strange and hilarious as when she crunches on a crispy cracker or corn chip. I smile and fall asleep.

In the morning, I'm awakened by Kimberly loading the wood stove. The ash drawer scrapes as it's opened, as does the heavy louver. Then the stove's front door creaks open and large chunks of oak and sweet gum thump against one another as Kimberly stacks them together. The door creaks shut, the louver and drawer scrape, and the fire roars as the fresh wood cracks and pops.

I hear dog kibble land in Pepper's bowl; Jack and Pickles meow like they've never been fed. Cat kibble lands in their bowl. A few moments later the house is silent. I get up as our mailman's truck quietly pauses at our mailbox before moving down the road. I could be wrong, but what landed in the mailbox sounded like bills and junk mail.

I get dressed and step outside. It's a sunny and breezy 55-degree day. I hear our 29.5 horsepower tractor working behind the barn. We hired a part-time helper to knock out my ever-growing "honey do" list. Today the manure pile is being distributed among the farm's many trees and bushes. Joe sees me and waves before dumping a bucket load at the base of a large oak tree.

As I approach the barn I can hear the horses knocking their empty feed buckets against the stall walls as they lick at the last few bites of grain and beet pulp. Brownie and Madison lean on their stall doors as I enter the barn. The large chains clang against the iron and wooden doors; above us our cat Sascha jumps down from a stack of hay bales and lands on the loft's plywood flooring.

Vander glances at me before grabbing a mouthful of hay. The hay rustles as he chews, then splashes as Vander dunks it in his water bucket. I can't see Macy in the tack room, but I recognize the sound of her footsteps and her leap to the shelf that holds the cat feeder. The kibble rustles as she paws at it to find the freshest pieces.

"Whatcha doin', Dad?" our cat Pickles asked, taking a seat beside me on the couch where I sat with my laptop.

"Typing a column," I said.

Pickles looked at the blank computer screen and then at me.

"I don't see any words."

"It's still in the planning stage," I responded.

"You should write about me," Pickles said, beaming.

"You doing what?" I asked.

"Telling jokes."

"OK," I agreed, "let's hear one."

"OK!" Pickles exclaimed. "Did you hear about the kidnapping on the bus?"

"No."

"Yeah," Pickles continued, "the driver had to wake him up! Get it? Kid-napping? AHAHAHAHAHAAA! I love that one!"

I shook my head.

"You're not typing anything," Pickles said. "Here, let me type it in for you."

Pickles crawled up on my belly, and, after thoughtfully studying the laptop keyboard, pressed a few key combinations with his front paws.

kjdlfcdekidfjdoksij8ue3e9iw23

"Feel free to use that one," Pickles added.

"Thanks. You've been a great help."

"You're welcome," Pickles responded, looking sleepy.

As Pickles purred himself to sleep, I turned off the computer and headed to the barn.

"No idea for your column, eh?" our dog Hazel asked as I stepped outside.

"How'd you hear that?" I asked.

"News travels fast around here," she responded.

"Fine," I said. "What's your idea?"

"OK, I've got an idea for a series of stories about a canine superhero," Hazel said excitedly.

"Starring you, I suppose?"

"That'd be great!" Hazel responded. "And we'd call it 'Southern Fried Ninja Dog.'"

"Southern Fried Ninja Dog?"

"Yes," Hazel said, matter-of-factly. "And the first adventure would be based on what happened here two nights ago."

"What?" I asked. "When you wouldn't stop barking and running around the yard?"

"I saved the farm from a cougar! A cougar!" Hazel shouted. "I chased it into the big oak tree!"

"Wow."

"Unfortunately," Hazel said, "it got away when I was distracted by you yelling at me to shut up."

"I see."

"Southern Fried Ninja Dog," Hazel said.

"I'll think about it," I said, turning toward the barn.

"Hey," Hazel said, "did you hear the one about the kidnapping on the bus?"

"Yes."

I was barely half way to the barn when another cat Sascha stopped me.

"An aging, nearsighted sentry dog," she said.

"What?"

"Your column will be about an aging, nearsighted sentry dog who mistakes humble barn cats for cougars and chases them into trees."

"Sounds familiar," I said.

"All too familiar!" Sascha added. "Thank goodness someone told her to shut up or I'd have never gotten away."

"And this column will be about you?" I asked.

"No," Sascha answered. "It's more universal than that. I'd like to think the story is about 'everycat.'"

"Everycat--got it."

"I have a nap to take, but you can interview me after that," Sascha said.

"Thanks."

In the barn, our horses Vander, Madison and Brownie were debating their own ideas for the column. I didn't want to know how they'd found out about my writer's block.

"You should write about Brownie pooping in his water bucket," Madison said with a giggle.

"I think you should write about Vander ripping the tail flap off of Madison's blanket," said Brownie.

"I think you should write about how you gave us a bunch of treats," said Vander, "like, now."

"Write now?" I asked.

"No," Vander said, "right now."

The animals were wearing me down. I handed out several treats to each horse.

"Yeah," Vander said. "This column is practically writing itself. Can I get another cookie?"

"Hey," said Madison. "You should talk to Hazel about column ideas."

"Yeah!" added Brownie. "She caught a cougar!"

"And she's got some great jokes!" said Vander with a chuckle.

"I know, I know," I said. "The kidnapping on the bus? Yes, very funny."

The horses looked at me with confused expressions.

"No," said Vander, "I mean the one about the cowboy, the Appaloosa and the leprechaun."

"Yeah!" shouted Brownie. "Then the Appaloosa goes 'OK, little man, but what about the gold coins in my feed bucket?'"

"AHHAAAHAAAAHAAAA!" The horses roared with laughter.

"Man!" exclaimed Vander. "That dog's got a twisted sense of humor!"

I nearly tripped over another cat Macy as I fled the barn.

"One word," Macy said. "Kidnapping."

I didn't stop running. The horses' and Macy's laughter trailed off behind me as I neared the house.

Our other dog, Pepper, and cat Jack had joined Pickles on the couch by the time I came in and sat down. I was winded and sweaty.

Eastern North Carolina isn't made for snow, sleet or freezing rain. But that didn't stop all three from coming down during a single day this past week.

Schools and stores closed, tree branches and power lines sagged, and any traffic that hadn't slid into a ditch slowed to a crawl.

And forget making snowmen. The only thing this icy mix did well was turn the walk to the mailbox into a slippery, treacherous, hamstring-pulling, glute-busting--and potentially deadly--outing.

Even if you avoid injury, the minus-800-degree wind chill (my personal estimate) will get you. Unless the mailbox is stuffed with hundred dollar bills, it's best to skip the trip.

The walk to the barn wasn't any safer than the walk to the mailbox, but it couldn't be skipped. All the horses were inside. And despite what horses may tell you, they can't take care of themselves.

Which reminds me of some other things horses say that no one should believe:

• "I'm low maintenance."
• "I'm affordable."
• "I don't need special care like other horses."
• "I'm, like, totally bombproof."
• "I'm immune to worms, fire ants, horse flies, wasps and holes in the ground."
• "I'll take really great care of that expensive blanket."
• "Just give me the whole bale--I'll pace myself."
• "I don't even need a fence--I'm that well trained!"

Fortunately, our horses didn't have much to say on this cold afternoon. I suppose it wouldn't have mattered because we couldn't have heard them over the bitter, howling wind. Also, I think my ear drums were frozen.

I was bundled in several heavy shirts, a thick sweater, a down coat and a thick knit cap with a scarf wrapped around my face, but I couldn't keep warm. Even during the short walk to the barn I could feel my body temperature drop a few more degrees. If not for an invigorating fall on a patch of ice near the barn, I might have perished.

In some respects, conditions in the barn were better than those inside our house. Unlike us, the horses actually had free-flowing hot and cold water.

Despite running our home's wood-burning stove, two space heaters, central heat in the spare bedroom and bath, and leaving a trickle of water running through our most-likely-to-freeze pipes, the pipes still froze. We had no shower or bath, one working toilet and one cold-water-only sink.

Combining the fear of bursting pipes with my worries about the cost of the wood, gas and electricity we were using gave me a new, previously unattained level of anxiety. Luckily, Kimberly had a plan to help me relax: spend more time outside in the mind-numbing cold.

"OK," Kimberly started, "I'll drop these blankets in the pasture, and you grab Madison."

Kimberly sauntered off with the horse blankets and the camera bag. The sun had broken though the late afternoon clouds, and Kimberly thought it would be a good chance to finish taking some pictures for a client. I was just hoping the wind wouldn't carry us--or any of the horses--away.

"Brrrr!" exclaimed Madison as I led her from the barn. "What are we doing outside?"

"Blanket pictures."

"Oh, geez," Madison responded. "Only if I get to run around--it's too cold to stand."

Kimberly quickly changed Madison's blanket and handed me the camera. I handed it back. I needed a job with more body-warming movement.

"I'd better dress and guide the horses, lest I die of hypothermia," I said.

Unfortunately, Madison didn't need my help. Madison executed a perfectly paced lap in front of Kimberly and the camera and returned immediately to me for her wardrobe change. She obviously had no intention of spending one extra second outside.

"I have no intention of spending one extra second outside," said Madison.

"You want a treat?" I asked, reaching into my pocket.

"No time. Could you hurry it up with that tail strap?"

"Er... sure."

Vander needed even less help. He barely stopped moving long enough for me to get each blanket on him. At least jogging while securing his belly surcingles kept me warm.

We had a few blankets left to photograph when Justin started going crazy in his stall. Because we'd turned Ellie's old stall into a large feed room, Justin and Mandy were roommates during the bad weather. It was obvious Mandy had had her fill of Justin.

"Excuse me! I've had my fill of Justin," I heard Mandy holler into the wind.

"Maybe we should turn Justin out while we finish these shots," said Kimberly.

"I've had my fill of Justin," Mandy repeated as I entered the stall and clipped the lead line to Justin's halter.

Last year, in the third year of Denny Gentry's popular World Series of Team Roping Finales, he added a new twist to the event, the Thunder EquiGames. Now, while the World Series concept has been very popular among team ropers, fans weren't crowding into the equestrian center at Michael Gaughan's South Point Hotel and Casino to watch. Team roping has never been lauded as a stand-alone spectator sport.

The Thunder EquiGames, which incorporated freestyle bullfights, barrel racing and mounted shooting, looked to bring more fans into the stands. The first year wasn't an instant success, but after 2009's showing, Gentry is pleased that his concept is bearing fruit.

"The EquiGames broke its previous record by awarding $3,449,709 dollars in cash and another quarter of a million in prizes," he said. "The event exploded this year with every inch of available parking lot covered in horse trailers. The free style formatting mixed with traditional rodeo acts appears to be bringing a completely different feel to a highly traditional rodeo audience. This was clearly not a loose gathering of random horse events, but a complete production show."

In the following pages, we'll recap each of the World Series of Team Roping Finales, the barrel racing, bull fighting, mounted shooting and wild horse race, as well as the Double Dollar Horse Sale.

Bloomer Trailers No. 10 Finale
Lifelong Pals Find the Winner's Circle

As Jim Saunders and Richard Fry warmed their horses up in preparation for their final steer in the Bloomer Trailers No. 10 Finale, they didn't talk about their strategy, the steer they'd drawn or how to deal with the noise.

No, these two men, who as boys in Gatesville, Texas, were drug around to rodeos together by their fathers, talked about the money at stake and how they wished their fathers could have had the chance to run at the $100,000 they were about to have the chance to win.

"It was a fun experience," Fry said. "Denny puts on a great roping. He put it together and did an excellent job. Where else can two old wore-out sons-a-bucks like us rope for that kind of money?"

The answer is pretty simple. Nowhere. With the No. 10 (as well as the No. 13) offering $1,079,000 in prize money, they became the two richest ropings in history. In sum, Saunders and Fry won $106,000 each for roping four steers in 35.32 seconds. By comparison, the 2009 PRCA World Champions Nick Sartain and Kollin VonAhn won $106,292 on 10 steers during the Wrangler NFR.

And unlike the professional rodeo guys, both Saunders and Fry hardly roped together this year and until about five years ago, didn't rope at all since they were youngsters.
After making the Texas Circuit Finals in 1984, Saunders decided not to go to the winter rodeos and spend more time with his kids.

"I decided I wouldn't go to the winter rodeos and got involved in my kids' high school sports and next thing I know, I hadn't roped and barely been on a horse in 15 years," he said. "It wasn't intentional, it just kind of happened that way. I had some friends say, 'Man, you need to come rope with us. This new deal, this numbering system has come along.' But I still didn't do anything about it. Then when I started hearing about what Denny was doing and what these ropings paid, my friends told me I needed to get my ropes out. When I started back roping about four or five years ago, I was like, 'Where in the world did all these people come from?'"

]]> http://www.equisearch.com/horses_riding_training/thunder-equigames-and-world-series-team-roping-finales/feed/ 0 http://www.equisearch.com/community/lifestyle/married_dog_food_departures_012210/ http://www.equisearch.com/community/lifestyle/married_dog_food_departures_012210/#comments Fri, 22 Jan 2010 07:16:00 +0000 admin http://www.equisearch.com/married_dog_food_departures_012210

"Haaaaaaazel! Food!"

I stood on the back deck, holding a fragrant mix of canned and dry dog food. I scanned the back yard for Hazel. She jogged out from behind the barn, her tail wagging the whole way to the house.

"Thanks, I'm good," Hazel said as she hopped up the back deck's wooden stairs.

"What?" I asked.

"I'm good, I already ate."

"Hmmph," I responded. "Deer legs left by the hunters?"

"Don't mind if I do," Hazel said, hopping back down the stairs. She crossed the yard to a large sweetgum tree, retrieved a gargantuan deer leg from behind its trunk and disappeared into the woods.

I added "hiding animal parts" to my mental list of trespasses committed by our sweetgum trees. They seem innocent enough at first glance, but sweetgum trees are as troublesome as they are beautiful.

Sweetgums often lose large branches during wind or rainstorms. The likelihood of dropped branches is increased tenfold if a truck or horse trailer is parked nearby. We have the dents to prove it.

Sweetgums are also infamous for releasing bushel after bushel of spiked seed pods into yards, riding rings, driveways, pastures and barn aisles--or anyplace else you really don't want them.

And these "gumballs" decay so slowly that they're unrivalled at ruining lawns, getting stuck in hooves, twisting ankles and obliterating any dreams of walking barefoot through your lawn.

Yet the sweetgums remain in our yard--partly because they provide great shade during the relentless heat of the North Carolina summers; partly because of their beautiful autumn palettes of gold, burnt orange and crimson; and partly because Kimberly and I don't have the heart to cut them down. Technically, they were here first.

I picked up a dried gumball from beneath a patio chair and hurled it at a nearby sweetgum. It struck the tree with a satisfyingly hollow knock. A bright red cardinal fluttered from the sweetgum's lowest branch.

"Drats!" cursed a nearly invisible Sascha cat, giving me a dirty look as she crouched in the grass near the tree.

"Sorry," I hollered as I went back inside with my bowl of dog food. Pickles the cat was waiting for me just inside the back door.

"I couldn't help noticing that bowl of food you have," he said, his eyebrows raised in anticipation.

"One piece only," I said, picking out a round bit of dog kibble and tossing it to the floor. It rolled past Pickles, who pounced and batted it under the closet door.

"One more please," Pickles requested.

"No."

"Aww," he responded.

"Let's check the closet," I said, kneeling down and setting the bowl beside me.

I moved aside the vacuum cleaner, an ironing board, two boxes of Christmas ornaments and an old bicycle pump, revealing what was probably two year's worth of long lost cat toys.

I dusted off and piled up an assortment of fabric mice, plastic and rubber balls, rubber bands, hair ties and curled plastic bands from the tops of milk jugs.

"Look at all this stuff!" I exclaimed. "It's kitty Christmas all over again!"

Pickles said nothing.

I looked over at Hazel's bowl. Jack sat beside it with his face covered in canned dog food; he purred as he licked his tiny lips. Pickles darted across the floor behind Jack. Pickles had picked out all the round pieces of kibble and was busy batting them throughout the living room and kitchen. I sighed.

"May I take your bowl, sir?" I asked Jack, who seemed to be slipping into a food-induced slumber.

"Yes, thank you."

"Did you enjoy your meal?"

"I'd come back to this restaurant," he mumbled, slowly falling over on his side and snoring.

I took the bowl to the kitchen. The kibble crunched under my feet as I walked to the sink and then to the pantry to fetch the broom and dustpan.

I tossed a few of the rediscovered toys in Pickles' direction. As I swept the floor, he swatted fabric mice and rubber balls across the living room. Many bounced over--or off of--Jack, but he was too deeply asleep to notice.

I finished sweeping just as a truck towing a horse trailer pulled into the driveway. I went outside. Hazel barked. A catbird flew out of the lower branches of our holly tree and disappeared over the house.

"Drats!" cursed Sascha, glaring at Hazel from beneath the tree.

"Sorry," said Hazel.

The family that climbed out of the truck was here to meet Ellie. Kimberly and I had talked about downsizing and decided that Ellie and Vander would be "put up for adoption" to the right homes.

I stepped out from my morning shower. As I toweled off, water dripped onto the bath mat--and Pickles. He was purring while running laps around and between my feet, alternating between circles and figure eights.

Jack shook his head and went back to sleep in a spot of sunshine.

"You should pet me," Pickles said, pausing to shake a few water drops from his forehead. "You haven't petted me since before your shower."

I looked down at my feet. I seemed to be wearing thin tennis socks made of cat hair.

"You forgot to wash your feet," Pickles said.

"Thanks," I responded, petting him before placing my feet under the faucet and briefly running the water.

I eventually got out of the upstairs bathroom. Kimberly and I have a bathroom off our bedroom, but during the winter the upstairs bathroom is warmer. In fact, the cats often spend their days sleeping in the sunlight that shines in through the upstairs bathroom skylight.

Pickles raced down the stairs past me and was lying down, waiting for me when I reached the bottom.

"You should pet me. You haven't petted me since after your shower," he purred. Rather than argue, I leaned over and stroked his head. "See... don't you feel better now?"

I stood up and squinted out the living room window at the barn. Kimberly and I had saved up for a long time and had finally gotten siding put on the barn. We chose white barn siding to match the house.

But because our property faces south, and the winter sun is lower, the new, white barn was almost too bright to look at during the day. I wondered if the reflection off the white siding could give me cataracts.

On the upside, the new tin siding was reflecting more than the sunlight. Whereas Kimberly and I used to have horrible cell phone reception in the house, we could now get five bars standing near the living room window.

An unusual noise from the kitchen interrupted my squinting. I crept cautiously toward the sound, not because I was scared, but because I was still barn blind. My eyes had barely adjusted by the time I reached the kitchen.

"Urg! Oooh! Urg! Oooh!"

The unusual noises were coming from our dog Pepper. Macy was curled up beside Pepper on the kitchen loveseat. With her eyes closed, Macy kneaded Pepper's side and back with her full set of front claws.

"You okay?" I asked Pepper.

"Urg!"

"All right then."

Dr. Bob was soon to arrive to geld Justin. Pickles volunteered to help me get dressed, so it took three times longer than usual.

The thought of Justin's gelding had made me queasy since Kimberly told me about the appointment, but the procedure--which they did in the pasture--couldn't have gone smoother. It took just fewer than 20 minutes. Justin snored through most of it.

His lips were curled back, revealing all of his teeth, and his snoring nearly drowned out the conversation. Kimberly said it reminded her of how I sleep. She says some pretty funny things sometimes.

When Justin came to, Dr. Bob helped him up and led him from the pasture to his stall. I closed him in and leaned over his stall door.

"Am I special now?" Justin asked. "You said 'gelding' was something special for big boys."

"Well," I responded, "you're special no matter what, Justin." I was feeling queasy again.

"All right!" Justin whinnied, hopped a few times and winced. "My leg hurts."

"You need to take it easy," I said. "Being special takes a little getting used to."

"Yeah. You're probably right," Justin responded and sipped some water from his bucket.

"What's with the kid?" Vander asked me, leaning over his stall door.

"I'm special 'cause I'm gelded!" Justin shouted.

"AAAAHHHHHHHH!" hollered Vander and Brownie.

"Sheesh," Justin said. "What's with the old guys?"

"They're, um, jealous," I answered.

"Hardly!" Vander exclaimed. "Being gelded isn't something to brag about!"

"Are you guys gelded?" Justin asked Vander and Brownie.

"Definitely not!" shouted Vander.

"Not a chance!" yelled Brownie.

"Yep, they're jealous," Justin said, looking at me and nodding his head.

Perhaps Vander and Brownie didn't know they were gelded. Perhaps they knew and were in denial. Either way, I didn't feel like arguing with them.

"Are you gelded, Dad?" Justin asked after Vander and Brownie quieted down.

"No, but I hope to be someday."

"Don't worry," Justin assured me, "You're special no matter what."