A few weeks ago, I moved our small herd of cows and calves from one pasture to another. For this I chose my gelding, Little Mack, still a tiger at age 15, a horse who relishes the prospect of moving cows as eagerly as a football player craves the kickoff.
Indeed, Mack can be a little too much horse early in the task, so I've learned to get rid of a little steam by putting him into a fast lope for the first quarter mile or so. Then he's ready to settle down, responding to an ounce of rein pressure on alternate sides of his neck to cut back and forth and move the critters along.
On this particular occasion, I was loping Mack toward our south pasture when I noticed an annoying "slap-slap-slap" sound accompanying the rise and fall of Mack's canter. I was horrified to realize I was hearing my rear end hit the cantle of my saddle with each beat of the gait. I never bounce in the saddle, or so I've always thought. But the sound was unmistakable.
Traditionally, Western riders took pride in holding themselves in their saddles in such a way that their bodies showed little movement. Early cowboys gravitated toward smooth-gaited horses, often with some version of "single-foot." In lieu of that, a smooth trot would do. Posting was considered an eastern affectation and hardly practical for spending an entire workday on the back of a horse.
Regardless of gait, the cowboy held himself in the saddle, absorbing much of the horse's movement so that his own body appeared to move very little. The effect at the trot was exactly the opposite of the dressage rider, who moves freely up and down. At the canter, the cowboy seemed one with the horse.
It's this tradition I grew up with, so a slap-slap of my butt on the cantle was as alarming as if I'd suddenly discovered I no longer knew how to drive a pickup. With some effort, I silenced this annoying sound and proceeded to move the cows. But I spent a day asking myself what had changed.
My life has included a great deal of physical labor, starting with the stacking of thousands of hay bales each summer during my teens and continuing through decades of ranching mixed with teaching and academic pursuits. The result is a common malady of advanced middle age: lower back pain. Apparently, nothing about my back is operable, or even very treatable, but the pain is real, and I've learned to avoid it by controlling my body in a certain way.
And thus the annoying "slap-slap." Unconsciously, I was holding my lower back stiffly to protect myself from pain, and that stiffness prevented the easy flex that had always made sticking to the saddle at the canter a natural, harmonious act.
By the quantity of gray hair (including my own) peeking out from riding helmets and cowboy hats on most trail rides I've witnessed, it's quite clear that many regularly receive communication from the American Association of Retired Persons.
Yes, trail riding involves younger folks, but I fear that for every one we recruit into the activity, hundreds stay glued to their cell phones and video games. The bulk of trail riders seem to be baby boomers, and many are considerably older. All of us who love covering ground on the backs of our beloved horses wish to continue to do so just as long as we can.
The aging process can't be denied. What can we do to keep its interference to a minimum? Here are some problem areas, plus suggestions from a good friend and fine horseman, Billy Oley, MD.
Problem Areas
• Heavy torsos, weak legs. As we all know, weight gain in middle age is common. Combine weight gain with leg muscles grown slack behind a desk and two things happen on horseback, both of them bad. The center of gravity of the horse/rider combination is now higher, and the weaker legs impede the rider's ability to use the stirrups for support.
I've seen riders with heavy-torso-weak-leg syndrome simply topple off the side of a horse that gave a barely perceptible spook. Weak legs also preclude one's ability to grip with them and to plant them firmly into the swells of a Western saddle for further support should a horse act up.
• Poor upper-body strength. Also exacerbated by an overweight body, poor upper-body strength does more than make it difficult to throw a heavy saddle onto the back of your horse. Depending upon your mounting style (and your horse's height) it can make pulling yourself onto his back difficult, particularly if your left leg is too weak to flex from the stirrup and push your body upward. Once in the saddle, poor upper-body strength affects balance, quickness, and reaction time.
• Painful back. As we've observed, you'll tend to compensate for back pain by holding yourself stiffly, which hampers your ability to move with your horse. Back problems are horribly complex, and long before surgery is indicated, your doctor is likely to recommend medications to ease the pain. Make sure he or she knows you're an equestrian. The last thing you need in your system while aboard a green horse in April is a medication that slows your reflexes.
