A former
employer had recruited me to setup a new facility in Ireland near the city of
Limerick (third largest city with a population at the time of about 100,000).
We found a house about halfway between that city and Shannon airport. Thus we
were introduced to country living.
Shortly
after moving, I learned that there was a horseback riding stable just a couple
of miles down the road and decided to sign my daughters (8/10) up for lessons.
On our first visit there, I found myself also signing up. I had always
liked the idea of horseback riding but on those very few opportunities that
would come up to go for a ride, I could usually find a reasonable reason to avoid
it.
But this
time I decided to go for it.
All went
fairly well for a while; true, I seemed to have a problem making the transition
to trotting - which is to say, I fell off a lot. For a while I was concerned
that might become a regular habit. And there was that time my riding group was
paused in the field for a bit and I decided it was a good time to have a
cigarette. As soon as my finger spun the wheel and it struck the flint, my horse
went nuts and took off at a full gallop. (A fervent anti-smoker, I suppose.) Somehow
I stayed on.
The horse
I was usually assigned was named Benson and was one of the largest horses in the
stable and one of the most skittish. True, I was a large guy myself so it sort
of made sense. We did get along fairly well and he could be quite calm -
until he was startled by something like a gust of wind blowing a paper bag in
front of him; his reaction could get a little scary but we were mostly able to get past those moments.
Still, there were those transition issues; a lot of embarrassing moments in
that arena, but I just muddled through and laughed with them.
At the
start, I was consistent in not going to the stables when it was raining; seemed
reasonable to me, but I did get a reputation as "the American who didn't
ride in the rain"; these chuckles were also more with amusement than
malice and this was, after all, Ireland; if you didn't ride in the rain, you
didn’t ride! So I bought some new rain gear made, for riding, and showed up
regardless of weather.
And then
one day, I came into the arena where something had been added, fences. When I
had originally signed up, as I reiterated to the instructor, my original goal
had been to be able to ride without falling off but I had no interest in jumping.
“But
horses jump”, I was told. “Well maybe they do here, but in America, there‘s no
jumping.”
Bottom
line, if I were going to continue at this Academy, I would jump. So I did.
While
this had been going on, I also became aware that there was a small airport just
down the road from the other side of the house where it was possible to learn
to fly a plane. Another aspiration for whole moments at a time; sign me up.
The first
time up was not much more than taking a flying tour while almost listening to
whatever the pilot was mumbling about in that heavy Irish brogue.
The
second time I was there was for classroom lessons on the “whys and wherefores”
of flying and then the next time it was back in the air. This time I did get
the “stick” and actually flew the plane long enough to get a feel for what it
was like. Landing the thing; ah well, something for another day.
And then
I asked a question: "How far over I could push the stick before the plane
would stall - and probably crash."
“Ah sure
and that’s no problem” said he, as he grabbed the stick and pushed it over
quite a ways - can't say for sure how far, I may have blacked out there for a
moment or two.
The next
time we went up, it was, of course, raining. So, I asked, "what about the
windshield wipers"; they were non existent.
Sitting
in front of the fireplace that evening, glass of brandy in hand, I thought
about things and decided I was spending too much time and money scaring myself.
I would give up the flying but stay with the riding.
And then
(don’t you just hate that phrase, you just know something is about to happen
that is not going to be fun); at any rate, this is what happens. Coming into
the dressage arena, I could see the fences were different. There were seven of
them, lined up so that sometimes there would only be room for the horse to jump
and immediately jump again, while at other times there would be room for a
stride in between jumps.
I had
been riding for over two years by this point, but had never seen this
arrangement – which, I would learn, was called a grid.
Off we
went; right away in going over that first fence, I knew I wasn't sitting right;
tried to make a correction and somehow made it over the seven fences.
And then
the horse went right and I went left. Landed flat on my backside with legs
straight out in front of me. Someone came over and asked how I was; "I’m
okay", I squeaked in a Mickey Mouse voice. "Just stay where you are
for a few minutes", someone else advised.
Seemed
like a good idea.
And then
I got up; got back up on Benson and did the seven fences followed by a proper
dismount.
I was
still hurting the next morning, but did make it into work where I spent most of
the morning on the couch in my office. Aside from not being able to straighten
myself out there was the strong feeling of a need to pass water on a constant
basis. I finally called a friend to take me to the Doctor’s where he took one
look and told my friend to take me to the hospital, where I would spend the
next week or so waiting for my bruised kidney to reduce to the point where I
could once again pass water.
(The
Irish hospital experience was interesting. My first room was a semiprivate -
meaning there were six beds. But I was soon transferred to a private room. Even
in a private room, you had to bring in your own soap and a towel and/or robe
along with pajamas from home. And if you wanted a TV, someone had to go into
town, find a store that would rent you a regular full-sized TV and manage to
transport it to the Hospital and set it up in your room. Good thing all that
serious pain kept me distracted!)
When I
was discharged, I was told not to ride for at least three months. That worked
out to be just shortly before the end of my contract. There was time for
one last ride with minimal jumping and they gave me the ending I most wanted -
an all out canter around the main field. (And all of that particular experience
was captured on a camcorder.)
So there
we have the riding and the brief foray into flying but there was one other
activity to be explored. A fellow expatriate had told me how much he missed his
habit of swimming three days a week. As it happened, the University of Limerick
shared our Science Park and had a near Olympic sized pool. I was on the Board
of Directors for that Park and the Board was Chaired by the Managing Director
of the School. Take it all together and my new friend and I had full access to
the pool and related facilities.
Now there
was a challenge. I was still a smoker at the time, a non-filtered brand with
very high tar and nicotine levels. I did one lap and was gasping for breath
like the proverbial "fish out of water".
But I
reduced the number of cigarettes/day from 20 to 10 and I hit that pool at noon 3-days
a week. By the second year I had worked my way up to half a mile at a slow but
steady pace.
That's it, that is how I spent that period of time which is
commonly referred to as "mid-life". (Being in my 40’s at that
time, I certainly hope that was my middle age since that means kicking around
more than a little while longer and that would be a good thing, I think.)
I guess you could say that those activities were aimed at getting
into some kind of shape - or at least staving off the advancement of aging or
simply drifting through the traditional mid-life crisis.
But whatever the reason and whatever you call it, that is what
happened.
(Incidentally, The younger daughter gave up riding almost right away while the older stayed with it 'till we left the country - never a problem.)
