Shortly
after we came back from England, we got to spend the money we raised by
persuading ourselves that we could sell one bike. So Noiton went
to live with a friend, and we went out trailer shopping with the proceeds.
The result is the gloriously blue trailer you see behind Plum
in the photo. We accept that the colour is, er, distinctive. At least the
black tyres match the black truck.
This trailer is as old as I am, as a 1966 Miley (Miley being a nice solid make of trailers that last for a long time), and needed some work. We only really discovered that it needed “some” work after we took Provo up to visit a friend in the foothills as a trailer-arrival-celebration (and we also fetched Mouse home from her three month sojourn in the foothills). Poor Provo scrambled terribly around left-handers when we stupidly loaded him in the off-camber side. And we subsequently discovered that part of the problem were the three layers of plywood lining the sides, covering up 32 years scrambling horse damage.
So there began a month of trailer overhaul. Not fun, but very industrious. We stripped out the wood in the sides and most of the floorboards and set about replacing it.
And
on Saturday 11 July, we finally finished and once again set out in celebration,
by taking Provo up to the foothills. Patrick had a bike loaded in the back
of the trailer for him to ride about on the twisties, while Ann and I adventured
in the Middle-Fork-American River canyon on horseback for 12 miles.
A large portion of the trail was single-track with a steep wooded drop off on one side. Provo would get nervous about being left behind now and again, and start mucking about [gulp] and at one point, one back leg went over the edge [double gulp]. If that wasn’t bad enough, it was also very overgrown (scotch broom over Provo and my heads, blackberries, bay laurel (you can taste the bay leaves when they go in your mouth ...several times)), so it was kind of tricky to navigate.
He got mostly nervous in the scotch broom and wanted to stay as close to Amtal, Ann’s horse, as possible. Unfortunately, despite being “out of shape” [yeah, right], Amtal may look like he’s ambling along, but at 16 hands and a super long stride, there’s no way in hell we can keep up. His “jog” (i.e. slow trot) was far more than I could cope with. Provo could probably have a good try, but I just don’t have the muscles yet.
Lots of steep ups and downs, dry creek crossings, wet creek crossings, rocks, boulders, etc. (lots of mane holding from Lucy). There were a few places where there were downed trees across the trail (Provo jumps. Vertically. Glad he has a thick mane to hold on to)(if I had the inclination, I'm sure he’d make a great jumper. But I don't fancy teaching him - I can see him: pop over some little jump, bounce, bounce, BUCK, off comes Lucy), plus lots of rocks, biting insects, and poison oak. Mmmm, mmm.
A little hairy in places, but good fun.
Suffice to say, I was hobbling almost as badly as Patrick the following day. My feet were sore for some reason. I'd taken the “easy ride” stirrups off Patrick’s new saddle (ooo) - they are kind of metal with wide footrests with foam on them. Much nicerer on your knees and feet. But we crossed one of the creeks on foot up to our knees, so our shoes were wet afterward and I think that was part of the problem - pruney feet.
But this is what we’re supposed to be doing. If we carry on in this vein, we’ll be fit in no time. Fit, or dead, either way.
Here
is Provo (left) earlier this evening, looking none the worse for
wear after his ordeal. It’s just because he doesn’t understand about 1000
ft drop offs.
Without his knowledge, I made a decision this evening to try and aim to do a 30 mile Limited Distance ride in late September, up near Georgetown. Ann tells me if I do it right, he should be ready. Whether I’ll be ready remains to be seen (as Provo and I huffed our way around four laps of the arena this evening... at least it’s a big arena. And it was over 90°F).
And
here is Mouse (right), living the life of the greenie horse. Her
training has definitely taken a back seat, now that Provo and I have to
get fit. So she gets to loll about in the pasture, getting nose sunburn
and schmoozeling with her friends over the fence. At least when Provo’s
out training, she gets to eat her supper in peace, without having to get
her bottom bitten with regular monotony. Such a doormat, that poor pony.