I Give Up

OH, DON’T BE SILLY  I really tried. I did, I really did. But the dressage whip is the only thing Rebel respects, and it now seems pointless for me to ride without it.

Which means I gotta figure out how to get it from point A to point B.

I looked at backpacks, the kind that you load up for a six week sojourn in Bangalore, but I just couldn’t get my head round them. All those poxy straps everywhere, and springy kind of wraparound stuff so that, what? You can lash your Tenbas to the outside of your bag? So everyone gets to enjoy the aroma of your six week holiday.

And they really weren’t long enough. I was still going to have to cut a hole in the top of the bag, and despite considering buying a back protector, and possibly needing a bigger bag to accommodate that, I just couldn’t do it. The purchase was not in me. I didn’t buy the new bag.

Back to transporting the stick the old-fashioned way.

I feel conspicuous, carrying that thing around. I do. No one else seems to give a toss, but I feel like I’m only lacking a neon sign flashing over my head: Dominatrix For Hire. Hourly Rates.

I jumped off the 130 to wait for the 128. I shifted my bag further up my shoulder, and in one of those happy accidents that engender in me the mistaken notion that I am a genius, for some reason or other I shoved the grip of the whip under the handle of my sportsbag, so that it was anchored between my shoulder and said handle, and the stick cuddled close to my body, blending in with the blues and grays of my coat, and the black of my jods.

I held it flat with my left hand, and Bob was indeed the brother of me da.

Can’t sit like that, but it’s the moving about that I feel attracts the attention. Now, of course, this is not the case. No one can see it now, camoflaged as it is. It’s when I, er, whip it out to prop up against the window of the bus or the LUAS, that people suddenly notice I’ve got 100cms of whip in my hand.

It’s worth it. There was no debate about the canter transition on Tuesday night. This in turn inspires energy in Reb, and I had my first experience of feeling that he was going too fast. Additionally, because he was engaged, the jumping was mighty, belting at a straight sitting 75cms in the canter- ab fabulous.

I wonder if thus endeth the chronicle of the crop? I’ve even got a back up for when/if– when– this one snaps. Ach, it was fun, and an excellent opportunity to take lived life and turn it into narrative. Love that!

2 Replies to “I Give Up”

  1. I’ve often meant to ask this (and maybe someone has before and I haven’t noticed), but: won’t your instructors let you have a bit of space to keep it at the barn? We have a communal whip-pot of sorts (my favorite’s the one with the nubby handle). Or do you think it would be filched?

  2. It’s kinda like walking thru the streets of NY / riding the subway with a softball bat. How about a bat bag? Try Nike or Easton.

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