Talos and I are standing at the edge of the lane, motionless. He stares intently down past the row of targets, ignoring the spectators, ears up and alert. I am staring in the same direction, but I can’t see what he does because he’s a friesian and like a damn giraffe. I don’t bother holding the reins – he knows we don’t go until the buzzer sounds, and they’re clipped on to my saddle anyway.
“Are you ready buddy?” I ask quietly. He flicks an ear – acknowledgement that he heard me, but we both know he’s ready and I didn’t need to ask. I let out a big exhale. Then the buzzer sounds and he launches forward before I even finish saying “Let’s go!!”

He settles into a smooth, canter, and I have my first arrow nocked before we cross the starting line. He’s not running fast, but his long legs eat up the ground. I shoot the first arrow and quickly nock the second. I don’t have time to look and see where my arrows landed, but I hear the same satisfying *thwack* 5 times in a row that says I at least hit the target.

We sail across the finish line and I let out a huge breath. Talos slows down and begins to bounce – *boing* *boing* *boing* – I am laughing as he almost launches me out of the saddle. He never was very good at downward transitions. I lean over and rub his neck. “Very good boy!” I say. He tosses his head – he already knows, but he likes to hear it anyway.

Later, I am sitting on Griffy. We are staring down the track. At least I can see it this time. He tosses his head and paws the ground. “Easy buddy, we wait.” I remind him. He tosses his head again and I exhale. I have my bow in one hand and the reins in the other – I know as soon as I drop them, we’ll be in the Kentucky Derby. The buzzer sounds and he is off like a rocket. I exhale, try my best to sit back, and pull gently on the reins while saying “easy, buddy, easy.” At this speed I’m not hitting anything. Thankfully his ears tilt back and focus in on me, and he slows down his pace to just below what Secretariat ran when he won the Belmont. I manage to knock an arrow but I miss the first target. He side-eyes me. “I don’t need your judgement, rocket horse,” I tell him as I draw the next arrow. He still thinks I’m lagging behind, but he slows a touch more – I hear 4 more thunks as we blaze past the remaining targets.

Well. At least we’ll be getting the time bonus.

He slows to a stop past the end of the track and tosses his head again for dramatic effect. I lean over and rub his neck, telling him “Excellent job, buddy. Maybe a bit slower next time?” He snorts. “Shoot faster,” he says. Fair enough.

I’ve had this dream for years. I can see every second of it – feel the sweat as we wait in the sun, feel the dust of the the track rising in clouds behind us, feel the arrows fire off my bow in rapid succession.

There have been times over the last year or so when this has seemed so out of reach, I’ve told myself to give up on it. Maybe when I was younger, before I learned that bones break and backs hurt and jobs get insanely busy and traffic is exhausting. But now maybe the reality of life is that it’s just not in the cards for us.

I’ve never been the most confident rider, but over the past year and a half I’ve developed some crazy anxiety. It’s gotten better, but it’s not gone – it still spikes up, even on Griffy and Talos, my most trusted equines.

I know this is common in older riders, but it wasn’t always this way. In 2023 I flew to The Netherlands and galloped a Friesian on the beach. I look back on that and wonder how on earth I did it.

Back in November, when Heather Lomax was visiting us, she asked if C. and I wanted to do a student clinic with Christoph Nemethy in May. We both jumped at the chance. Somehow the crippling anxiety I felt in the saddle didn’t occur to me, maybe because I was just thrilled at the idea of getting to train with a true master of the sport. Christoph Nemethy is practically the father of modern mounted archery, has a beautiful facility in Hungary that he teaches out of, and very rarely if ever teaches outside of Hungary. He served as the emcee at the IHAA worlds in September of last year.

(Also if you’re a dressage/eventing person and thinking “Wow, that name sounds familiar,” then yes, Bertelan Nemethy was Christoph’s grandfather.)

The clinic was May 15th and 16th; the “Oh my god what have I done” feeling didn’t kick in until May started. Funnily enough, it hit both C. and I on the same day. What in the actual fuck was I thinking, there’s no way I can go to North Carolina and ride a strange horse down a strange track in front of strange people.

I wanted to cancel so badly. If she wasn’t going I would have. I floated the idea of not going. She said let’s wait and see how we feel – which is a testament to her because she was dealing with her own anxiety and issues since her fall two years ago.

We were flying out Thursday. On Monday one of the lesson horses colicked. I told her, if she felt she couldn’t go, no hard feelings (ohpleasecancelohpleasecancelohpleasecancel)

M. told me if C. couldn’t go, I should go on my own. I told her if she said that again she was walking home. I composed the “So sorry we won’t be there” message in my head 100 times.

By Wednesday, the colicking horse was much better – no rolling, eating and drinking, pooping like normal. Damn it. I mean….I’m glad she’s ok! (I really am, she’s a great horse.)

On Thursday we left.

I made a mantra for myself: “Breathe. Drop your shoulders. Don’t make it weird.”

I reminded myself that I’m an adult and no one can make me do anything I don’t want to do. If I don’t feel comfortable I can leave. I can decline to get on. No one wants us to get hurt. I woman who’s farm this was at supplied horses to the World’s…these are safe, experienced, horses.

Breathe. Drop your shoulders. Don’t make it weird.

They split us into groups and assigned us schedule times. It was an arena group lesson, ground archery, then a track session. C. and I were in the morning arena lesson group. And my assigned horse was named Fury.

Breathe. Drop your shoulders. Don’t make it weird.

The organizer told me to go get Fury out of his pasture – he was a white Arabian. I tell you I almost took the car keys and drove away right then. But I put on my brass ovaries and went to the pasture.

Let me tell you how thankful I am for all of Anna Blake’s training. All the horses (4 or 5) looked up with friendly curiosity when I entered. I breathed and greeted the ones who came up to me. Fury was standing under some shade trees, watching me. He probably knew I was holding his halter. I walked up to him in an arc, and stood next to his shoulder. I exhaled a few times. He turned willingly to get the halter on, and I felt like he said “Well aren’t you polite!”

He turned out to be an absolute saint of a horse. We had a lovely ride in the arena. He stayed focused on me, he went slow, and was calm as could be. I made myself breathe. The only thing we didn’t do was canter – of course I have before, but I just felt like maybe that’s something we can tackle another day.

Later that afternoon, it was track time. We saddled, up, walked down there, and I hopped on. And instantly, my anxiety took off like a rocket. Fury was perfect. He stood quietly. He walked calmly. He didn’t care about the people, the noise, the other horses, anything. I think maybe he looked at the field across the road once.

And I just couldn’t do it.

No amount of breathe, drop your shoulders, don’t make it weird was helping. So I got off.

C., who was mounted on her adorable appaloosa named Gumby, rode by and saw me on the ground. “Are you ok?” She asked. I nodded. “I just can’t,” I told her. She understood.

Other people started to notice which was of course embarrassing, but honestly, I’ve been “The Person Who Can’t” so often I was used to it. The organizer, the teachers, even people who I recognized from them competing at the World’s came over to ask if I was ok, as I visualized a hole opening up in the ground to swallow me whole.

I waited for the usual self-hatred spiral to start….why are you like this, why can’t you just do it, the horse is fine, all you have to do is sit there, YOU HAVE LITERALLY DONE THIS BEFORE.

But oddly enough it didn’t. I was embarrassed, but I didn’t descend into needing to go cry out my shame in the barn. Everyone was very kind and supportive which often makes it worse, but this time I was just like you know what, I knew this might happen coming here, I’m actually pretty proud that I was able to ride in the arena, it’s fine. They told me to just keep hand walking him and watch everyone else.

Fury’s owner came and walked with us. She asked if I wanted to be led down the track. I did not but I said maybe we could try it at the end. Then she said why don’t I just get on him, and she would lead him around. That actually seemed….possible?

The organizer came over and very kindly assured me it was fine and if I wanted to be led down the track I could. I got back on and didn’t feel my anxiety shoot through the roof again. We did some weaving and figure 8’s through a few random T-posts.

I said alright….let’s walk down the track.

It was…uneventful.

They said we were going to do two shooting runs. They said it was ok if I was being lead. I was reluctant….but I agreed.

And we did it. Two runs. I hit….some amount of targets. Couldn’t tell you how many or if I even scored any points. I did it.

Holy shit.

I did it!!!!!

I’ve never been brave enough to get back on after I had to get off. I don’t know why this was different. But man…….it felt good.

So we’re probably not going to be thundering down the track any time soon….but someday, it seems like it just might be possible.