February 23rd, 2010
A horse is a horse…
I really like this photo because it reminds me of one of the worst dates I ever had. It really wasn’t the woman’s fault — I still blame the the horse! (And it wasn’t this noble steed whose picture I took this week in North Carolina.)
It began a long time ago when I was single and would do practically anything to impress a woman. This particular woman loved horses and she suggested we go for a horseback ride in Central Park and, fool that I am, I accepted. So what if I’d never been on a horse before in my life? I’d watched a lot of cowboy movies and if John Wayne and the Lone Ranger could do it, so could I. Well….
It was a beautiful fall afternoon and we headed up to the old Claremont Stables on the Upper West Side. It took about ten minutes for us to sign up to take a couple of horses out for a ride. We waited at the bottom of this chute until I heard a thundering noise and I found myself face-to-nostril with a giant horse head. I started feeling queasy but my date, an experienced horsewoman, jumped on top of her horse like she was out for a Sunday ride.
I couldn’t quite ‘jump’ up on my horse but, with the help of a step ladder, I got there. And then suddenly, without any direction, I found myself out on Amsterdam Avenue — in the middle of a NYC traffic on a f***ing horse!! I had no idea what I was doing except I knew I didn’t want to get hit by a taxi. These kinds of things never happened to the Lone Ranger.
I mumbled a few things at my horse — like ‘whoa’ — but it hardly mattered. I soon discovered that the horses at this stable were on autopilot. It knew what to do and without too much fuss, I was in Central Park atop this giant steed. That’s when the horse took off at a pace I can only describe as WTF. My date kept giving me pointers like “show him you’re the boss.” Right, like that was going to happen! I lived most of my life in a city housing project — it was nearly a complete animal-free zone, except for some neighbors.
As my horse — Wildflower or something like that — circled around the park, I settled in as best I could and prayed to God that no small child would cross my path. None did but it was like the horse sensed that I was a complete fool. It went under a low bridge and, while it didn’t succeed in knocking me off, the bridge did scrape my entire back.
“Pull on the reins,” my soon-to-be ex kept yelling.
I did what I could and soon made it all around the park once. My date wanted to keep going and I was game but my horse was not. He began heading back to the stables. “Make him stay, show him who’s boss.”
I knew right then this budding relationship was doomed. She would never respect a guy who couldn’t control his horse and, clearly, I could not control mine. I let the horse take me back to the stable where I jumped off and went to have myself a very strong drink — alone.
(P.S. This woman, who is now one of my Facebook friends went on to become something of a horse whisperer and if she wants to contribute her own memories of this fateful Sunday, have at it.)
Oh, Paul, I feel your pain. We had horses growing up — in the country! I can’t imagine riding one on a New York City street. Thanks!
As they say, “Always the rider, never the horse.” In this case, however, exception must be made — indeed, the fault clearly lies with the woman, because I myself remember riding in Central Park with Paul LaRosa, and we had an absolutely LOVELY time! Paul looked like real pro out there, making a complete circle of the park, always in total command of Wildflower (funny — in all the times I rode in Central Park, they never gave ME the same horse twice), looking as erect and noble on Wildflower as does General William Tecumseh Sherman on his steed in Grand Army Plaza on Central Park South. Indeed, on the day WE rode, Paul demonstrated both his mastery of his mount and his superlative athletic abilities by doing the equestrian version of the limbo –– not on foot under a thin, flexible pole, but from the back of his horse, under a low concrete bridge!!!!! As on the day he describes, he did get a bit of a scrape, because what he was attempting is an impossible feat unless you are Gumby himself — but Paul clearly viewed this as nothing more than an honorable scar of the sporting life, as no expletive, nor even a whine, escaped from his mouth, and he popped right back into cavalry position on the far underside of the bridge. I do remember that, soon afterwards, Paul said he was suddenly feeling thirsty, that he had decided to take a leisurely stroll back to the stable on Wildflower, and that I should certainly feel free to go on and canter around and around the bridle path as many times as I liked. Which I did, thinking what a gentleman (as well as a “Stud on a Steed!) was Paul LaRosa! Perhaps I lost track of time and didn’t realize Paul must have had a story deadline to meet for the Daily News, because when I arrived back at Clairmont — no Paul! He had simply disappeared. And — oddly after such a thoroughly enjoyable time — he never called me again … though I waited and waited and waited by the phone, ever hopeful of a reprise of such a fun date. I did later hear via the grapevine that Paul had taken up motocross racing. Which, after witnessing his derring-do in the saddle, I understood completely: Paul’s thrill-seeking personality simply required more horsepower under him than one-putt Wildflower could ever provide.
haha…well, carol, it’s good to see your horse sense has not obscured your sense of humor!!
Paul and Carol — too funny, both of you!! Having been married to Paul for quite a few years, I am well acquainted with HIS version of the tale (or is it tail?), but I found Carol’s rememberence quite entertaining! Stud on a Steed, indeed!