It's a bloody horse not an emtb

[Zimmerframe]

The OH was Lockdown bored so made a montage of one of her giant rabbits... I thought seen as Rob had been kind enough to make the section, it might give an idea of doing a montage of your MTB... Pointless me doing one, it would look like Friday Fails.

Anyway, this is Iron Flash .. Stable names "Douch Bag"/"Flash Pants"/"Pantsy".

Originally an obscenely expensive Steeple Chaser, but was over trained, ended up with a damaged tendon so was sadly dumped and we rescued him.

At 600kg's he's a bit of a tank for a Thoroughbred.... He's quite a character and has a colourful history !

 

[Zimmerframe]

If that did send you to sleep or leave you in a confused state .. then you'll pleased to know she did another one ..

Idole .. Rescued at 15 having been a brood mare and then left in a field. Blind in one eye. She was intended just to be a companion horse for the others ... Turned out she loved to jump and go fast ..

 

[steve_sordy]

One horsepower is 746 watts.

But of course it will keep going for bloody ages on a handful of oats.

 

[Jackware]

And you won't run out of steak for a while during these times

 

[Doomanic]

Which one broke your ribs? I'd like to give it a sugar cube.

 

[Zimmerframe]

Which one broke your ribs? I'd like to give it a sugar cube.

B4stard !!

Another one did it .. a youngster. He's behaving at the moment .... though he did send me a warning message and karate kicked a bird table to pieces on the way past earlier - would have made an excellent video.

You will be pleased to know though that the first one the white one (grey) .. threw me a good six meters once when I was leading him, changed his mind about me leading - reared, flicked his head and tossed me like I was a tiny mouse as I tried to determinedly hold on.

The other one, Idole, kneed me in the head once and fractured my skull ... so I'll give her a Sugar cube on your behalf

 

[Doomanic]

The other one, Idole, kneed me in the head once and fractured my skull ... so I'll give her a Sugar cube on your behalf

Don't, I think she might be the cause of your insane ramblings.

 

[Zimmerframe]

Which one broke your ribs? I'd like to give it a sugar cube.

This is for Doom's ... your buddy who flattened me .. might change his stable name to "Killer"

And yes .. I gave him a sugar cube after ...

He's only 4 (so a baby in horse terms). Anyone into horses/racing might know his father "Le Harve". He's a bit like a Levo SL Founders edition, light, very fast . He's very cute though and no he won't be racing.

 

[wepn]

Fantastic OH & Zim! Reminds me of all the times I've been thrown, almost dragged though never lost my love of anything that goes fast on 4 legs that you can jump on for a ride. Sometimes some of them just don't love you back. That's why emtb.

 

[GrahamPaul]

I have tried so hard not to write this. Tried sitting on my hands. Tried doing an extra hard turn on the turbo trainer this morning instead of the recovery session I’d planned. Can’t help m’self.

It was the most expensive addiction I’ve ever had. (Overheard my missus while I’m showing off the latest acquisition: “That’s my new kitchen over there in that field.”)

The thing about Britain is that it doesn’t have a good horse meat market to keep the rubbish off the streets and out of the fields. There’s a huge glut of knackered racehorses which should have been eaten but instead are put in foal (if they are the right gender!) by some softie. Or bought by some numpty with not a lot of brain. That’s how I ended up with my first thoroughbred.

I mean, I did know better. I’d been sharing a retired racehorse (insofar as I rode it but shared the costs with the owner) and did realise that they were all loco. I don’t think the public realise how badly racehorses are treated while they are in training and they all end up with problems both mental and physical. This particular pony had been retired early and donated to her current owner. I got her fit, schooled her a bit and took her hacking. As she got fit, I got more adventurous and took to hacking her on my own until one day we came to a gate which needed opening. Seems that the four legged loon had a problem with gates – she didn’t just rear, but did a back flip trying to crush me. When I reported back to her owner, came the reply: “Oh, she’s doing that again, is she?” Seems she was retired from racing because she found a novel way to get rid of her jockeys straight out of the gate. (Oh, and I got a telling off for fittening her up!)

So, I decided to get my own. I had a contract in the UK for a couple of years, so it seemed like a good idea to buy a local t’bred (once you've gallopped these things, anything else is tame) from just around the corner for not a lot of pennies from a girl who “couldn’t do anything with him...” At that stage I was just looking for a bit of a hack to get me out of the mental state my job created. Took him for a test drive, whereupon he napped straight into a hedge. We discussed that for a while and he decided that my point of view was probably correct and we hit it off. Money paid and I had my own pony.

Now, as I mentioned above, racehorses are badly treated. This poor fellow was still only 7 years old but was a retired steeplechaser. I got his Weatherby’s history. He’d never finished anything, always falling. Seemed like he didn’t like to start, either: he had a man-sized hand break in his tail where someone had very obviously pulled him into the starting stalls.

Something else not realised by the public is that the “lads” in racing stables are mostly lasses. It became very clear very early on that he’d been mistreated by his “lads” and that he absolutely hated women. He even hated me chatting to women. If I dared flirt with the (very attractive) lass who owned the horse in the next box, he would very delicately place his hoof on top my foot and then slowly put his whole half ton weight onto that one leg until I was screaming at him. Didn’t do much for my chat up lines!

He seemed to love the ladies who boasted about being able to ride anything. You know the type from the yards you’ll have been to. They’re mostly teenagers, but there are a good few in the twenties like that as well. He’d got a lovely character and was quite a good looker, so the girls all wanted to try him out. He’d quite happily trot around the manege while they got filled with confidence, then he’d pop them over the railings. He wasn’t malicious: he’d always choose the corner with the nice grassy bank for their landing...

It did have a downside, though. I travelled a lot in my working life, and sometimes used to be away for weeks at a time. He needed exercise and it’s impossible to find men looking for a ride. They either have their own horses, or they are not interested. I ended up with some lass “who could ride anything” because she’d worked in some famous eventer’s yard exercising his horses. Found out later from the lass running our yard that my horse came back on his own every day.

He was a bit kinky, too. He had this passion for dogs. He loved licking dogs. I hadn’t had him long and I thought I’d try a local show jumping clear round. More to see what he made of crowds and how he’d do in a noisy ring. Being “of a certain age” my bladder needed attention so I found a chap (had to be male!) sitting by the ring and asked him whether he could hold my horse for me. He was already holding a red setter, which was sitting there very obediently. When I got back, the red setter was sitting there very obediently... soaked through and shivering – my pony was busily giving him a serious licking and the dog’s owner was going frantic trying to stop his dog getting drowned!

Actually, that’s just reminded me of another time he really, really wanted to give a dog a good licking. I was working in Holland and had stabled him right by the beach in Zandvoort. Riding on the beach was wonderful, but the girls in the yard were complaining about some bloke with a Rottweiler who was encouraging his dog to chase their horses. So we went out with the ladies to play one Saturday afternoon.

There, indeed, was man plus Rottie. Rottie starts chasing the girls on their horses. We start chasing Rottie. My pony is getting more and more excited at this gorgeous hunk of whatever that he’s going to lick to death. And he’s chasing it round and round the beach. The dog gets more and more frantic and keeps trying to get behind us, but he’s having none of that – this thing is going to taste wonderful. Eventually Rottie sprints for his owner (he’d have stuck his tail between his legs if he’d had one) and hides between his legs. I get an earful from an irate dog owner about my horse scaring his dog...

Sometime in the middle of last century there was a novel called “Riders” written by, I think, Jilly Cooper. One bit in this utterly crap novel which did stick in my mind was about being able to fart at just the right time when a horse was going to bite your arse. This could have been written for my horse because he had something of a sense of humour and would, on occasion, when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, try and nip my arse when I was picking out his feet. Anyhow, I’d been away travelling and was back for a long weekend. I was down at the yard (the one where he kept coming home by himself) completely alone. There was no one there and I was polishing him up for a much deserved hack. I’d bent over to pick out his feet and I felt him move. I knew what was coming... so off went a mighty fart. A huge trumpet of a fart. But he didn’t react like I expected. So I looked over my shoulder. There stood what was probably the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Blonde, beautiful, gorgeous figure... and an utterly stunned look on her face!

“Can’t blame that on the horse, can I?” and I went back to picking out the hoof...

 

[Zimmerframe]

I knew what was coming... so off went a mighty fart. A huge trumpet of a fart. But he didn’t react like I expected. So I looked over my shoulder. There stood what was probably the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Blonde, beautiful, gorgeous figure... and an utterly stunned look on her face!

I've always wondered who it was that had given men such a bad reputation ... and all this time it was YOU !

 

[GrahamPaul]

I've always wondered who it was that had given men such a bad reputation ... and all this time it was YOU !

No! That was my dad. I just followed in his er... footsteps...

 

[GrahamPaul]

Okay, nothing much to do here other than reminisce. Four weeks now in total lockdown, so another boring anecdote for you.

I’d picked up a contract in Holland and took the horse with me. Typical Brit, he got seasick and he hated Dutch food, although he loved the hay in Holland – no sign of his dust allergy during all the time he was there. No more soaking his bloody hay for an hour before he was allowed to eat it. But he hated the hard feed. As anyone who’s owned them knows, thoroughbreds don’t thrive on a hay diet. They lose weight fast and look like a bag of bones in no time.

He adored Supa Barley. For those that don’t know, Supa Barley looks (and smells) just like Breakfast Cheerios. So, I visited my missus every couple of weeks but didn’t need to travel with any luggage because I had my own place in Haarlem. This meant that every couple of weeks I travelled with bottles of gin in one direction for the missus (pre 9/11, things were a bit different). Coming the other way, I filled my carry-on bag with Supa Barley. Just loose, in the bag. Up to the maximum, which I think was around 10kg in those days.

Now, as you can imagine, at security the very full bag went through the x-ray machine but there was nothing to see. It always, without exception, went like this:

“What’s in the bag, sir?”

“My breakfast cereal.”

“???!!!!” Look of astonishment – he’s got the nutter.

“Please open the bag.”

Shoves hand in bag. “Oh. Okay, carry on sir.”

This went on for months with no change to the script until one trip when I’d been talked into taking part in a dressage competition. For this I needed my dressage whip and my spurs, which were still in Britain.

Monday morning, 7a.m., Heathrow Airport. Security staring at x-ray machine.

“What’s in the bag, sir?”

“My breakfast cereal.”

“Please open the bag sir.... Please explain what you are doing with these.”

“Oh yeah, I’d forgotten about those. Me and the missus are heading for a sex club next weekend and...”

Never seen a bag closed up and chucked back so fast in your life!

Actually, that reminds me of another tale with UK airport security. On another contract in Holland I hired a chap who used to fly in from Luton Airport every Monday morning. I’d occasionally travelled back with him but I’d never go through security with him because he always, but always got pulled. He looked just like everybody’s idea of what a drug smuggler would look like – and was flying into Luton. Unfair really, because he was one of the cleanest living people I’d ever met – other than his addiction to sweets.

Anyhow, this was a flight home for him over Easter and I was travelling with him. He was carrying a backpack containing a chocolate rabbit sitting on a tin tray. As ever he got pulled. This time I’d hung back to watch.

“What’s in the backpack, sir?”

“A chocolate rabbit sitting on a tin tray.”

“I see, sir. Please put the bag in the x-ray machine.”

And there you could clearly see the outline of a rabbit sitting on a tin tray...

“???!!!!” Look of astonishment – he’s got the nutter.

“Thank you sir. Have a good day.”

Oh shit! I'm rambling on. Someone get me a glass of wine! Quick!

 

[Zimmerframe]

The OH loved your Thoroughbred post and was amazed at your understanding of the abysmal racehorse situation. We were really lucky with "Killer" as we'll call him to protect his anonymity. Came from the most professional "yard" I've ever encountered. A completely different approach. "Killer" was growing slightly too slowly, so rather than push him and ruin him just to get some wins - they pulled him before he'd even raced. Apart from trying to kill me (which some would say was a sane move) he's the most well balanced and undamaged, both mentally and physically, horse I've sever seen. So there is some hope ! We're not allowed to race him and they get regular updates on his progress, which they're genuinely interested in.

 

[GrahamPaul]

The OH loved your Thoroughbred post and was amazed at your understanding of the abysmal racehorse situation.

I'll own up here... I spent a good part of my childhood in Germany but did most of my growing up in England. On a farm. Near to Newmarket...

[Edit: should probably add that from about the age of 15, I used to bunk off school to go to the racecourse. A badly misspent teenage which nearly went very badly wrong].

 

[Zimmerframe]

I'll own up here... I spent a good part of my childhood in Germany but did most of my growing up in England. On a farm. Near to Newmarket...

Are you saying you're a horse ? Nayyyyy .....

 

[GrahamPaul]

Are you saying you're a horse ? Nayyyyy .....

That explains it! I couldn't work out why I was married to an old na... Ouch!!!! Don't hit me again!

 

[GrahamPaul]

BTW, don't know if your OH has moved horses across borders, but horses require a vet's certificate to declare them fit for human consumption. I used to show it to my horse with the threat that I had a freezer just waiting for him if he went lame on me again!

 

[GrahamPaul]

Thinking about him going lame reminded me of one of the times. As I said, around half my childhood was spent on a farm. Birds were known as "targets" for whatever was to hand, either catapult or air rifle. Except for pheasants and partridges. Those belonged to the local Lord and were the preserve of his paying guests. It was a nicking offence for any of us to be caught trying for those! It was long enough ago that I'd have probably been one of the "Home Children" if I'd got caught.

However, I did inherit my dad's soft spot for all animals - just not necessarily those with wings. The hunt didn't often come through the farm because there were no foxes. Well, there were foxes, but my dad was pretty good a hiding them (and the badgers) and disguising the scent, so the hounds never found anything to chase.

Anyhow, must have been the mid-80's and my lad was heavily into Pony Club. Riding, shooting, swimming and running every damned weekend at a field somewhere. It was during that couple of years when I was in Britain for a contract, so I was around and had schooled my loonie horse into quite a useful little eventer. Where we were living there was a very active hunt and he'd get really excited whenever he heard it. (Must have been all those dogs to lick!)

Now, I'm not much of one for having little furry animals torn limb from limb, especially when they're still alive. I'm also not a fan of the "Hunt" as most of them only turn up to ride horses schooled by others. They expect to get on board, blast through the countryside and then chuck the reigns back at the groom at the end of the day. The horse might still be attached...

However, the Pony Club is, basically, the Hunt for youngsters and every year they get their first "blooding" at the Boxing Day Meet. I wasn't keen, but my lad was being pressured by his peers in the club. One of the Pony Club organisers came to have a word with me: "You don't have to worry. We haven't even seen a fox for the last eleven years! It's just to give the kids a wild ride for a couple of hours."

Okay, I'm kind of mollified. Christmas Day was it's usual glut of food and drink but horses don't understand that and they want their breakfast at the same time every morning. So there I am, bleary eyed at 7 a.m. on Boxing Day morning, getting my horse out of the box for his breakfast... and he comes out on 3 wheels. Somehow or other, that night he'd managed to throw a shoe in his sleep (dreaming about all those dogs in the morning, probably).

No hunt for me! Yippee from me and an extra breakfast for him. My lad was pleased to, he wasn't going to go without me. Also, he loved his little pony and knew damned well that the Hunt tended to regard their mounts as food for the pack.

That crazy animal avoided the freezer one more time!