The Flying Circus

Her cheek hit the rubber shavings topping the thick sandy footing surprisingly softly; her most hated part of that arena ended up being the one thing that softened her fall from grace.

Instinct and training took over in trying to roll out of the way of the Australian Sport Horse’s hoof as it innocently fell toward her face. The horse was not being malicious, just playful, but boys will be boys and the quantum leap he surprised the leader with resulted in putting three adults at risk. They would all forgive his equine prank. They’d say the things they were meant to say, analyze the event, and reiterate the standard-issue safety plans to avoid it in the future. But at that instant when she was unable to roll in her quicksand landing zone, she couldn’t know that conversation would ever occur.

Instead the visions came. That famed moment of clarity, accessible only to hallucinogen addicts and those convinced they are about to die, arrived at consciousness’s doorstep to liberate a stream of past events in a monumental Hippocampus Jailbreak. Expecting a somber, respectable series of images in the style of 1930s news reels, she was unapologetically disappointed. Instead a series of ridiculous, comedic follies came to mind, and no one fully understood why she got up from the ground laughing.

The visions began from how she got into this situation in the first place, running awkwardly over footing designed to build up mounted police horses’ rump muscle, not for geriatric humans leading geriatric horses, and being jerked to the ground by intellectually disabled Paul’s mount, Warrior, execute a tribal warrior’s agile leap into the trot. Blind Michael bounded into the vision from the lesson forty minutes earlier, lost in the arena, crying out “Where am I!? Where am I!?” as he had done for the past 20 years in the same venue. He didn’t bother to stop his gigantic half-Clydesdale mount, choosing rather to trot recklessly through the space. The horse, complicit in the blind maneuverings (or lack thereof), showed as little concern as the rider, trusting the helpers to dive out of the way if they wish to maintain their own full capacity of all their limbs. Next Martin, the truck driver who gives more of the jittery impression of a crack addict than a professional truck driver, arrived in a disjointed sort of hurried stroll, setting up arena games. He worried so much that one of the riders would be bored with the number or variety of toys available that he ended up filling the entire arena with cones, poles, groundrails, beanies and blocks so that no one could just walk in a straight line.

The autist from Canberra showed up in her own private magical theatre, looking at his photo in her camera and excitedly pointing in recognition of the subject: “it’s…it’s….it’s my jumper!” After which, the floodgates opened for a full-on parade of quirky characters: Terri and Gillian from Singapore carrying a life-sized plastic Ronald McDonald. Richard with a new outlandish story to pass off to the uninitiated volunteers as truths with a straight face and a cigarette from a delicate silver case. Ladies who describe themselves as “respectable” and “civilized” going ghostly pale as an audacious Singaporean autist informs them that they are boring, or generally act in a manner deemed by high society as “improper”. So fast that she almost missed him, Bryan raced through her mind’s stage. He couldn’t stop as he had to touch every car out in the parking lot, fast, fast, because then he would have to touch the shoulder of everyone in the waiting area. There was Fabiola imitating her horse’s backwards flight during the parade when spooked by the traditional Mexican banda right in front of the Governor of Chihuahua. She reenacted the event on foot with an animated salsa-influenced Moonwalk ending with a full-body flourish which showcased the tiny disabled rider in her arms and a Miss Chihuahua- worthy smile.

Argentinian Liliana showed up with a full-size Warmblood carrying an adult from the Psychiatric hospital (classified, she later disclosed, as dangerously psychotic) and being led by a poetry-reciting man with Down’s Syndrome and autism, the rider happily distracted by nature, the leader in the sixth minute of his recitation, and Liliana standing back, grinning in her disobedience to the doctors and Group Home administrators as she allowed the team to meander her farm unsupervised. Gustavo dos Santos was there in full formal military attire, introducing his horse GiftMinister in his best Uruguayan accent, a goofy grin of the utmost pride at his horse and respectable name which sounded like a sloppy sneeze. Regis (pronounced “hedges”) strolled in later in a sweater-vest, knee-high gumboots, a tweed cap and a whip, looking for anyone who would take a lesson from him but preferring, in the end, to drink a mate and smoke a hand-rolled cigarette on the porch. Finally in came the Brazilian guias. Bruno carried a domino set for when the rain came and Karlos, the self-appointed leader of the motley pack, had the criolo pony that had been stolen by a teenage gang and started dancing with it to get a smile out of his small, pigtailed rider.

As the images reeled back and back to the point of herself, standing in a Sao Paolo, Brazil airport having missed her connecting flight and with virtually no Portugese skills, a thunderclap just above the crown of her head broke the silly reverie. The horse’s hooves pounded past her uneventfully. The rider and the sidewalker were unharmed and only a bit shaken.

She would think later, during the ride home with Martin, of her late-night talks with Fabiola in Mexico about “risaterapia”, laughter therapy. Fabiola was right, she would think, it is the most important aspect of therapy, after safety. It’s maybe one of the most important things to carry anywhere– a good, infectious laugh and an ability to turn that laugh in on onesself, especially in therapy with people whose lives are all too serious and professionals who are expected to maintain confident solemnity. But in light of her newfound power to see events from a starry distance, the therapists, volunteers, riders, and support team who work in equine therapy became a three-ring circus.

Come one! Come all! People that doctors have told have little hope, people that physiotherapists recommend never playing sports, and children that parents wrap in cotton-wool, all are welcome in the Therapeutic Riding Show. The ringleaders perform their act daily – the Disappearing Wheelchair, the Flying Elective Mute, turning Cerebral Palsy rider’s calipers into Perseus’ Flying Sandals. They laugh in the face of the medical risk associated with riding and interpret insurance legislation, all for a bit of fun. Riders sway side to side like a highrise in a windstorm but it is of no concern to them, all part of the act, and the ensuing chaos of six horses careening around the arena all for the enjoyment of all.

Who are these crazy people, she thought, and what are they trying to tell me?

Brushing sand from her fleece and beginning the proper safety checks of horse and rider, she knew laughing was inappropriate but, like the visions, she could not dam the river overflowing its banks. A good infectious laugh erupted, until the hilarity of the single event had smoothed the wrinkles it caused in the session and kept everyone, at least for the moment, a bit sane.

Have therapy horses, Will Travel.

OK, first let me apologize for letting the blog lapse for so long. I am hopeless, what can I say.

I just finished a 3-week run with Riding for the Disabled of Victoria's mobile unit, operating out of Officer, Vic., a suburb of Melbourne. The mobile unit is based on this farm where 23 horses currently live and truck up to 6 horses per day out to currently three different venues near the city. This allows therapy to be offered in places where it otherwise is impossible if there is no space nearby for horses.

Monday and Tuesday mornings I went with the truck out to Caulfield Racetrack where the horses are set up in the central carpark, a grassy little area with access to a club house, level pitch for riding, water and toilets, and the riders can drive right up to the gate. Three hour-long sessions were conducted between 10 am and 2 pm.

Wednesday and Thursday nights the truck goes out to South Melbourne's mounted police barracks. It's great because it's so accessible to inner-city dwellers including by train or tram and electric scooters can get there independently. Because lessons start at 6 pm and the truck arrives no sooner than 5.30 pm, adults who work during the day can volunteer or take lessons, or kids in mainstream schools without special permission to leave during the day.

The mobile unit comes self-contained with equipment, games, paperwork, and a driver that's also a certified O-level or level 1 coach (depending on the day!) so that volunteers and riders just show up at their designated center and are provided with therapy!

Friday a new site was just beginning at Lysterfield, another suburb. I only got to see the assessments, but it's a brand-new arena and clubhouse, so holds much promise. Sessions are also run in Officer at the farm on Tuesday mornings and all day Saturday.

So though there is less and less land available in Victoria as suburban sprawl sinks its claws into the state, the mobile unit is a creative way to provide this service for more riders at venues easier for them to reach. The problems? Though the horses are extremely well cared for by their manager Anne, who lives on the farm, going on the truck is pretty stressful for them. A horse will go on the truck no more than 3 days per week and do no more than 3 sessions per day, ideally. The cost of the truck eliminates costs of maintaining several properties, but is still expensive itself for fuel and maintenance. It adds another dimension to consideration for a therapy horse as well - in addition to the normal high standards for selecting a therapy horse, it must also truck well and deal with working quietly in an unfamiliar place away from its paddock-mates.

But from my experience, it was worth it. The truck creates community from virtually nothing, in places where therapy otherwise wouldn't be at all. Volunteers, riders, horses, and coach still bond for each day's site just as they do at separate centers, but with the mobile unit maybe it's a bit closer to home or school. The idea also involves community figures like the police department who loan the facility and the management of the racetrack, automatically increasing awareness and possible aid if needed.

I found the mobile unit as unique and interesting as I had expected and hoped. Not to mention some of the awesome people I met through my 3 short weeks there...and as always time flies and so must I...to Europe! The next adventure to finish up the journey (!) is Spain, Germany and England - I'll try to keep updating!