Me and the Mighty Gavalon

A few years ago my wife persuaded me to go to a dude range to celebrate our anniversary.  As a keen observer of marital rituals, I immediately realized we had entered the inevitable stage two of anniversaries.  Stage one begins with the phrase "I hope the hotel has a Jacuzzi and a do not disturb sign."  Stage two begins with the phrase "Honey, do you think your prostate can handle a four hour trail ride on a horse?"  Maybe it's me, but any anniversary that involves some form of animal husbandry is doomed. 

The mere thought of spending my anniversary with a Jack Palance-esk character as my guide filled me with sense of dread.  In my dreams I saw the headline "Man dies in freakish horse accident."  Well, off we went to the "ranch."   We arrived to meet the other touristas/guests -- everyone dressed in what may be best described as Nordstrom hoe down.  Jeans festooned with  enormous belt buckles and fresh from the tanner -- boots that needed a vat of vasoline to slip into.

After "grub," our big decision was whether to take the six-hour morning trail ride "The Festering Saddle Sore" or the less taxing  three hour afternoon ride --  "The Tenderfoot,"  I opted for the less macho three-hour ride.  The next morning, our guide tried to make e-Harmony like matches with our horses.  Apparently everyone had ridden a horse except for me.  Was I destined to become the Gomer Pyle/John Lovitz of this group?  What happened to the amateurs of the world?

Well, I asked for an excessively gentle horse, preferable one with bouts of narcolepsy.  The guide smiled and said, "I think I've got the perfect horse for you."  Then, I met Gavalon. This horse was one trail ride away from the glue factory.  His back was swayed low like a bad hammock. Gavalon didn't need oats or vitamins, he needed an orthopedic surgeon. 

And, he was sweating profusely.  Every other horse looked relaxed, Gavalon looked like he'd been through a bad car wash or the gallop up San Juan Hill. Well, I successfully got myself on Gavalon and I swear I heard an audible grunt from him.  It must be the same feeling Wilfred Brimley's long-suffering horse feels  during those diabetic supplies commercials.

The saddle obviously wasn't built for comfort.  As Mark Twain once remarked "There is no seat to speak about it, one might as well as sit in a shovel -- and the stirrups are nothing but an ornamental nuisance."  I got a saddle sore looking at it, Actually, I enjoyed the first hour until Gavalon wandered off trail to inspect what he thought was an apple.

Later the guide asked us if we wanted to gallop.  Only me and a elderly woman with a walker passed.  My deep concern was for Gavalon's health. No, actually it was my  my fears of getting tossed into a deep ravine.  All went well until we returned to the stables -- Gavalon spotted a water bucket.  Suddenly, he accelerated into a gallop worthy of Sea Biscuit in his prime.  At 40 MPH, the word "Whoa"  didn't have the effect I thought it would. 

After I dismounted, I looked Gavalon in the eye and found a kindred spirit.  Like me, he wasn't being lent out for stud fees or photo shoots with young models.  As pathetic and run down as he was, he was my first and you never forget your first.  Hail to the mighty Gavalon.  I haven't bought a stick of glue since.

Comments

[Jen]

Hello,
I'm looking for Marty W. Baker from MA who graduated from Rutgers University in 1977. Please write to Jeanette if you remember her.