The Eighty-Dollar Champion - Elizabeth Letts [48]
Flight.
No wonder in Greek mythology the gods’ horse Pegasus has wings. A horse who loves to jump gathers toward the fence with a trembling electricity so patent that some horsemen say they can feel it in the roots of their hair. As the horse makes his final approach to a fence, it matters not how much the rider wants or hopes or prays. It matters not what whip he carries or how often he nudges with sharp spurs. The horse who jumps well jumps for the joy of flight; the rider he brings along with him receives a bountiful gift that is completely undeserved.
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A horse’s scope refers to its ability to jump high fences. Most horses clear three feet easily; some horses are comfortable at four or four and a half feet. By the time fences are raised above five feet, even the better jumpers are starting to reach their limit. Only a few horses are successful at six feet, and heights above seven feet—higher than a horse’s withers or a man’s head—are achieved only by a select group of elite athletes. Some jumping competitions, such as the Puissance (the name means “power” in French), measure only a horse’s ability to clear the highest possible fence. The confirmed world high-jump record for a horse is eight feet, three inches. But the taste for horse high-jump competitions has waned over the years. While some horses can clear obstacles higher than seven feet, the likelihood of a crash is high, and the consequences of crashing from a height of seven feet can be shattering for both horse and rider. One wrong step can easily result in a horse with a broken leg or a rider with a broken neck.
Over a five-foot obstacle Snowman flew, snapping up his knees tightly. Next, Harry raised the fences to six feet. Snowman cleared that height with no problem, again snapping tight his knees, and reaching forward with his neck to create a higher arc. Harry brought the poles up again, until they were about six feet, six inches. Snowman continued to soar, as if he’d been born with invisible wings. Each time the horse cleared another high obstacle, it left Harry breathless, sensing the coiled power in this horse that had been so well hidden and then suddenly unleashed. He could not shake the image of the horse running home to him, across meadows and over pasture fences, dragging an old rubber tire and a fence board. Harry remembered Snowman looking at him as if to say, “Here I am.”
How many times had someone told Harry about his special gift for horses, his gift for intuition, for speaking to horses in their own language? This time, the horse had stood right in front of him, calling out his message loud and clear—but Harry had not heard it. Harry considered himself a tolerant man; he could put up with a lot. But one thing he could not bear was to be underestimated, to be judged for something other than his true ability and the content of his character. And now, here before him, was a horse that would gather up and soar over fences so high that he could not see to the other side, sinking back on his hocks and lifting off on nothing stronger than his own belief that he would find solid ground on the other side. For Harry, it was a humbling moment. He was proud of his ability to judge horseflesh, but this time he had been dead wrong. His gentle plow horse had the heart of a lion.
How many years had Harry been looking for just one horse who might have the makings of a champion?
Sometimes a man can forget the most important lesson of all: big dreams are often best accomplished when you do what you can with the materials you have at hand. This eighty-dollar gelding, this lesson horse, this shaggy-coated,