learning and living dreams....

 Every four weeks or so, when I remember to phone,  our horses need their hooves to be trimmed. One of the most amazing designs of nature is a horse's hoof. It appears to be hard and invincible, until you get stepped on or take a swift kick, but really it is a living, organic piece of nature's finest engineering, when it is properly maintained. We have been shoeing horses with steel, hoof shaped plates and specialized nails since the time of the Romans. I have paid thousands of dollars, to shoe many dozens of horses through the years in this expected norm.
 Horse hooves never stop growing and require skilled attention when the ground they tread upon is too soft to wear down the resilient structures  appropriately. In Vermont, it's often soft going on our green pastures and too many horses spend too much time in softly bedded stalls. This puts us in the precarious position of trying to mimic nature's work in the care and keeping of horse hooves.
  Here at INFINITY FARM, where we have assisted many awesome brown horses, we have provided a practicum for several apprentices in farrierey over the last twenty years. That is, our abundance of horse feet from orthopedically normal to the maladaptively bizarre, has been a fabulous class room for women and men just getting started in their vocation with hoof care. It was and to some very small degree, is a wonderful place for such a person to come and learn their craft in a forgiving and grateful environment. These horses are easy to handle and well mannered for the farrier. They are patient to a fault, despite their racing roots. Mistakes will happen as an apprentice struggles through the physical and cognitive applications of their trade. We don't mind. Hooves grow, and never stop. Most errors will grow out and provide an invaluable opportunity for the green tradesman to learn what not to do. Benefits blossom as the novice skill set is not yet rigid with habits for the aspiring farrier and creative solutions spring forth to every one's happiness.
  Our current farrier came to us, like all the rest, by social accident. I met her at a restaurant where I over heard her conversations with the customer she was serving. She was enthusiastically explaining how she was waitressing only to pay the bills as she learned the art and science of 'natural balance' hoof trimming. She "needed more horses to practice on..." That tweaked my ear and I slowed my walk to listen to this conversation. She was young and fit and presented a convincing case for natural balance trimming to a table of tourists who likely couldn't appreciate her vigor. But I could; we had been without a farrier for several months and so I tapped her shoulder to interrupt. Her long, ebony braid swung around smoothly as she met my query with a broad smile.  I recognized her from other horse works and we struck an immediate bargain to come 'practice' on the rescued race horses at our farm.
 Her first visit was exceptional from minute one. Though her novice tools were less than professional, her strategic workmanship was amazing. Our first horse was a young gelding with a blown out knee. This healed with a malformed joint and made it nearly impossible to properly trim his hoof for the horse's comfort. She took a long look, studied all sides of the too long hoof, evaluated his range of motion to lift it for her work. "Yup. I think I can fix it." I was ecstatic for this wonderful horse. We used a 50# salt block to hold his hoof in his comfort zone so she could ply her 'magic'. Half an hour later, with detailed narratives of the orthopedic science and equine physics of movement,  he had a new, normal looking hoof! Now for the other 3, all done with equal precision and in site. "She will be a great farrier" I thought as I encouraged her through every phase of the reformation to normal hooves. During rest breaks, it would take many of these early on in this physically demanding work, she would share her passion for horses, their minds, their feet. She would exude her joy in the work in her hands after years of searching for that calling of what her life's work would be. Not breeding horses, nor training them. No showing or vetting suited her quest for practical science in the keeping of horses. It was their hooves, those miraculous wonders of equine mobility. The uniquely equine anatomy that makes it possible for them to gallop at breathtaking speeds with nimble course changes and aires above the ground as they defend their being.
  Her dedication is reaffirmed with every hoof she holds. As months went by and her skills became honed, she worked with other veteran farriers and learned what she would or would not do in her practice. Evolving into natural balanced shoeing, she sent herself to an intensive, residential school at a ranch out west. She returned with confidence, skill, and conviction in her craft. She has become an accomplished journeyman with a professional's complement of tools. She will achieve mastery and someday teach others what the hundreds of horses she attends will have taught her. It has become her life's work, a Ministry to her, a blessing to us.
   For my part, I have witnessed one more apprentice, answer their calling, hone their craft, and live their dreams... INFINITY FARM ~ learn, grow, live...come visit some time; bring carrots.
luv, peace, ride ~ ell

this one is for them that learn their dream and live it...

twelve months and the gift of injury

   It's June 22, 2010 twelve months since my dream to drive my own motorcycle ended with a second degree muffler burn and the dismissal from the BRC. I remember vividly the struggles of that weekend, the relentless, almost-but-not-quite, learning curve to attain my endorsement and join the fraternity of motorcycle riding. I remember the overwhelming crush of defeat as I stood exhausted, tearful and lost. Today I have a fabulous scar to remind me of that mis-guided effort, why it's worth it to wear chaps every time out,  and why I really should not attempt to drive a motorcycle on any traveled lane. I also have a short list of gentleman bikers who were generous enough to placate my quest and share the ride. One of them has earned my heart; we ride together on his vintage Harley, often. It's a whole new world on the roads now as I ride in his tender company, immersed in the eclectic scenery of this Green Mountain State.
  With each ride out, my respect for the skill and mastery of the driver is enhanced and my appreciation for my instructor's wizened decision to drop me, deepens. The close calls with cagers, the challenging road conditions on dirt or even paved roads, the mental stamina required of motorcycling; it's all brought into sharp reflection the risk for me as the operator. By God's grace, I am keenly aware that I am right where I should be, behind a capable, seasoned driver. It's the perfect solution as I have gained far more than I lost: the long sought freedom of the chrome pony and a dear friend to enjoy the open road.
   Riding in leathers, we seemingly appear a bit foreboding at every rest break; that and my driver looks to be a tough character to them that don't know his kindness. It enlightens me to the perception of others among the public. The power of stereotypes to jade others in their daily musings. I find it to be good and bad and I use it to my advantage accordingly. It will get us the best seat or sometimes the worst seat in a restaurant. It always gets us the best parking spot by the door. It's almost amusing how a mother will pull her child closer as we rumble down Main street, or roll into a creeme stand. It's an ongoing exercise in sociology of sorts. Hollywood has worked hard to perpetuate the myth of troublesome motorcyclists, rebels and mavericks is the media label. To a subtle extent, that is likely accurate but more to the core in personality of a motorcycle rider. Confident is the standard disposition of them that I ride with. It's engaging to spend time with that kind of certainty within a person.

   Still I fantasize about driving my own bike, though my random dysfunctional balance at the walk is clear warning of that unlikely reality; thus the discovery of the Sidecarist world. The nostalgia of driving a sidecar hack is inspiring my dreams these days. I've studied a few brands and while Harley Davidson makes couplings for side cars I am better intrigued of the URAL rig. Made in the Ural mountains of Russia, it has retained its vintage 1938 profile and can be factory ordered with a drive wheel on the car making it worthy of off-roading over winter muck, wood roads and farm lanes. I am enamored of the possibilities. The annual United SideCar Association rally http://www.sidecar.com/will be held here in Vermont in July. We'll be going with hopes of taking a trial in a URAL hack. If my abilities allow, I'll own one next year to ride my farm and tend the evolving transformation into  a soft fruit plantation.
   It's here and now that I enjoy the enchantment of running the roads with my gentleman biker, the view over his shoulder, the strength of his form where I am less strong and the wind in my face as we follow a winding road lulled by the throaty purr of a vintage Low Ride. Everything happens for a reason. I failed the BRC; I gained a dear friend to share this evolving dream. A dream that just gets better with every detour... luv, peace, ride ~ ell

 

born to ride...

   After eight weeks of pinning to ride on my sweetheart's Harley, eight anxious weeks holding vigil over the vexing failed repairs of his defunct bike,  eight weeks of watching sparkling days and gleaming bikes come and go, we finally made it. Addled by the bike's ailing engine and the mechanic's casual work ethic it was a test in patience I did not enjoy. Three carburetors later, it roared to life in the shop and rolled into my dooryard the next day.
   It's a vintage bike. An HD '84 Low Ride; they don't even make it any more. A classic with shinny black jugs and strategic chrome features,  saddled with a 'pillowed' pillion seat at the upholstered sissy bar, all black leather and just right where it counts. When he starts her up and roils the throttle, she rumbles to life and calls out a sweet sound that tickles my ear when her loud pipes purr. It is Pavlovian for me as a ready-to-ride smile emerges on my face and my heart grows giddy for the outing. He deftly toggles the switches for head light, fuel line, choke and mile counter before he mounts his chrome pony and gives the throttle a light twist, coaxing the engine awake evoking 'the old girl' to clear her throat.
   He shoots me a wink and invites me to join him with a nod of his helmet. First ride out this year and it is a perfect start. Fond memories swirling inside me of this familiar movement with my body. Like mounting a horse for the ten thousandth time, now with my left hand on his shoulder and gracefully swinging my right leg over the sissy bar, settling lightly into the plush seat. It's so much the same as riding a horse yet so much different. My oneness with horse has become oneness with him and his powerful bike.  I have him to hold on to and the warm silence of the horse will be replaced by the rushing wind and throaty pipes as we glide  into the horizon.   Finding the foot pegs, I adjust my balance and snuggle into his jacket as I confirm; "good to go..." We are off to any where he wishes to take me. First ride out this season as we pass the awesome brown horses grazing their paddock. I miss them, riding them. I adore this new passion and the company that comes with it. Moving smoothly away from the farm, he hammers the throttle and the roaring power fills my heart and soul. Leaning into his form, holding on a little tighter, completely happy. . . I affirm in myself: I was born to ride...

enjoy the day ~ live your dreams,
ell