Sally Breslin: My Life: WHY YOU NEVER WILL SEE ME RIDING A HORSE

I come from a long line of equestrians. My mother, back in her heyday, owned a sporty riding outfit and performed death-defying stunts such as riding side-saddle. My father rode big plow-horses bareback on the farm. My uncle worked as an instructor at a horseback-riding academy.

I, on the other hand, was raised in the heart of a big city and always associated horses with smelly barns, swarms of flies, and saddle sores. And frankly, the thought of riding on something that, unlike a car, had teeth and its own brain, always intimidated me.

But alas, love has a way of making people do things that are completely against their better judgment.

Not long after my husband and I were married, he began trying to convince me to go horseback riding with him.

“It’s the ultimate romantic experience,” he said. “Think about it – just the two of us on horseback, leisurely riding along side by side and enjoying the countryside, maybe even stopping for a picnic.”

At first, I flatly refused, recalling the pony rides I’d suffered through at the carnivals when I was a kid. Being on a pony that slowly walked around in a circle for 10 minutes had been so boring, I’m amazed I never dozed off, landed on the ground and got trampled by the pony behind mine.

But my husband eventually wore me down and before I knew it, there I stood, in front of a big stable on some deserted back road in the middle of nowhere. On that particular day, however, my husband’s promise of romance wasn’t destined to be. For one thing, due to my total lack of experience, I was allowed to ride only on a staff-supervised trail-ride that already had about six other riders. And secondly, my parents, a.k.a. the horse lovers, decided it might be fun to join us.

Sensing my apprehension, the trail guide led me to a horse she said was older, slower and more docile. She called him “Geritol.” The other riders, however, including my parents and husband, were assigned horses with impressive names like Lightning and Hurricane.

My first mistake was wearing jeans that were so tight, I barely could bend in them, never mind hoist myself up onto a horse. My second mistake was actually getting on the horse.

The trail stretched across an open field and then up a steep, rocky hill through the woods. As the lead horses perkily trotted up the hill, Geritol and I plodded along at a snail’s pace until we fell far behind the rest of the group.

So much for romance, I muttered to myself as I shot imaginary daggers at my husband’s back, which was about a quarter of a mile ahead of me.

When the riders reached the top of the hill, they stopped to rest and stretch their legs. That’s when I finally was able to catch up to them. But just as I reached the group, something frightening happened. One of the riders was about to dismount her horse when the horse decided to lie down and roll over, with her still on it!

We all collectively gasped in horror, expecting the poor woman to emerge looking like a pancake with strawberry jam on it, but miraculously, aside from a few scratches, she was unscathed. Laughing, she climbed right back onto the horse. I, however, was so shaken after witnessing her close call, I was ready to build a fire and signal for a taxi.

The ride back down the trail was, if possible, even slower than the ride up. Old Geritol made every step seem like such an effort, I actually began to fear he’d lapse into a coma. At one point, the other riders were so far ahead of us, I couldn’t even see them. Still, I wasn’t too concerned. I mean, I was pretty sure that Geritol, given his advanced age, had been on that trail so many times, he probably could find his way back to the stable with his eyes closed.

For the first time that day, I relaxed, inhaling a deep breath of fresh air and allowing Geritol’s gentle gait to calm me. The only thing that disturbed my tranquility was the incessant buzzing of a couple wasps (I think they were yellow jackets) circling us as we plodded along.

And then it happened. I’m not certain exactly what caused Geritol to suddenly bolt off the trail and run through the woods, but I suspect one of the aforementioned wasps might have launched a sneak attack on him.

In a flash, Geritol went from barely walking to transforming into a racehorse in the Kentucky Derby.

“Whoa!” I shouted, tugging on the reins as branches and limbs brushed past my face. The horse completely ignored me.

When I realized that “whoa!” wasn’t going to do me any good, I started shouting for help. Geritol kept right on running – through bushes, over rocks, around trees – while I clung to him for dear life and frantically prayed for a soft landing.

That day, I’d worn a hair-styling device called a donut, which basically was a wire-mesh donut I’d wrapped my hair around to make a perfect bun on top of my head. The last time I saw the donut, it was hanging from a branch that had impaled it and torn it off – along with, I imagined, some of my hair.

At least, I thought miserably, the search party would have some clue to my whereabouts when they were sent out to look for me.

Finally, one of the trail guides rode up behind us, shouted a command at Geritol and the horse came to a halt. He then followed the guide’s horse back out to the trail. By then, I was fully prepared to leap off and walk back to the stable.

We caught up with the rest of the riders and fell into step at the back of the line. At that precise moment, one of the lead horses spotted the stable and made a beeline for it. Unfortunately, Geritol followed suit, probably because he was eager to get back to his stall and sleep for about 10 hours. As we whizzed past the other riders, my rear-end smacking loudly and painfully against the saddle, the trail guide shouted out to me, “Grip the sides of the horse with your knees and lift your butt off the saddle!”

All I can say is that when I finally set foot on solid ground again, I was tempted to kneel down and kiss it – but I was afraid of what I might kneel in. I also vowed never to climb on a horse again.

As I stood there on aching legs while picking leaves and twigs out of what was left of my hair, my elusive husband rushed over to me and gushed, “Wasn’t that great? We’ll have to come back and do this again on a regular basis!”

I was pretty certain that at that point, no judge would have denied me a divorce.

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