ridecamp@endurance.net: advantages & disadvantages

advantages & disadvantages

Susan Evans Garlinghouse (suendavid@worldnet.att.net)
Sun, 21 Sep 1997 13:22:45 -0700

Well, before I go on out to actually sit on a saddle instead of in here
on my behind...a friend called me this morning and we started talking
about all this who-has-the-advantage-over-who and she reminded me of
something I'd told HER a ways back 'bout ten years ago, and had since
happily forgotten. I had just gotten my first endurance horse fairly
well conditioned, I'd gone out and by golly completed TWO, count 'em two
50 milers and I thought I was just the niftiest thing on toast. I took
Mikey up to a ride up north (can't even remember which one) and was
toying with going a bit faster this time out---not really racing, mind
you, just maybe not coming in dead last.

I remember around ride camp I saw one crusty looking old fella that I
figured must have at least forty years on me. I thought he must be
there watching a granddaughter ride, but nope, next morning there he was
looking like stiff breeze would be too much for him. Well, still being
about as dumb as a box of rocks (and still am, most days) I
congratulated myself that at the very least, I should be able to beat
THIS guy hands down---assuming, of course, this poor, beat-up guy
finished at all without keeling over. After all, I had youth and
strength on my side and I thought that was an unbeatable advantage, at
least in this case.

Well, it turns out this poor, frail, fragile creature was Paul
Critchfield and to say that he rode my stupid, naive behind right down
into the ground is an understatement. I can't even say that "he beat
me" is the right term, because he probably never even realized there
were other people that far back in the pack. I think I was in another
zip code from him for 99% of the day. I did finish that day, but Paul
finished about a week and a half in front of me, and while I was
collapsed on the ground back at ride camp, moaning incoherently and
wishing fervently for a quick merciful bullet, I remember seeing Paul go
hopping past, looking like he'd just spent a week relaxing on the
Riviera. I coulda killed him, except that at that particular moment I
couldn't seem to make my arms or legs move, they just sorta lay there on
the ground flopping and quivering like landed trout.

At that point a friend came over and told me that my eyes looked like
pissholes in the snow, not to put too fine a point on it, and if I
started looking any worse, all the kitties in the neighborhood were
going to show up and try to bury me.

So much for my overwhelming advantages of youth and enthusiasm.

Anyway, just another .02.

Susan

P.S. A few years later, I rode the Western States 50 with Paul and even
though I was theoretically fitter, more experienced (though not much)
and knew better by then than to judge by appearances, I still got my
behind rode right into the ground. The only difference was that Paul
kept on slowing down a bit and asking kindly, "Are you all right?". But
I still felt like I'd been beaten with a stick when I was through. The
good part was that Cato was perky as hell afterwards and thought going
this fast ALL DAY LONG was a fine idea, a notion I've been trying to get
out of his head ever since.

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