Finally got to design my first course, for a little kid's class a couple weeks ago. This time around, I had an entourage of three non-horsey people: My two horse-idiot friends, Tim and Jason, and . . . Shawna. Shawna is my school's resident gangsta girl . Just lately, she's decided that she wants Jason and has basically started stalking him. Jason's scared to death that she and her girls are going to get him alone one day, jump him, and sodomize him, or something. Not because he's a wuss, and not because there's anything wrong with her choice of personal style, but because this girl is TOUGH--for serious. Me and some friends let her play rugby with us once, and while we were trying to be all careful to her, she actually tackled Mark and bit him in the neck! So, when she heard that Jason was coming with me to the training show that weekend, she asked if she could, and it wasn't like I was going to say no and get my ear chewed off or something.

Anyway, I gave her directions, and she met us at the showgrounds, right on time to start hassling Jason. Tim and I head into the ring to start moving jumps, and as soon as "my" course is set up, it's time to let the kids walk it. Suddenly, because I've risen from mere exercise boy to the esteemed position of Course Designer, everyone is now convinced that I know all sorts of mysterious secrets about the course that no one else is aware of, and that I can somehow control the outcome of the class. Two mothers actually ask me if their children can walk the course with me instead of with their trainers. I'm thinking that this must be against all sorts of rules, but I don't think I can say no with them looking at me like that, and anyway, I can't remember. So, the next thing I know, I'm walking from jump to jump, with two little kids and their moms listening in awe as I tell them the same stuff they've always heard: "Umm . . . four strides in this line. Short." "Tight corner. Lots of inside leg, especially you Leah." When we get back, the moms WINK at me, like we're all in on some dark, dirty secret. Then they smirk at all the other parents, like their kids are all set to win, and everyone else might as well go home now.

The first few riders are just fine, and I'm stoked because no one's gotten eliminated at the first fence yet (you know how some of these smaller riders are. One meets his doom, and suddenly everyone else falls apart, too). It's kind of entertaining to listen to the stuff the Society People are telling their kids. One actually says, "Darling, could you PLEASE try not to sweat QUITE so much," like the kid has some kind of internal temperature control that lets him pick. Another has hysterics when her son's pony stops on its way past the stands and pees in front of everybody who is anybody. "Oh, Robert! How could you let him . . . tinkle in front of all these people? I am SO embarrassed!" This appeals to both Tim's and Jason's oh-so-sophisticated senses of humor, and they start laughing so hard that the lady moves chairs. The Arena Queen (Elizabeth)'s brother goes into the ring and sets the world record for the fastest elimination ever, by falling off when his pony spooks at the starting bell. Elizabeth and her mother descend on me, and I can tell that they're dying to bash me in tandem. Too bad! They can't, because my little old course had nothing to do with the kid crashing. So, they settle for complaining about how hot it is, looking at me the whole time, as if this is somehow my fault. I bask in their frustration for a second; then, Elizabeth's mom makes an attempt to pick out all the "mistakes" in my course. I'd like to say something, but I can't yell at someone's mom, no matter how evil she is. So, I try an alternate method: After 17 years with an older brother that's tried to blame anything and everything on me, I have developed the ability to look all bashful and misunderstood on command. Soon, Shawna, of all people, comes to my rescue: To me, she asks, "Chris, are they dissing your art?" Then, she turns her pierced eye on Liz and her mom and says, "Wow, lady, your kid sure can't ride, can he?" I would stick out my tongue at them, but that would be immature. They slink away.

The next kid has entered the ring, and Shawna has dragged Jason off somewhere. Tim is bonding with the dressage instructor, and has made him the subject of the irritating questions he usually saves for me: "Why is that horse over there yelling like that at that other horse? He looks pissed off." "He's a stallion. He's trying to get that mare's attention." "Ahh, cruising for chicks. Okay." Seven people make it into "my" jump-off, and Leah ends up winning the class. Her mother looks at me and smiles, like this is just the way we planned it, right? The other girl's mother doesn't know I'm alive anymore. Come on! Jason materializes, looking all weird, and tells me that he'll wait in the car. Anyway, overall, I'd say everything went over really well.

I wonder if the universe is trying to tell me something. I had, like, ten near-death experiences while driving last week alone, then, last night, a car crashes right in front of my apartment. Anyway, it's around midnight, and I'm talking in one of the chat rooms, when I suddenly hear this screech outside, like someone's car is skidding for serious. That's followed right away by a crash, the sound of glass splintering, and lots of other crunchy noises I can't identify but that probably don't mean anything good. So, I jump up, run over to the balcony, and look down. Sure enough, right under me, some guy and his girlfriend are getting out of what I guess was once a car but now looks like an accordion. My dad also hears the crash, because he walks into the living room, says, "Oh, good, you're in here," then turns around and goes back to his bedroom. Back to the balcony to shamelessly watch what's happening down on the road.

At first, I'm under the impression that the car just smashed into the curb, but on closer inspection, I can see that most of the damage comes from where it's rammed into a streetlamp. Pieces of the lamp are actually still crumbling onto the people while they're standing there. The girl looks calm enough--she's busy brushing streetlamp off her shirt--but the guy seems really agitated. This whole time, I'm running back and forth to the computer, reporting major developments to Tristan, DebH, and Key2. Tristan suggests that I go ask if they're okay, so I head off to do that. When I shout, "Hey, are you guys all right? Do you need any help?" the girl waves that they're okay, but the guy looks all pissed off and takes off running down the street. Hmm . . . I've started analyzing stuff and decide that this guy's sudden desire for a midnight run, and the fact that he somehow managed to swerve on a straight road and hit the lamp hard enough to accordionize his car (a feat that even I, the Patron Saint of Bad Drivers, would find impossible to accomplish) probably means that someone went to the beer hall tonight and got blasted. Anyway, I call down again and ask the girl if she needs anything. Now, she's crying, but she says no. It's back to the chat room, where I start wondering if I should call the police or something. This surge of goodwill lasts until DebH mentions that she was once a witness to an accident, and that they made her testify in court, where lawyers launched themselves at her for four years. And suddenly, well, if you really think about it, those people can probably get help for themselves . . . I feel okay about staying out of it until I log off to go to sleep.

This is when I discover that I can't sleep right now for two reasons. The first is that Jason calls with the earthshattering news that he's been trying to reach me all night, why the hell was the phone busy for four hours, and don't I know that there's wiener dog racing on Jay Leno (His girlfriend back in Hawaii gave him one before he moved, and she's taking care of it for him now. So, if you want to get technical, for Jason, dachshunds have come to symbolize love or something). The second reason is that I feel kinda guilty. The guy who was driving came back awhile ago with some other guys, but they left after twenty minutes without doing anything. Around two-thirty, the guy himself wanders off again, and the girl is sitting alone on the sidewalk. In a second, she starts yelling, "Thep! Thep!" (probably his name), and what if a rapist or a mugger comes along? I figured other people would have woken up by now and noticed, but if they have, they're not doing anything. I've gotta help. But I'd prefer to do it indirectly, just in case. In the end, I decide that it's time to bring the neighbors in. Now, my neighbors love other people's business, and my family and I have personally provided them with many hours of fine entertainment through the apartment wall, so I don't feel guilty at all about doing what I'm about to. I look them up in the directory, call them, and let the phone ring until I hear the man pick it up, at which point I hang up and run onto the balcony again. Okay, they're awake, keep yelling, girl. She doesn't let me down. She yells, "Thep! Thep!" again only a couple more times, then stops; by then, my goal has been accomplished, because the neighbors have heard everything and are now gawking over the railing of their balcony.

Two seconds later, I hear them whispering ferociously in the darkness, and in ten minutes, they're downstairs with an arsenal of drinks, blankets, and a security guard. In another five minutes, the police pull up, and all the red and blue flashing lights wake up everyone in the whole neighborhood, and I might as well have just called them myself. This morning before school, I wait innocently in the hallway until Mr. Neighbor comes out of the apartment to go to work. When I ask him what happened last night, he explains that the driver of the car was--I could think of other ways to put it, but we'll be sensitive here--under the influence of not only alcohol, but also a certain illegal substance. I put on my scandalized expression, like I'm just shocked at this, even though I was already suspecting it while old Neighbor was still fast asleep in his bed. At least this explains why the driver and his girlfriend (who, incidentally, was not drunk or stoned) didn't want any help, and didn't call the police. Ladies and gentlemen, Bangkok, Thailand. Christian ; )

And why does this stuff always happen in full view of hundreds of people?! I think the last time I was in full moron mode in front of an audience was when I had to go into the arena on foot to get some trophy, got my spurs hooked together, and fell on my face. Luckily, I was eight at the time, and I still had that great internal defense mechanism all little kids have—you know, the one that prevents you from remembering any really humiliating situations until ten years later, when you can actually think about them without wanting to change your name and move. Anyway, yesterday was a second day I'd sort of like to forget for the next ten years : )!!

This happened at a show, in the middle of the senior team warm-up class. Now, I usually jump Api (my trak mare) in the team events, because she just has more ability than Bravo (my QH gelding), but this time I entered Bravo, too, mainly to give him a try over a more technical course. Both horses go clear, then later, in the jump-off, Api and I nail all our turns and rack up the fastest time so far. I'm so impressed with myself that I make a big mistake with my next horse—I get greedy.

I'm so amped from my first round that I ask for a little too much angle on one fence, and Bravo doesn't realize I'm actually asking him to go OVER it until the last second. Since this class isn't too small (4'-4'3"), you just can't make mistakes like that and get away with it—Bravo slams on the brakes so fast that I get pitched right up against his neck, HARD. I don't want to lose anymore time, so I swing right back around and am on the approach to the jump again, when I realize that, you know, something just doesn't feel right. I know it sounds weird, but it actually takes me a minute to figure out that I'm not in the saddle—oh *&^%&*$, I'm sitting right in front of it, on the horse's neck!!

Bravo's starting to panic, and even though I've now got my reins so short that my hands are practically touching the bridle, if there's any change at all, it's just that we're going even faster (actually, I can't blame him—if I was a horse, just minding my own business, jumping stuff, and some guy's legs were suddenly winched around my neck like death irons, I'd probably be running like hell, too). People outside the ring are saying, "Slow down . . . woah, woah, woah . . ." and for some reason, this actually makes me mad—yeah, yeah, it's just so easy when you're on the bleachers, isn't it?! Also, it might not be the best time to be doing this, but as me and Bravo do laps around the arena, I'm actually picking out the faces of people I know ("Oh hey, there's Brian and Toby, wonder what they're doing later—oh right, better get back to the galloping horse whose neck I'm sitting on").

Now, this situation is just lousy—Bravo's panicking, I'm panicking, and the only thing I've got that's even remotely close to a plan is so amazingly dumb that I can't believe I'm even considering it. But anyway, I'm thinking that maybe if I let go with my legs and time it right, I could catch the bounce of the canter and use it to sort of hop backwards into the saddle. There are two possible results to this: I could make it and stay on, or I could fall off. Either way, I'm going to look incredibly stupid, so I figure that I might as well go ahead and try it—one, two, three, and nope, I can't do it yet. I try it again—one, two, and geez, it's just not happening. All right, one more time, you wuss—one, two, three, and *doing!*. Suddenly, I'm in the saddle again, thinking, "What??? I made it? Yee-haw!!"

I halt Bravo, do a couple circles, then retire and pop a vertical we've already jumped and head for the out-gate. The audience is really nice about not laughing me out of the ring. They even clap, and for reasons of pride, I let myself pretend that they're doing this because of how blown away they are by my super-heroish determination to stay on the horse : ). This is with the exception of: Mom and Aunt Claire (who are both white and clutching their hearts like they're on the verge of a breakdown. For some reason, I find this sort of gratifying), my brother and my friends (who, because they obviously care so much for my safety and well-being, are collapsed laughing on the floor), and my girlfriend Annick and my cousin Kristen (who are waving Kristen's camcorder around and screaming, "We got it all on tape!! We got it all on tape!!" Thanks girls! Just what I was hoping to hear!). I check the rider's stand really fast to see if the team is pissed at how my round wasn't exactly first-class, but nope, they're laughing and actually giving me a standing ovation. Oh, the sarcasm.

They played Annick and Kristen's tape at the rider's dinner and kept rewinding to the part where I'm hopping backwards. You can actually see me counting, "One, two, three . . . " My brother is considerate enough to tell me that I was flaming, stop-sign red the whole time. Gee, why do I get the funny feeling that people aren't going to let me forget this one . . . oh, say, ever? So, everyone, tell me horror stories : ). Yeah, now would be a really good time to hear them.