Back in the Western Saddle: Race Horse meets Cowgirl

The horse's trainer said that Topper - that was his nickname although, because of his four white stockings the tendency was to call him Bootsie - really didn't want to run. The more time we spent with Topper, it seemed to be a true statement. I began long-lining him and bitting him up, teaching him that there was more to life than galloping in a straight line. Making a simple circle to the right was another novel concept for the chestnut. Since racetracks in North America make left hand turns, Topper couldn't comprehend our fascination with going in the opposite direction.

I slung my roping saddle onto the Thoroughbred's back. I used Penny's western bridle: a loose-ring, sweet iron snaffle with split reins and a long training fork or running martingale. At first Topper resented all the things dangling against his sides. The assortment of straps and leather thongs and long, heavy stirrups annoyed him. But he soon tolerated the feel of the western tack and seemed interested in what was coming next in his new lifestyle.

Honestly, it took only a few rides before Topper settled in to being a western horse. He seemed to sense that when attired in this tack, he wasn't expected to go fast in any direction. The western saddle allowed me the luxury of sitting down and deep into his back, wrapping my leg around his sides without gripping, and having the confidence that even if he did spook or bolt, I wasn't going anywhere. I felt secure, and so did Topper. There was a certain freedom about leaning back in the saddle, squeezing with my calves and letting him canter - I mean lope - with very little contact on the reins. Slowly, his strides lengthened without his pace getting quicker. I was also able to concentrate on bending and suppling him laterally. In the western saddle, I could really use my weight to my advantage, shifting my seat bones in the saddle to reinforce my leg aids.

I really knew I'd made progress when I ventured out the gate and down the trail aboard Topper. Perhaps it was because, as a racehorse, he'd already witnessed just about everything. Or maybe he is genuinely possessed of a tranquil disposition. But Topper sauntered down the neighborhood trails like a veteran horse, his ears pricked forward in curiosity, but never threatening to spook. In a few weeks he'd been transformed from a racehorse to a western pleasure trail horse. And I was beginning to feel more like a verified cowgirl.