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A favorite memory of my life in San Francisco was a day that Emily, my Chinese-American roommate from Augusta, Georgia, and her Japanese boyfriend Homer, and I decided to drive down the coast and go horseback riding. I’ll never know what possessed us since none of us were horse people. I don’t think Emily or Homer had ever been on a horse. I had ridden horses when I was in my teens, but I never considered myself much of a horseman. In fact, most of the horses I rode tried to either kick me or bite me, so riding wasn’t one of my favorite activities.
When we arrived, three horses had been saddled and were waiting for us. Bravely, we climbed aboard and started down the designated route. We had been told that the horses knew the trail, and we couldn’t go wrong. We hadn’t gone far before Homer’s horse, the leader, abruptly turned and headed back to the stable. Poor Homer didn’t have a clue how to stop him.
I’m sure the horse was thinking, Why should I work carrying this guy? I can just go back to the stable and rest.
I rode after my Japanese friend and his horse and turned them around. The horse did okay for another ten minutes or so. Then, once more, that stubborn horse turned back and headed for the stable. By this time I was laughing so I could hardly stay in the saddle myself. I rescued Homer once again.
The third time Homer lost control of his stead, Emily’s horse decided he didn’t want to work either. Both riders perched on top of the horses, held on helplessly with no control as they headed toward the barn. At this point, the situation had me in stitches. I gave up and rode back beside them. The horseback ride was over.
The best part of this outing, for me, had been Homer’s big frightened eyes in his round, chubby face as he bobbed up and down while the horse trotted back to his stall.
After all these years, the image of that helpless look on Homer’s face still makes me laugh.
By Gay C. Moring
