Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep...

International Trade - Doing My Part!

Two years ago I scrimped and saved to buy my very own saddle. It made me feel more committed to "sticking to it" to actually acquire something so significant.

It took me months to find it as I scoured every corner of the internet for the best possible deal, and wound up purchasing a lightly used "demo" model from Bahr's Saddlery (also known as The Happiest Place on Earth, unless, of course, you are my husband, who has learned to fear the place); a tack store I have frequented since I was a child.

Naturallly my most prized posession doesnt fit my new horse, so I've been hot on the trail for the past several weeks, trying saddles far beyond my price range in an attempt to find the perfect one.

I fell in love with a used Devoucoux that (thankfully) was too big for my behind. Upon returning it I proudly walked into the store and told the lovely (albeit teenaged) sales girl that I positively loved it, and, if I had a bigger ass, would have taken it.

Not fooled by the likes of me, she offered to sit me in a few more I might be interested in, and trotted out several used models with price tags well over $3000.00 - not pesos, dollars.

Don't get me wrong, I love to spend money on status items as much as the next workaholic, but I honestly cannot for the life of me, imagine how a used saddle (that's right, used, as in other people's asses have sat in it - and worse!) could cost that sort of money. Sure, all the other girls at the barn have them - some even being so brave as to (gasp!) buy them brand new, but I knew I was out of my league.

Christ, my Volvo wagon didn't even cost that much.

Back to the internet I went. I'd seen a nice Antares for sale in the UK a few weeks prior, but figured I could find something similar a little closer to home. Wow, was I ever wrong. Turns out that all the high end saddles are priced approxiately $1000.00 less in Europe than they are in North America.

After numerous emails, and measurements of every inch of mine and Gavin's being, not to mention humming and haw-ing across several time zones, Clare (the woman at the the other end of the email chain) emailed me back to announce that the saddle's measurements were an exact fit for those of my legs, ass and horse.

I bit the bullet and called her with my credit card information.

I then set about the arduous task of trying to co-ordinate a FedEx shipment that would get that sucker to me by the weekend, god willing.

I just hope I can bring myself to actually ride in it.

* If you are reading this, yes, I am in love - but its not what you think. It's best served over scotch and cigarettes, hopefully we can co-ordinate.

The Germans Are Fucking Nuts - Exhibit A

As you may or may not know, I like to spend countless hours Googling Gavin's pedigree and drinking wine. Preferably at the same time, but not mandatory.

I stumbled upon an article the other day that I can't seem to find at present (I was drunk then and sober now, thus my illustrious Googling powers are diminished) about Goldstern who is, as you are obviously aware, Gavin's Grandfather.

Goldstern got his start as a police horse in Germany, and spent several years in "active duty" before being called to the Olympics. During his down time, Goldstern resumed normal duties such as "policing walkways and working crowd control at the occasional soccer game."

So efficient!

Gee, Your Bloodlines Look Terrific

Gotthard, Gavin's great grandsire.

Tattoo You?

Despite having sworn that I would never, ever, ever get a tattoo again....

Finally - A Good Ride!

As you may know, I am obsessed and positively over the moon about Gavin. He appeals to me on a myriad of levels; firstly, I love his breeding. Secondly, I am a believer in serendipity. Lastly, he is an exceptionally talented mover AND a big fucking asshole.

The latter has caused me the odd moment of self-doubt (hardly shocking, I can assure you.)

Due to his size, strength and some bad habits, Gavin has been known to, on occasion, drop his head and turn on the gas. Granted, its not a full-tilt affair, but he is a force to be reckoned with, and there have been times I've thought to myself that I have no business taking on this business.

The good news/bad news is that, through a series of lunge line lessons, Ive been able to ride Gavin in a collected, controlled manner. This is mostly achieved through my dropping my reins and keeping my (generous) ass off his back.

The good news: Gavin does have the capacity to be a genteman under saddle.

The bad news: Turns out its my riding that lights his ass up.

So Ive had to come to terms (again) that I am a horrific rider, but, I am confident there is likely a light at the end of the tunnel. The sheer joy of actually having a successful ride (and witnesses!) gives me the hope that we can one day achieve greatness in the walk/trot division. Ponies, beware!

In other fun news, Gavin doesnt fit my saddle so - poor me - I have embarked on the quest to find the nicest possible saddle for the lowest possible price. God knows I love a good shop, and my goal-oriented nature makes it all the more fun for me to scour every corner of the internets in search of that elusive bargain.

I took a gorgeous Devououx out on trial from Running Fox - absolutely fantastic to sit in and the leather is a deep chocolate brown that is heartbreakingly sexy on the G-Man. Priced at a mere $2800 used I was releived to find out that it is - wait for it - actually too big for my posterior.

Thank god for minor miracles as I had already started to mentally shuffle every penny to my name onto my VISA in an attempt to somehow rationalize how I was going to pay for it.

Mark came home and found the Devouucoux Biarritz in all of its glory stashed in the bedroom where I had tried to conceal it and asked me "Dear - why the hell is there a $3000 saddle in the closet?" I explained to him that it was just "on trial" and he raised an eyebrow and told me he "knew my game."

Little does he know I put a deposit on a used Antares this afternoon.

Yes, You Can(ter)!

Dragged the Spouse up to the barn to meet the dreaded Gavin today. There they were - face to face - my tall, dark Germans.
The most notable difference being that there is no real evidence to support that Mark's bloodlines should be preserved for future generations to enjoy.

The photo above clearly shows Mark's prowess as a horse whisperer.

The girl who sweeps the barn suggested that instead of calling Gavin "a grouch" that we come up with an anagram for his name. Grouchy And Very Irritable Naturally is what we came up with. Note yet another similarity between my horse and my husband. I am beginning to sense a pattern here....

Had a good, short lesson with Deb. I am slowly but surely getting a feel for this horse, but will admit that there is a whole lot of horse going on there, and while I am not afraid of him, I am cautiously respectful.

It was a really nice, almost spring day and we hit the sand ring, which was magnifient as the property is surrounded by rolling hills in every direction - a very nice view from atop Gavin's perch.

Ive decided to stick to walk/trot action until Susan gets home, but, being a lovely spring day and all, Gavin made the executive decision to take himself for a canter.

My initial reaction was to put on the brakes, but I decided to just go with it and get it over with. The good news is that a "planned canter" would have caused me to overthing things beforehand, so this was a good way to be easy going about it despite myself.

We did a few circles and it was nice; very rhythmic, and very powerful. This horse covers a LOT of ground - he has a nice inner propulsion that makes his movement seem effortless, minus, of course, the rider flapping about curisng herself for neglecting to shorten her reins. If anything will cure me of my 'loose fingers' it's this fucker.

Had so much fun today, I think I'll do it again tomorrow.

Begin the Beguine...

It's hard to know exactly where to start when life and love just explodes, but I will do my best to tell the preamble and the narrative in the timeliness an tonality that they deserve.

What is the Gavin Report? Well, I am not entirely sure. It's a word journal of sorts. A philosophical tattoo or ritual intended to celebrate and substantiate a landmark or turning point in my life. I think I have had many of these, but that's just my perspective, and of course, my life always seems huge to me, so its hard to really tell from my inward and often selfish perspective. The one common thread, however, that tends to highlight these (real or imagined) events is my predilection to get, as some might call it, a little 'wordy' when it comes to my feelings.

Who is Gavin?

In short order, Gavin is a horse.

In long form, Gavin is the culmination of 27 years of hopes and dreams and - lets be honest, more than missteps and pitfalls along the way.

Gavin is proof positive that even the hopeless and unattainable dreams of youth can be realized through steadfast and steely fucking determination. Don't get me wrong, I will always regret my fear of blood keeping me from veterinary school, and the drive - thru wedding in Las Vegas was far from being "just the thing I needed" to turn my life around. Then again, art school was good to me, and it was nice to see Vegas from the back of a limo surrounded by friends. Ive made a lot of mistakes, but fortunately - or stupidly -have only a few regrets.

So yes - I have fucked up my life in every way, shape and form imaginable - but, at the end of the day, I have always wanted it to get better and for some stupid reason, never stopped believing that it would.*

Gavin is proof that no matter how far you might stray from the course - the course is still there if you want it to be. He is my redemption.

In a way, I suppose, Gavin is a figurehead for my youth, and I see his arrival as a sort of a way for me to go back to something significant in my life and to do it differently. A chance to do this one fucking thing right.


First a little history....

I must have been 10 or 11 years old when the German horses, literally, arrived in Canada. I was fortunate to live across the street from the place where they landed, and my stepmother/coach/friend/partner in crime worked with the veterinarian who cared for the horses, and as a result, had an "in."

Until this time, most of the population - and certainly the competitive population - rode Thoroughbreds who were bred and born in North America for the purpose of racing. Their careers as riding horses were often their second careers.

With the advent of the Germans, and the pre-eminent bloodlines of the Hanoverian, everything changed. I remember the first time I saw these horses. They were the end result of strategic, specific breeding for the purpose of international sport. They were huge - not just in height, but in stature and presence. They took 4-5 years to fully 'grow' and were handled and revered as though they were gods. They weren't just horses, they were the culmination of literally hundreds of years of bloodline development and refinement. The methods by which they were trained were precise and meticulously developed in tandem of knowledge and tradition. They were art, and science and nature all rolled into one and to me, they were magnificent.

I can't recall how many times I went to Barcrest to see the Hanoverians - but it doesn't matter. It was that one first and almost final impression to me that defined all that I had always seen in horses. They evoked awe in every sense of the word.

And so it began and so it quickly ended for me. I probably quit riding 3-4 years later, but always carried with me the memory of what those horses were like, and with that, a certain sadness that subsequent decisions had led me further and further away from what was once a big part of my life.

I was crazy for the horses as a kid; and it turned out pretty well as, in the defining moments of youth, it gave me that one thing that I could hold on to and be reasonably good at despite my tubby physique and bout with braces. My love for, and commitment to, the horses defined a big part of who I was and thankfully, did not require me to be particularly good at math or popular with the boys to be successful at it. It's also one of those things by which 'success' can be measured in relative terms; personal victories were just as good as Olympic Gold, and there is a rare but special pride that goes along with being able to ride a run away pony at breakneck speeds over immovable objects that only fat girls with rotten ponies can truly appreciate.

Because of the confidence and well-being provided to my overly-serious self through horses, I am a firm believer in the healing powers of the horse, and credit much of my ability to 'stick to' pretty much anything if I believe that the end result will be favourable. All it takes, sometimes, is a little determination.

I had always regretted the fact that I gave up riding in my teens. And while my "giving up" riding wasn't directly linked to the subsequent years or events of my life (I can't lie; I gave it up for hash and boys, just like every other self-respecting 16 year old girl I know who is now buying a horse at the age of 38) - but the timing of my departure from horses was marked by other pivotal events that more or less shaped my "history."

It seems as though the horses ended when the other shit started, and as a result, Ive always viewed myself as a child until I stopped riding. After that, I feel like I became an adult. Its always been - right or wrong - a very clear demarcation for me.

As the years passed and I moved on to other things in life which required my utmost attention, I would occasionally allow myself to indulge in flights of fantasy about the specific horse I would own one day, knowing full well it would never be a reality, I imagined his pedigree - architected through hundreds of years of selection and measured choices. I fell in love with the history and relative romance by which these people so passionately cultivated these horses, both for performance and temperament, and how the end result produced more than just a horse, but a creation to be treasured and truly valued by those who had an appreciation and understanding for all of the ingredients in the splendid stew. And so it was, a far off and distant dream that I liked to entertain from time to time. As delusional as it seemed, it was always the "what if" that lived on the shelf next to other grandiose wants, such as a naturally fast metabolism and one less tattoo.

One day, 20 years later, I woke up and had the strong urge to ride again. I started back gradually; conflicted by the fact that my personal expectations far exceeded my level of skill.

Being a perfectionist by nature, I kept at it in the hopes of one day being at a level that I deemed to be acceptable. The goal was not to be "good" by other people's standards, but rather to "not suck" by my own. I endured the humiliation of being treated as a rank amateur plunked atop the oldest, lamest horse, and, even worse, by being looked upon by my peers as the hands down, all-around crappiest rider in the lesson program. Were horseback riding volleyball, I would have been the last one picked for the team. The fact that I was 32 and my 'teammates' were under the age of 18 didn't help matters much, but nonetheless, I carried on.

Besides, I didnt have acne like those bitches.

And so it went - from one little goal to another, I carried on. Goals such as "ride for 20 minutes straight" and "get my coach to say one positive thing about my lesson this week" were slowly and painfully ticked off my list, albeit with no real or final goal in sight. It was just the progress that I sought; progress felt good.

Of course, one thing led to another and I began to "shop" online for the imaginary horses I would never have. My husband, who married a girl who "used to ride horses when I was a kid" began to worry about what he may have gotten himself into - and I eased his concerns by telling him I would never plan to own a horse, but that I just liked to look. I think we both believed me. At least for a while.

At least until I started to actually go and see horses for sale; this truly represents the next level of imaginary horse shopping, and I knew it was downhill from there.

I think I actively performed my 'imaginary search' for close to a year until I met Gavin. He was a fluke, a complete and total serendipitous event that was the result of a casual conversation between two strangers, one of which I know, who asked me the question:

"Do you know anyone who is interested in a 17.2hh Oldenburg gelding -- with papers?"

And in the matter of a few hours, I was driving to a barn in the middle of god-knows-where (aka Ancaster) to do the one thing I don't think I ever really thought I would do; look at a well-bred, fantastically pedigreed Hanoverian horse.

Insert multiple fights with spouse here. And here, and here and here.

Several phone calls to vet here. One or two more here.

And then some exceptionally neurotic long distance calls to exceedingly patient coach about what the hell I am getting myself in to right about here. And here.

And then, even more miraculously, I bought the fucking thing. Even more incredible than that, it helped to ease all my fears and worries about mistakes I have made in the past, and all the things I should have done right.

In the end, none of it really mattered, and almost as if on accident, I ended up exactly where I hoped I would be one day.

Funny, that.


* Do not try this at home. Optimism can be dangerous.