The twenty-meter circle
Our bodies are amazing. Check out the exquisite photos of the female form posted by Juliana at Charisophia—Bart Weston (U.S.) 1979 and Aram Alban - Female Nude (France). These images prompted me to tell the following story.
And Bwong's photographs of these young, vibrant top-tier vaulters (a few of my favorites pics shown here) capture the sheer and thrilling beauty of the sport of equestrian vaulting.
The order of things in equestrian vaulting is always from tallest to smallest. Tallest to smallest we say to each other as we prepare to practice the compulsories on the barrel. Tallest to smallest the coach sings out as we line up for freestyle exercises on the horse.
As I am today unfortunately the tallest in the group, and tradition-bound, I lead our little band of vaulters out onto the bright green hunter/jumper course at a choreographed jog—brandishing the long vaulting whip in one hand like a tribal banner as our names pour out over the loudspeakers. After all, we have just spent the previous two hours at the horse trailer while our Iberian Warm blood vaulting horse gets her mane and tail braided up by the grooms, grooming each other, brushing out our long hair, applying hairspray like lacquer, wrapping the silken strands tight around our fists to affix them into shining chignons at the napes of our necks with hairpins and jeweled nets, applying lipstick, gloss, eyeliner, blush, and all manner of sparkly things. At this point, although we’ve come from all over and some of us have never met before, we are purely consanguineous—of the vaulting line.
We trail out onto the field behind the Hungarian longer and vaulting horse in our jewel blue unitards, an item of clothing that is this 42-year-old woman’s nightmare. Smile plastered across my face as we form our circle in front of the VIP stand, I remind myself that I’m not the oldest beginning equestrian vaulter ever, although I feel like it right now. (Some guy back on the East coast, they tell me, started well into his 50s.) Especially as I give the fidgeting ten-year-olds across the circle from me my watered-down version of the evil eye—it’s a mom thing—silently reminding them to stand quietly with their hands clasped behind their backs until it’s their turn.
My husband says that he wants to know my vaulting coach’s secret—how in the world she manages to talk me into standing on the back of a moving draft horse in a little tight blue thingie in front of hundreds of spectators at the Santa Fe Horse Park—because if she will just clue him into her persuasive method, after this he figures he will be able to talk me into anything he says, grinning wickedly. “I need you for the demo, Kimberly,” my coach implores over the phone. “We’re trying to expand club membership, and we need to demonstrate that a mature woman can do this sport. That vaulting is not just for the kiddos.”
A mature woman, I cave in.
As we warm up before the performance, people crowd outside of the practice arena to watch. Photographers take our photographs as we try to look natural next to the caterer’s truck with the multi-colored carnival balloons painted on the side panels. I believe they think we are circus performers. They don’t know that our equestrian art form extends back to Xenophon and beyond.
The music begins. Flamenco guitar for our Santa Fe setting at the foot of the Sangre de Cristo mountains. As The Amazon of the Day at 5’8”, I run to the center of the 20-meter circle to wait beside the longer. He warms the horse up a few circles at a walk, trot, then a canter, and lifts the longe whip. This is the opening of the gate. The vaulter’s signal to do what comes next in our ancient dance with the horse. The breathless fleeting chasm where I am sure I will always ask myself—will I make it up onto the horse’s back, or will I not? I depart the safe haven of the longer to join the cantering Warm blood on the circle, hesitate, match her four-legged rhythm with my paltry two legs, my right shoulder next to her withers, grab the vaulting surcingle handles, canter alongside her a few strides, breathe in, and punch my two feet hard into the ground on her left lead on the exhale, allowing the fluid momentum of her muscled body to lift me up off of the ground, right onto her back.
I fling my hands up into the air. (Our coach said to be dramatic.) Finally allow the smile that radiates from the inside to venture out, suddenly no longer embarrassed to be in my forties and doing this because it’s the most brilliant fun I’ve had in years. And more. The audience claps.
Swing my legs in front of me onto each side of the horse’s neck, then allow the upswing of her stride coupled with the back swing of my legs to lift me to my knees, riding lightly on each side of her spine, grasping the surcingle handles with both hands. Centrifugal force wants to pitch me off to the outside of the circle at this point, so I weight my inside hip, extend my inside arm out towards her ears, outside leg sweeping behind me to scrape the blue sky towards the tip of her tail. Arch my back like a chalice. Point my toes until they hurt. Keep my outside hip down. Lifting kneecap aimed towards the ground. Top of my inside foot and shin pushed firmly against the cantering mare’s croup. Lengthen my neck. Raise my chin. Gaze beyond the confines of the circle. Hold the flag for one- two- three- four- strides. They clap again. I am surprised.
Stand on my knees, swing my arms to the inside of the circle, then to the outside as a ballerina might, I imagine, although I never had a single dancing lesson. Sit sidesaddle now, inside leg draped around the outside surcingle handle, balancing on the horse's shoulder along the outside of the circle, sweeping my outside arm in an arc towards the crowd, nudging the invisible door ajar just a bit.
I catch a fleeting glimpse of two little girls in the grandstand on one go round. The second time around the circle, I see that they are holding hands amidst the sparkling VIPs, pressed against the arena rail in their pastel flowered summer dresses, ribbons in their hair, drinking in every second of my beginning-level, middle-aged equestrian vaulting as if I were Epona herself.
Wait until they see the real vaulters, I think. All of those waiting patiently just beyond the circumference of the circle while I go first because today I am the tallest. They will be astounded.
Flickr photos: bwong
