Where my ten-year-old daughter and friend ride Piñon for something like a hundred miles in the course of one rainy afternoon trailed by me and the cranky appaloosa camera horse.

J.'s horse Caprichosa is still recuperating from an injury, or they would have had her out here too!

Ah ... remember being 10?

I didn't have a horse. Just a hot-pink banana seat bicycle and a vivid imagination.

I rode around and around the cul-de-sac of our suburban Cleveland-area neighborhood and convinced myself it was a dressage arena and the pink bike a fabulous high-stepping, neck-arched, chomping-at-the-bit, midnight-black, warmblood stallion. As I recall, several of the little neighborhood girls had similar steeds, and we went for rousing gallops together down the asphalt.