Man v Horse

You can con a woman but you can’t con a horse. 

That’s a fact, and it's indisputable

Horses are clever, wily things. Of course, women are too. By and large the vast majority of women I’ve ever met are right up there on the clever and wily scale. But the thing about women is that - when it comes to men - they tend to give us the benefit of the doubt. They give us a bit of time. & then ... bang! They work us out. Just like that. They see right through us. It takes women a while but they always suss us out in the end.

Horses are a different kettle of fish entirely. 

They don’t give an inch. They take no prisoners. They sum you up in a shot. And they work you out. & then they chew you up in their long horsey mouths, and spit you out. 

I’m no expert in horses ... or women. My lack of expertise in the latter has been illustrated many times over the years. 


But, when it comes to horses, my lack of expertise has been highlighted on just one, single, solitary occasion. 

Once - just once - I took on a horse, and I lost. Comprehensively. Like I say, horses are clever, wily things.

Man 0 Horse 1

Before my one and only defeat at the hooves of a horse, my only interaction with our four-legged friends had been watching them whizz around Randwick Racecourse at the Spring Carnival. I don't mind a flutter at the races. I’ve lost my cash on every occasion, mind you. Except one. Once - and only once - I actually won. And not just won. I won big. $600! 

It was pure luck. I picked the winning horse because the jockey was wearing a very fetching outfit with red and white spots.  That was good enough for me. And my $20. The little fella with the red and white spots (and his horse) came up trumps, and when they did I pretended like I was the lord of the manor; like I knew everything about horses and horse-racing.

'Course I did. I'd just pocketed a cool $600. Six crisp, green ones. Woo-hoo! I was over the moon. I popped my winnings in the pocket of my pants. I also took off my tie and popped that in my pocket next to my winnings. 


When you’ve just won $600 and proved to the world that you’re an expert in 'all things horse-racing' you don’t have to wear a tie. 


Actually you do. 


I was in the Members’ Area at Randwick Racecourse. Ties are compulsory in the Members Area at Randwick races. A big burly chap with tattoos told me to put my tie back on ... Immediately. I pulled my tie out of my pocket. My $600 came with it. I didn’t notice. The six crisp, green ones were gone. Lost. Just like that. 


I noticed at the bar when I went to buy a drink. Despair.


I was officially a $600 winner at the races for less than 20-minutes. 

Like I say, I’m no expert in horses. 

Man 0 Horse 2

When you’re a self-confessed 'non-expert' in horses the very last thing you should do if you’re trying to impress a lady is suggest that the two of you go horse-riding for the day. 

I don’t even know why I did it. She mentioned that she loved horse-riding and I thought, “horse-riding? How hard can that be? It’s only a horse.” So I called a fancy riding place and booked us in for 4 hours of riding through the Blue Mountains. Unsupervised. I was offered a supervised trek. But I declined. I also mentioned that we - WE! - were experts.

Horse-riding experts. 

The last time I had ridden a horse - or at least a horse-like creature - was on the beach at Blackpool. It was a donkey. I was 8.  

As we rocked up at the Mittagong Advanced Riding School for our date (for my date with destiny) I was as nervous as a kitten. It wasn't the date itself. It was the use of the word Advanced in the name of the riding school. 


I strolled into the reception area with all the confidence of an expert in 'everything horse'. I could sense that my date was impressed. Intimidated even. Our horses were ready and waiting in the yard at the back. The lady in charge told me that she’d chosen us a couple of real crackers. Us both being ‘experts’ and all. My date was ecstatic. I just stood silently, staring at my horse. Working it out. Summing it up. Desperately wondering how the hell I was going to get up onto ‘it’ without giving away the fact that I had no idea how to get up onto ‘it’. Or down off ‘it’. 

I told myself that once I was up onto ‘it’ everything would be fine and dandy. 

It wasn’t.

That’s the thing about horses; they know. They don’t just know. They know everything. I reckon it’s that big horse-shaped head. It holds a big horse-shaped brain. The bigger the brain, the more stuff the animal knows. That's a rule with all living things.

As soon as I was up onto the horse it knew. It bloody well knew. It knew that I knew nothing. It knew that I was clueless. It probably knew that I’d only ever been on a donkey on Blackpool Beach. It probably knew the damn donkey. By name. I suspect it also knew that I’d once won - and then lost - $600 at the races. That’s how smart horses are. That's how smart my horse was.

The four of us trotted out along a path that took us up above the Mittagong Advanced Riding School.  We’d been gone ten minutes - less than ten minutes - when my horse suddenly decided that she'd had just about enough of the joker on her back. My horse decided that it was time to expose the joker for what he was; a joker. My horse decided to turn around ... and head home. My horse did just that. 


Right there, right in the middle of the path, she turned right around and walked right back towards the Mittagong Advanced Riding School.

My date asked me where I was going. I told her that ‘I’ was going nowhere. The horse was in charge. She told me to pull on the leather thing in my hand that was attached to the horse's mouth (I forget its name ... not being an expert in horses and all). It didn’t help. The horse simply ignored my pulling and trotted on home. It knew the way. Horses know everything. 

I did everything to try to make my horse stop walking home. I said 'Woah'. I said 'C'mon boy'. I said all the other things that the smart-arsed kid in Champion the Wonder Horse used to say. My horse totally ignored me. It was going home. And I was going with it. I had to. I had no idea how to get off.

As I disappeared around the corner on the way back down to the riding school I heard my date say something about me saying that I was an experienced rider. 

We all arrived back at the riding school. We’d all been gone for a grand total of 15 minutes. I’d paid for 4-hours. The owner was puzzled. My date was more puzzled. I was exposed. The horse was non-plussed. She wanted a carrot. The owner wanted an explanation. So did my date.

I said that my riding skills were a tad rusty. 

The horse looked at me down its long horsey nose. It knew. 

So did the owner. 

So did my date.

All three of them had worked me out.

It had taken two of them a tad longer than it had taken the horse.

Like I say, horses are clever, wily things.

Hope you had a great weekend.

Pip pip

Thanks to Julie for the super snaps of her two horses; Fred & Lula. Having two horses makes you an expert in horses.