Reflections on Retraining a Racehorse

When I was a teen rider in the 80s, I rode with an instructor who purchased off-the-track racehorses for resale. Because of my slight frame, I was the first rider to get on these horses who were just a day’s trailer ride from their last race.
After some nightmarish runaways, layers of ripped gloves, blistered hands, and some launches through fencing, at least I had come away with some experience, no terrible injuries and a healthy respect for a horse that was bred to run at breakneck speed. That is, until I recently acquired my off-the-track racehorse Lady.
Lady became an option when a horsewoman I knew said she didn’t have much use for her except as a broodmare. But she felt that Lady needed a job besides raising foals. Lady had been taken off the track by her friend who had soon died from cancer. Working with Lady, I had been trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to pull from memories of the racehorses I reworked 20 years ago. She was terrified of any change in her environment, for example, if boxes appeared outside the stall, a new steel feed bin instead of plastic, or a flowerpot in front of the barn. She would rear or bolt if the ground changed in color or consistency, like going from sand to grass. She was even afraid of the flattened tracks that a grass mower leaves behind. Getting her to and from the indoor arena, which was several yards from the barn, had been a challenge, but she began working consistently quietly in the indoor arena.
The biggest obstacle to overcome, however, was riding outdoors, especially if I ever wanted to show her. When maintenance was being performed on the indoor arena one day, I was forced to revisit riding outdoors earlier than I had hoped. Our previous outdoor experiment ended with bucking, rearing and me on my butt. Now I had no choice but to either bag riding altogether for the day or attempt it outside again. It was time to suck it up and see what would happen.
She snorted the whole way to the outdoor arena. Leaves blew across the sand, and she danced over them like they were attacking her. Her body trembled, but I used the longe line to allow her to have me in her sight while she worked quietly at the walk and trot only. Like all our sessions, the workout was about building confidence and learning, never about running the energy out of her.I walked and trotted her on 10 longe circles total. She was snorting, but her eye started to soften. That’s when I decided to get on. I removed the longe equipment and walked her to the mounting block, but as her head shot up, I realized I had made a fatal error.
The mounting block was in direct line of the pig pen, and the pigs had no idea that it was supposed to be too cold for them to be outside of their heated shed. They were milling about, grunting and rummaging for food. Lady was immobilized by terror.
Typically, when we were in this scenario previously, Lady would start rearing. But this day she didn’t. I kept talking to her, apologizing for not seeing that they were out, muttering to myself that I don’t know why they’re out. It’s too darned cold and windy. But, in the back of my mind, I thought, danged pigs know when the gray horse is around, they always come out when they see her. They love to scare her.
I grabbed the mounting block and walked with it and her up to the other side of the arena, the block banging against my bad leg still swollen from when she impaled me into the indoor arena wall last week. She was prancing and snorting, bringing to mind all the "I just love Arabians" comments she gets, even though she's not an Arabian.
Now came the difficult decision. Did I risk mounting? Her head was so high up as the pigs held her complete attention. Her 16.1 hands seemed more like 18 now.
Just get on. See it through, I thought.
"I'm not 20 years old anymore, Lady Jane," I said as I swung my bad leg over her back. "I don't heal that easy. Be good."
I was on. The horse was still shaking, shivering, with fear. Or was that me?
I put her through her usual paces, loosening her up, gaining her attention, asking for more, and after 20minutes of a successful, quiet, forward and submissive trot work, I briefly considered cantering. But as she had the typical ex-racehorse right lead canter issue, I decided it was better to live another day and attempt it tomorrow. Dealing with the pigs was enough of a win.
Teary with pride, it didn’t occur to me that it was going to be an ugly situation trying to get her by the pigs back to the barn.Would I now undo all that we had gained in this session?
Leading her from the outdoor arena, I decided to walk her on the off side, placing myself between her and the pigs, which were grunting acknowledgment to the frightened gray horse. I kept saying aloud softly and encouragingly, as I always do, “It’s okay. It’s okay. They can’t hurt you. You’re bigger than them.” This time, she paused one hoof off the ground, and shocked me by turning full face to look me in the eye, as if to ask “Really? Are you sure?” I patted her, she snorted, looked at me, over my shoulder at them, then turned forward to continue her fast walk pace, but without a rear or a bolt. It’s often small steps with an off-the-track racehorse that mean most, and for me, more than any blue ribbon ever did.
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