The Final Few Races

Dust swirled from the dirt floor of the arena on the hot summer day. The only relief from the heat was the slight breeze causing the fine soil to dance through the air.

I sat in the saddle wearing a long sleeved, red button up shirt, black jeans, and a cowboy hat. The heat worsened by the standard dress code for a barrel racer. My blonde hair was tied back in a tight braid to prevent it from blowing in my eyes during the event.

I moved with my black mare as she pranced knowing what was coming. She crow hopped slightly, several times, as was usual for her before starting our run. Still, I sat tall in the saddle pulling the reins back to keep her standing in one place.

I reached one hand down and patted her neck. “It’s almost time, girl,” I said calmly. I wished that the calm in my voice extended through the rest of my body.

The small crowd sitting on metal bleachers borrowed from the local school cheered, causing more dust to stir from the dry grass beneath them. Other horses stood in the paddock near the arena, some eating or drinking, some pawing the ground nervously, waiting for their turn in the arena. Other competitors rode around in the grassy area behind the arena ready and waiting to perform for the crowd.

The atmosphere was tense. My body, though loose in the saddle, matched the tense atmosphere internally. My heart pounded, my breathing though even, came with difficulty. I was as ready for this race as my horse was.

It was show time. My favorite time.

I had been barrel racing since I was a young girl, but it never lost its excitement for me. This was just a small local contest, but I knew it would be one of the last my horse and I ran in together. Time had run out for us to make it to the big time, and make a career out of this thing we loved. Though she still had plenty of energy, and was in great condition, my horse was aging. Her well muscled chest was beginning to shrink, and her hindquarters no longer held the power to propel her through the starting gate as quickly as they needed to.

Our top speed had taken a hit by nearly two seconds within the last year, which was enough to hold us off from going professional.

I was also beginning to show signs of age, the same as my horse. A career in an office that paid well had stopped me from practicing with my mare on a regular basis. Buying a home of my own, and settling down had become the priority. A few extra pounds had made their way to my rear end, and my midsection, causing me to lose the sinewy look that all of the younger cowgirls had.

Despite these changes, my horse and I still enjoyed these competitions. Win, lose, or draw, we could still compete with the best of the locals, and would continue to do so until we were unable.

My horse brought my attention back to her, as she protested not yet being in the arena at a full run. This time, she reared high, pawing at the blue sky, and almost succeeding in unseating me.

Just as I got her back under control, the whistle blew, signaling us to start our run. The rope at the gate dropped to the ground. I let my reins go slack. The old mare knew this routine well. She shot through the gate like a streak of black lightning, me glued to her back. We were moving as one now.

We veered to the right, navigating the first barrel in the clover leaf pattern. We rounded it with precision, leaving only inches between my leg and the obstacle itself. The mare leaned low, digging deep to keep herself at just the right angle to maintain her speed and balance.

We took the short sprint to the second barrel in only a couple of long strides, repeating the previous smooth motions around the second of the three obstacles.

Then we ran hard towards the third and final barrel. The head barrel at the center of the cloverleaf pattern, and final obstacle before the homestretch sprint.

We rounded the last barrel with ease. Horse, and rider knowing each other’s every move well. Woman and beast, striving for the same goal.

Then it was time to make up any time we may have lost around the barrels. I leaned in as closely to my mare’s neck as I could, saddle horn digging into my stomach. I sunk my knees into my horse’s ribs, signifying that it was time to pour on the speed. I gave her a couple of smacks on her hind quarters with the long reins. A final burst of the impressive strength that I was so used to exploded from her tensed hindquarters as we shot forward at breakneck speed.

The whistle sounded a second time as we crossed the line, exiting the arena, and signifying the end of our run.

I slowed my horse to a stop, both of us now heaving for breath. I wheeled her around to face the scoreboard displaying the times of each of the top five riders in order, from fastest to slowest. To my joy, my name was on the top, with a time just under 18 seconds, and only a few more riders to go before they announced the winner.

I rode around the grassy area outside the arena impatiently, waiting for the final riders to compete. This also allowed the old black mare to cool down after her run, and help prevent any injury.

Once I was satisfied she was cooled off, I took her back to our trailer, and removed her saddle, blanket, and bridle. I snapped a lead rope to her halter, and we walked to the arena fence to watch the last rider.

I leaned against the fence rail, watching intently while my mare grazed.

The final rider made her run, and to my pleasure, finished with a time just fractions of a second below my own time, which was still at the top of the leader board.

That was it, it was official! We had won!

I tried to contain my excitement as the winners were announced.

I knew this feeling wouldn’t last forever, so I relished it now.

The End.