Life's Like Barrel Racing: Ride 'em and Slide 'Em or Lead 'Em and Feed 'Em

There’s a saying in the horse business that describes the kind of horses you associate yourself with that goes like this: “You can ride ‘em and slide ‘em or lead ‘em and feed ‘em.” The first part of that statement refers to barrel racing, cutting horses, reining, etc. – where rider and horse are both seriously engaged in speed and/or expertise. The second part refers to horses that one enters in horse shows where one leads the horse around and it’s judged on conformation, etc.

I’ve done my fair share of both and definitely like ride ‘em and slide ‘em better. I always felt I had little control as to outcome when showing a horse at halter because the judge is all mighty. If he likes short, apple-butted horses and your horse is more on the sleek and trim side you’ve wasted your entry money – no matter if your horse’s overall conformation is better, the horse shows better, etc. Lots of folks will tell you judges don’t operate like that – and to each his own as to that belief.

When it comes to ride ‘n and slide ‘n a horse it’s pretty fair pickens for all – particularly barrel racing. Again, you’ve wasted your entry money if you’re not horseback to begin with – in other words there’s lots of good barrel horses out there and if you’re not ridin’ one you ain’t gonna win! If you’ve not run enough barrels on that horse (practicing) to put Exxon out of business you’re still not gonna win. If you’ve not got the right tack (saddle, etc.) that’s right for both you and the horse you’re chances are mightily cut down. And last but not least, if that horse can’t breathe in and you breathe out for him then you’re handicapped.

I barrel raced for a lot of years – not big shows just what we called “punkin’ rollings” and took home my fair share of ribbons and money. I also got the holy crap beat out of me so many times it wasn’t funny – before I got my Peanut horse. I watched the colt being born and he was like a part of me. He was a big, long-legged, registered Quarter Horse – dun with four black stockings to the knees and black mane and tail. He was not, however, what is known as a “line back dun.”

I started swinging up on his bare back when he was barely a year old and he acted like that was the most normal thing in the world. Of course, he was a big, stout colt and I weighed 110 pounds so sure didn’t risk hurting him. His mama was the best mare on the place and a real ranch horse – she was smart, gentle and she reasoned. Peanut got all her good traits and came equipped with some of his own. For one thing he never met a stranger but was just thrilled to death to see anybody. That did not, however, include being able to ride him. He shared that only with me which my young husband found out the hard way the first time Peanut unloaded him.

His horse was crippled up and he decided he’d just take Peanut to the pasture that day. If he’d asked me; I’d have told him – BUT Bill wasn’t strong on asking anyone’s opinion or advice. Peanut didn’t like spurs, whips, bats, etc. (as they were never used on him) nor were they necessary. He’d do anything he was asked to do – if he was asked nicely. Bill got on him with a pair of spurs and was tossed off immediately. Truthfully, I enjoyed that immensely but abstained from expressing my joy outwardly!

Peanut was a good two years before I started working him on barrels and then gently and not long at a time. He not only was a natural -- he loved it. He also maintained a great deal of dignity and decorum when he raced. Many barrel horses, in anticipation of a run, get all riled up and anxious at the starting line. They’ll circle, dance, prance, etc. but not Peanut. He knew we were going to race but he wasn’t putting out any extra energy being silly. I’d position him back from the starting line (and yes, he knew the drill) and he’d stand there with his ears up and body tensed – ready to roll – and when my bare heels touched him he was out of there like a shot.

Peanut ran his own race around barrels and my job was to sit up there and follow his lead. He’d make his own adjustments for the type of arena we were in, weather, etc. and the way he turned the barrels was amazing. It was like he knew if he bumped one I was gonna try and keep it from going down and always kept me in position to grab the barrel and keep it upright. In all the years we raced I don’t think I had to do that more than five times and although we messed up sometime; it was rarely we knocked a barrel over. It seemed as if it was his own game to get as close to a barrel as he could without touching it and he was an expert.

He ran a perfect three-point turn around every barrel, was as sure-footed as though he had glue on all four hooves and when he headed home , well, it was Katy bar the door as he could and would run like a haint. Never in the years we ran did I use spurs or a bat on him – it wasn’t necessary. He loved the game and participated to the best of his ability every run – his big heart didn’t know what “quit” was. Well, that’s not true exactly. When he crossed the finish line he was d-o-n-e – done! He dropped his head, puffed and blew to get his breath and was immediately as calm as he was before we started. He did not waste energy on foolish things.

Although we barrel raced he was first and foremost a ranch horse. He could cut cattle, I could rope off of him, and when we had to head and heel something to get them down and doctor ‘em he’d work his end of the rope like a champ. I literally raised my son aboard Peanut. The days I had to take Rusty with me, when he was a baby, I’d strap him on my back like a papoose. Once Rusty was old enough to sit in front of me in the saddle we did that and when Rusty was about five he began to ride behind me. Peanut was also the horse Rusty called “The No Pony.” One winter Peanut was covered in ice and snow and Rusty was having problems with the letter “S” so rather than “Snow Pony” Peanut became “No Pony.”

When my husband, Bill and I divorced, Peanut was probably five years old and in his prime. As my father-in-law had given the horse to me before the colt was born; he was mine and I could have taken him with me but had no place to keep him. I moved to the city. My relationship with Bill’s parents was good and I’d go to the ranch and ride Peanut every chance I got. I’d been gone about a year when Luke, my father-in-law called me. A friend of his had a little girl who needed a good horse as she was competitive in play days, etc. and would I be interested in selling Peanut? The added incentive was that if the buyer ever wanted to be rid of the horse he’d come back to me. Rather than let the horse stagnate I gave him to the little girl. They made high point horse in Texas for three years in a row.

Years passed and Bill, my ex, had been ill. I went to the ranch to check on him. He said he had something to show me. We drove to the next little town, stopped by the side of the rode and walked up to a fenced in pasture. “Call your horse,” Bill said. Peanut immediately came to my mind. I began my little whistle that only he and I shared and that 30-year-old horse came trotting out of the bushes and up to the fence.

His back was very swayed, his neck had rainbowed and his eyes were set way back in his old face but he was fat and healthy and delighted to see me. The first thing he did was nose the pockets of my jacket for sour balls – which I didn’t have but he’d not forgotten in all those years. Bill said his owner, the same little girl I’d given him to, was now married with children of her own and had retired the old horse when he was 25 to a pasture of knee-deep grass and artesian spring water. She saw that he had good vet care, stalled him when it was cold and loved Peanut with all her heart. Seems he’d raised all the girl’s kids before his retirement. Bill said he still wouldn’t allow any of the children to get on him if they had a switch so Peanut had never, in all those years, given up on his own private rules.

Seeing that old horse brought back a lot of special memories and the realization that Peanut was one of the great events in my life – time doesn’t change things like that. Bill called me when the old horse passed away peacefully in his stall at the age of 32 years old. Three years later Bill died and in 2011 my son, who was raised on Peanut, passed away.

Last week a young barrel racing friend of mine called and asked me to come out and see her new horse. If the word “horse” is involved I’m going! This kid’s family is well-to-do and I suspicioned a big bunch of money had changed hands where the horse was concerned. When I arrived Judy was in the arena and she and the chestnut mare she was riding were a thing to behold. They didn’t yet have the bond between them that one wants with a barrel horse but they were feeling each other out and becoming acquainted.

I accepted the invitation to ride the mare and was pleasantly surprised. She was well-trained and definitely knew what she was doing – wish I could say the same for me. It’d been a lot of years since I’d run barrels -- even at a slow lope -- and this horse was not interested in anything like that – she meant business. She was young and still a bit high-headed but her balance and turns were superb.

I gave her back to Judy after a couple of runs and was sitting on the fence as a spectator when her dad joined me. “What you think, Sis?” he asked. “I like her, Jim, looks like you made a good investment.” He sorta shuffled in the dirt and said “Well, think I may have let Judy talk me into this one – paid more for her than I’ve ever paid for any of my cuttin’ horses!” I gave that some thought as Jim has some top-of-the-line cutters and he’s never sat on his billfold when buying one. With that statement I knew he’d paid over $20,000 for the mare ‘cause to my knowledge that’d been the top price he’d paid for Dandy – his prize cutter.

“You’ll never go wrong making an investment in a kid, Jim, and I personally believe if a parent can afford it; it’s money well spent.” He climbed up on the fence beside me and we continued to watch Judy. It was evident she and the mare would become a team and as she raced at some big venues might even bring home some good money.

I was gathering up to go home when Jim started laughing and said “Sis, I may have misled you a bit on the price of that horse – it wasn’t quite the way I told it.” Knowing a joke was coming on I inquired as to how I’d been misled. “Well,” said Jim, “truth is I really traded two $15,000 dogs for that $30,000 horse!” We had a good laugh and I headed for my truck.

As I pulled away from the arena Judy made a perfect three-point turn around the last barrel and the mare stretched out for the final sprint to the finish line – obviously loving every minute of it. With age one often becomes a bit philosophical and more and more I find myself going there. Like Judy and the mare heading to the finish line – I’m glad I got to ride ‘em and slide ‘em in this life and even though I’m on the home stretch now I’m damned glad I got to run the race – and win a few!