Galloping Bronco

Cousin Mark, a young man in his early twenties, dabbled in hunting, fishing, and a score of other manly pursuits.  So it was no surprise that he owned a horse, the only one it seemed in the entire municipality.

No thoroughbred by any stretch, Mac, as he was named, was nevertheless a handsome, all chestnut colt.

Teenaged cousin Peter rode him on the beach often and deftly.  It was a glorious sight.

Wishing to experience what was undoubtedly a very cool thing, I drummed up the nerve to ask Mark for a ride.  Doing so with cousin Paul in tow, Mark consented but on the condition that Paul and I hitch-up together.  No problem.  I took up the reins while the younger Paul sat behind me as our ’Indian lookout’.

As we ambled along the main trail leading to various beach houses, it dawned on me that my equestrian skills were, by and large, non-existent.  Paul shot me a few pointers he had picked-up watching reruns of Bonanza.  I tried out a few hoping to get up to a trot at least, but all went unheeded as Mac persisted on his humdrum pace.

Just as I resigned myself to a leisurely joy ride, the horse suddenly bucked!  It raised its hindquarters into the air, kicked out its hind legs, then broke off into an all-out sprint.  Shocked out of our wits, we crouched low as we hung on for dear life, our warm-blooded Mustang rapidly reaching top speed.  We shot past one house, startling bystanders… past yet another… I was too terrified to scream for help.  Fast approaching a third abode, I glimpsed from within our Aunt Poochie looking on with a horrified expression on her face.  She yelled for us to stop.  Shaking my head to signal our utter helplessness, she quickly called out to her servants to pursue the runaway bronco and rescue her imperiled nephews.  Hastily complying, their tsinelas (slippers) flip-flopping as they went, a pair of young women gave chase — a monumentally futile, albeit well-intentioned gesture.

After what seemed an eternity (it had actually just been under a minute), Mac tired and came to a stop a good distance North, well inside an uncle’s hacienda.

Gingerly dismounting the steed, we both breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to have ridden out (no pun intended) the episode unscathed.

“Why do you suppose he did that,” I mused aloud.

“He was going so slow and wasn’t responding to commands, so I pinched him as hard as I could,” Paul grinned broadly.

It was all I could do to keep from pinching Paul.


3 Responses to “Galloping Bronco”

  1. I believe Mark named the horse “Mac”. He was a great horse. Of course I knew no other. Manong Mark (I fondly call him) would ride the horse alll the way into the waters of Happy Valley. I found this truly amazing because when I rode him I could barely even get him close to the surf. Ride him I did. At one point, my horseride took me all the way to town and back via seashore. This eventful journey was the begining of the end for my love of horseback riding. Since I rode “bare back” (no saddle) I developed what they call in the dialect a “pila”. It is a riding blister. You get this water blister right in the crack of you butt. Mind you, this was not an injury for the light hearted. This did not stop the cowboy in me and kept riding the pony every chance I got. Eventually it was not a calus that I got but an infection…..I really cannot continue recounting this painfull tale…….so lets just say that I had to adjust the way I walked for about a week until the antibiotic ointment did its thing….the end!

  2. Let’s not forget the nursing services of Narcing who administered her usual treatments of said antibiotic ointments. Can you remember the pain, Pete?

  3. My dearest yaya Narcing, God bless her soul.

    J, as much as I really had nothing to hide from Narcing. I would like to think that I “ADMINISTERED” the ointment to myself. The pain seems like a distant memory but you are succeeding in reminding me of the insult to my injury. Thank you. Let me, let you buy me a drink the next time we meet alright.

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