|Photo © 2009 Jennifer Wood/PMG.|
Except . . . um, it wasn't really an arena. It was my pasture.
And . . . um, it wasn't really a real course. More of a collection of salvaged items.
And . . . well, the tallest obstacle was a picnic bench (fourteen inches high and ten inches deep . . . I think that qualifies as an oxer?) and the most complex gymnastic element was a series of two crossrails set up with 2x4's on saw horses.
Still, I managed! I jumped beautifully. Not only that, but I did so while handicapped by the uneven footing, the unmown grass, and FarmWife in her dressage saddle aboard.
I managed, and I impressed FarmWife with my pep and my vigor. I had one run-out (is it my fault our picnic bench is a mere four feet from end to end?) and one refusal (bi-fold closet doors are meant to stand in front of closets, people—not out in the field, lying A-frame style on the lawn like the bunker of some sinister miniature army) but I did a lovely job for the most part. It was fun.
Now, FarmWife—get thee an all purpose saddle and some real standards, jump cups, and poles. We'll do it again some day.