I ran faster than most of the boys in junior high. On a good day, I beat them all. And so began my career as a professional competitor.
After my immense success in on the track in the seventh grade, my athletic career went downhill. I switched from running to showing horses in high school and college and dreamed of competing at the international level in dressage. But I gave that up for a far more competitive career: I became a doctor. Those of you who live in the micro-culture called the American medical system know what I mean.
After residency, I felt that competitive itch again. Maybe it was because I didn’t have to compete for spots in medical school and residency anymore. I just had to fight the surgical subspecialists for the pick of the cookies in the doctor’s lounge. So I got into triathlons and marathons. But I was soon faced with a harsh reality: I’m not an athlete. I’m a “glad to finish without puking” kind of participant.
But this year I stepped into a world I gave up over ten years ago. I began to compete in dressage competitions again. Only this time the goal was different. We run a “missional horse barn”, a riding stable that aims to provide quality horse care and riding lessons while sharing the love of Christ. And to get to know people in the horse world – to love them as Christ did – we needed to share our lives with them. So I began showing. Only there was a problem: as the owner of a barn and a part time instructor, I lost my amateur status. I became what I had always dreamed of being: a professional rider. But I didn’t have the horse, the time, the finances … or the skills… to win.
This past September, my son and I competed at the Rocky Mountain Dressage Society Championship Show. I thought, “Hey, we won’t win anything, but we’ll get to know people. Nothing like humiliating yourself for the cause of Christ, right?” So we did. I took my cow pony with three months of dressage training, and she jumped out of the ring. My son was the smallest kid on the tallest horse and was lucky to find the rail. But he looked cute. And we smiled more than anyone there.
But I felt like a jockey in an NBA locker room. And as much as we laughed, as much as we tried to get to know other riders, as much as we tried to fit in – we didn’t. We had stepped into the world that respected only one thing: winning. So it hit me. I needed to win.
So I bought Tessa - an expensive Fresian Sporthorse. And I’m working with a trainer. And I have my show schedule planned a year out. Why? I want to win.
I have a friend who’s won a lot in the horse show world. She about made it to the Pan Am games before her horse broke his shoulder and had to be retired. She reminds me of another friend who attempted Mount Everest and had to bail in the last hundred meters due to a freak storm. But my horsey friend was there. She accomplished what I can’t even dream of. She went all the way -- almost. And it’s the almost that haunts her. It’s the almost that, in her mind – if I dare to speak for her – defines her.
I understand. I want to win as badly as I did in junior high. Why?
I’ll be honest. I want to be the alpha mare. I want to accomplish great things for the sake of doing it. I want to climb the mountain because it is there.
But that’s not why I bought Tessa.
I also want to win because I want to fit in. I want to fit in so I can live alongside people who have made it to the top of the mountain and realized the view isn’t what they expected. I want to be there with them – and point to the other mountain – the one with an eternal view – and say, “I know how to get up that one. Want to come with me?”
1 Corinthians 9:25 states, ”Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last; but we do it to get a crown that will last forever.”
I want to win. I want that crown. I want it for others. I want it badly enough for my friend that it hurts like a horse stepping on my stomach. I want her to see what truly defines her – the awesome, talented, caring, kind woman God has made her. I want her to know that He longs for her more than an Olympian longs for a gold medal. Far more.
That’s why I ride. That’s why I want to win.
