The last time I heard of a horseback rider having a run in with the police, the woman in question was high on methamphetamine and running down her local Main Street on a chesnut quarter horse at midnight. The cops pulled her over with lights and sirens and she in turn tried to charge their car with her horse. The horse was confiscated and the woman was cuffed. This was in Alabama if I remember correctly.
I didn’t get lights and sirens. I got the bike patrol. I kept a cool head and didn’t charge the bikes, which probably lent to my getting off with only a warning. Get this: it’s illegal to ride a stallion bareback in public around here. In fact, I’m not even supposed to own a stallion if I’m not a trainer. I am definitely not a trainer.
So there I was, minding my own business, riding down the park trails and brazenly breaking the law with Conte, the saddleless Bonnie to my Clyde, when I was stopped dead in my tracks by the law and informed of my illicit activities. I laughed. My first response to stupidity will always be laughter. Stupidity’s greatest threat is identification and belittlement. Laughter is a worthy foe.
But they seemed serious. The warning really didn’t have the effect that was probably intended. I’m sure they meant to make me think about my actions and leave with relief and resolve to change my behavior, but mostly what they left me with was a blog idea and a small sense of wonderment at the world instead. It’s true. Laws have made criminals of us all.
Naturally, I don’t much like the idea of my horse being impounded, or of getting a ticket while riding in the future. Once I got a ticket when my dog found a hole in the backyard and chose to hang out in the front yard for a while. The ticket was ignored and the hole was patched up and nothing ever came of it. For this reason, I’m not sure how much weight I’d give a horse ticket. Will they forcibly castrate my horse? Will they sell him at auction while I cry in the audience? Will they fine me by the day as testosterone courses illegally through his equine veins? Either way, I’ve been brainstorming ways to avoid blatant failings as a citizen in the future, and chopping my horse’s balls off is not an option. I don’t much like riding with saddles either. Perhaps it would be worthwhile to make a business card though and call myself a trainer. It can look like this:
Kayden Kross’s Barebacking Experience:
Real world barebacking safety lessons for studs
The whole concept has a titillating ring.