“A bicycle is a better form of transportation than a horse,” my brother, Eric, declared over a lobster dinner one night. It was the 1970s and I was about 11 or 12 years old, my brother 16 or 17. We and our siblings were living with our father on Cape Cod for the summer. “No, it’s not,” I said, cracking a lobster claw with more force than necessary, splattering juice on my face. In my family, everything was a competition, and I was not about to let him win this one.
“You can go farther and faster on a bike,” he said. I didn’t know about the farther bit, but I was pretty sure that a horse could run faster than a person could ride a bike. When galloping on the beach completely out of control, the speed I’d experienced on a horse was far greater than anything I’d done on my bike, except maybe, maybe flying down a big hill.
“Maybe down a hill a bike could go faster, but not on a flat.”
“Even on a flat I think a bike is faster,” Eric proclaimed. Ten-speed bikes had only been around for a few years and Eric was the first in the family to get one. These bikes were truly revolutionary, a huge change from the old one-speed cruiser bikes.
“Alright, then let’s have a race,” I replied. Eric’s face twitched a little bit. He liked to make grandiose statements and was not accustomed to having to prove them. “Well, okay,” he stammered. Regaining his confidence, he went on, “I’ll definitely win.”
I did not have my own horse but often rode my friend, Nancy’s horse, El Ternay, an Arabian gelding. Nancy was game to let me borrow him for the challenge. Having the horse arranged, the next task was to find a location. We needed a place with pavement for the bike adjacent to a grassy surface for the horse, a long, flat, straightaway with little traffic. It had to be close enough to Nancy’s barn that I could ride there, since she did not have a trailer. I spent a week riding my bicycle everywhere and begging my Dad to drive me around, looking for a good place. We finally found a quiet paved road with a long straight stretch and a grassy shoulder.
On the appointed day, I saddled up El T and rode the couple of miles to the spot, while Eric rode his bike and my father and other siblings piled into the car and drove there. My father was at the start and my other brother, Vaun, was placed at the finish line. Eric complained that he was at a disadvantage because it takes several seconds to get a bicycle up to speed. I suggested he start a ways back and when he was alongside me I would start. He rode back 50 feet or so, then my Dad gave him the signal and, when he caught up to me my Dad yelled “go!” to me.
El T took off at the canter and quickly advanced to a gallop. I fought the urge to look back at Eric, for fear of losing my balance. I just kept my eye on Vaun, 300 yards away. El T was happy to run as fast as I would let him. Standing up in 2-point and hanging onto his mane, we flew across the finish line. When I finally got El T slowed down, I looked back and Eric had finished, far behind me.
I don’t remember Eric’s reaction or how much I gloated the rest of that summer, but given how rarely I ever won an argument with him, this small victory had a large impact on me. The fact that I had something that I could succeed at – riding a horse – in a family of people who thought they were better at everything than everyone else, boosted my self-worth tremendously. Why else would it be such a vivid memory 40 year later?
Thank you to all the horses who have saved me in so many ways.
This story is a fictionalized account of a real event. The race definitely happened and I did win but, being so long ago, I don’t remember the details. For the sake of telling an engaging story, I have made up the dialogue and a few of the particulars. I hope you don’t mind.
