What eventers need to remember when life seemingly falls apart

My first real Eventer, Shrunk n da Wash. After having to put him down after a cross country accident when I was 12, I cried every day for weeks. I don't know why, but as Eventers we kick on.

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What eventers need to remember when life seemingly falls apart

Eventers are used to disappointment. In fact, not long ago I had a coach tell me that this sport is 90% disappointment. However, I can’t help myself, I love Eventing. I can’t wait for each new day just to start the routine again. The days are long and repetitive and the biggest reward is when you have a moment with your pony that shows progress. Progress comes in various forms on the horse and off the horse. Every day my horses teach me as much as I teach them. I know that there is not a job that I would enjoy more than working with horses.

However, I have also experienced the downside of this sport. At only 12 years-old, I lost a horse as a result of a cross-country accident. I have had a horse go lame just before North American Young Rider Championships. The next year, I broke my leg just before the championships and couldn’t go again. I have hit the dirt on many occasions, suffering three concussions and a broken arm. I know the risks of the sport and I can’t help myself, I love all three phases equally.

My fellow eventers are all horse lovers and the most hardworking people I know. They all get knocked down, and they just dust themselves off and get on it with it. Today, I came across this poem and I couldn’t help but feel that Eventers may relate and I just had to share. When the going gets tough, I am quite sure I will be reading it again to give myself that little kick when plans fall apart.

 


 

The Quitter

By: Robert Service (1874-1958)

Robert Service was a British-Canadian poet and my Grandpa, Pete Giesler loved his writing and could recite by heart another one of his poems the “Cremation of Sam McGee”.

When you’re lost in the Wild, and you’re scared as a child,
And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you’re sore as a boil, it’s according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and . . . die.
But the Code of a Man says: “Fight all you can,”
And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it’s easy to blow . . .
It’s the hell-served-for-breakfast that’s hard.

“You’re sick of the game!” Well, now, that’s a shame.
You’re young and you’re brave and you’re bright.
“You’ve had a raw deal!” I know-but don’t squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It’s the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don’t be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit; it’s so easy to quit:
It’s the keeping-your-chin-up that’s hard.

It’s easy to cry that you’re beaten-and die;
It’s easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope’s out of sight-
Why, that’s the best game of them all!
And though you come out of each gruelling bout,
All broken and beaten and scarred,
Just have one more try-it’s dead easy to die,
It’s the keeping-on-living that’s hard.

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