A stand-up comedy routine for horsey women

Good evening, horse people! 

You made it! Sitting here in one piece. Unless you’re hiding a brace or an ice pack under those Spanx. Let’s be honest, at this point, riding isn’t a sport; it’s an extreme test of our faith in our ability to bounce.

I see some of you are sitting here tonight with perfectly clean joddies on. So brave of you to admit you’re not riding as much anymore. Oh, don’t look at me like that. We both know ‘clean breeches’ is code for ‘I just spent 45 minutes in the tack shop pretending to need hoof oil’.

Getting older as an equestrian is fun. My body now has a playlist of noises. My hips sound like a bag of gravel, my knees are made from Rice Krispies, and my back cracks like bubble wrap. It’s like a one-woman percussion band whenever I get in the saddle. My horse? He’s the only one who doesn’t judge. He just assumes I am opening a packet of treats!

You really know you’re an ageing equestrian when mounting the horse feels like a full CrossFit workout. Remember when we used to just spring into the saddle? 

Boing! 

Now it’s like: left foot in stirrup … ooo nearly … left foot in the stirrup … fcuk! … almost got it that time. Left foot in the stirrup. YES! Result! 

Right hand on the saddle, a silent prayer to Saint Flexibility aaaaaaand … Shit. Little sod moved from the mounting block and now I am eating dirt.  Less ‘equestrian elegance’ and more ‘woman grapples with gravity’.

My horse doesn’t even react anymore. He’s like, ‘Yeah, she does this now.’

‘Tell that child to stop laughing.’

Try again.

Heave yourself aboard and pray your sports bra holds. Don’t want a repeat of last week. Tits to the wind as the horse bolts. Double Ds flying everywhere! 

We’re on! 

Of course, at some point in the near future, we will have to get off again. Dismounting is a whole event. I don’t gracefully slide off anymore; I negotiate with gravity. My hips are like, ‘We can make it, but it’s gonna cost you’.

Getting off used to be this graceful leap to the ground. Now it’s like: ‘One … two … three … nope.’ 

So I just slide off like a sack of potatoes and hope my knees don’t give out. I’m not ashamed to say I’ve invented the ‘dismount with dignity’ technique. Less graceful leap, more controlled crash. Hold onto the saddle, groan softly, and pretend it’s a yoga pose.

Let’s talk about the real rodeo: menopause. Hot flashes while riding? I’m essentially slow-cooking in a poor choice of garments. I’ll be mid-canter and suddenly empathise with a roasting turkey. 

My horse looks back at me like, ‘Are YOU okay? Because I’m not carrying you if you faint.’ 

I once got a friend to film me taking my cardigan off and putting it back on again while attempting to navigate a course of small jumps. Why? I wanted to see if I could if it ever became necessary.

It did not end well.

I lost control and mowed down the friend.

And the mood swings? One minute I’m kissing my horse on the nose, whispering, ‘You’re my soulmate,’ the next I’m yelling, ‘IF YOU SPOOK AT THAT LEAF ONE MORE TIME, CHARLIE, I SWEAR TO GOD!’ 

Poor guy’s just trying to survive.

What was I talking about? 

And then there’s the forgetfulness. I’ll forget what I’m doing halfway through tacking up. I stand there holding a girth like, ‘Does this go on him or me?’ 

And remembering courses during a lesson! By the time I get to the second jump, I am circling the obstacles like one of those thingy-wotsit cleaning robots stuck on a rug.

I need to take a moment to address riding clothes. Who designs jodphurs nowadays? Satan? Riding pants are basically yoga pants’ cruel older cousin. And why are they all sitting on my hips? I need them to come up to my waist or I have a muffin-top of crinkly belly and back skin flopping about.

And what the fcuk is going on with riding tights? See-through spandex lie detectors, showing off every bump, ripple, poor life choice … and your knickers. Something’s gone terribly wrong.

Spanx should come out with a line of breeches. ‘The Full-Seat Slimmer: holds you in while you try to hold on!’

And show jackets? Who decided they should be that tight? I tried one on last week, and my friend thought I’d joined the Avengers. I was like, ‘No, darling, this isn’t body armour, it’s my show coat. And no, I can’t breathe.’

And the boots are definitely NOT made for walking! 

Or for taking off once you have contorted yourself into a human pretzel and managed to close them up with the aid of pinch-nosed pliers and a friend who has no issues with your bum in her face while she pokes in your calf muscles so they don’t get trapped in the zipper! 

I love them, but removing them after a ride is a full-on battle. I’m in my tack room, hopping on one foot, grunting like I’m wrestling a greased pig. 

My horse just stares at me like, ‘This is why you’re single.’

So yeah …

Mounting blocks have become my best friend, menopause has turned my clothes into a sauna, and my horse’s supplements cost more than my mortgage. But you know what? We’re still here, ladies. We’re still riding. Well, climbing awkwardly into saddles and praying not to fall. But it counts!

Let’s face it, we may creak when we walk, but at least we’re not scared of plastic bags. Right, Charlie?

Leave a comment to let me know if you approve of my first attempt at stand-up comedy aimed at equestrians. You can be 100% honest, too. It will give me good practise at dealing with hecklers.

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