Horsewalking

        Todayís expedition was the main reason I came to Wales: horseback riding. Iíve never been before and saw myself riding up and down mountains at thrilling speeds, but that wasnít exactly what happened. After an intimidating prep course during which we were given helmets and chest armor (the horses may shoot at us?) as we watched the horses take mighty shits, we mounted our mighty steeds. Mine was a brown-spotted white horsie named Kentucky. All right, I thought: such a fast horse that itís named after a derby. Actually, it ended up moving at the speed of the fried chicken most of the time: n matter what I did, the damn horse wouldnít do anything but walk in a straight line. The horses were so over-trained that they would never pass the lead horse. So, we were held to the speed of the slowest rider, that being some annoying girl who, although sheíd ridden before, somehow managed to zigzag her horse to eat at different sides of the path for hours straight. We did get to gallop a little, but it was for under 5 minutes and always in our carefully arranged line. Overall, I think I could have outrun us on a bike and would have been competitive even on foot.
        More importantly, something about riding rubbed me the wrong way. I donít mean that I didnít like it, I mean literally. I now know why the riding instructor wore padded spandex pants. Other riders agreed: the ride was fun, but seriously chafing. After my hours of horsing around, I definitely want to go again. Next time, Iíll try to do more than horsewalking and definitely wear goofier pants.

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