Free Life As I Know It by Michelle Payne

and hoped we would find a depth of happiness, if not an inner peace in our lives. If I was to find that depth of happiness, and meaning, in being a jockey then that’s what I needed to do. He would support, encourage andnurture me, even though I was going into a profession that he knew only too well was dangerous.
    Those best intentions weren’t so obvious when he was tearing strips off us in the yard. He was quick to show his frustration, a trait he has passed on to Therese and Patrick, and a little to me. And he can be stubborn, especially when he’s convinced he’s right.
    As he had been to my sisters and brothers when they were apprenticed to him, Dad was my father–mentor, and master–mentor. There was no separation of the roles. The papers to make that official were a mere formality required by the conventions of racing and the law. Life as I knew it went on. Being a jockey wasn’t a job, or a profession for me. I felt it was even beyond a vocation. I felt the deepest sense of personal connection with being a jockey. And I trusted that my father understood that—because he was
my father
.
    He taught me to be kind to horses, to work with them, to understand them, to love them. I watched him love them and I watched them love him. He also made it very clear, though, that you had to be in control and they had to know you were boss. I learned that from a very young age, when Dad would get us to break in the young horses with him. They have to learn you are in charge from the start and so did I. Horses are very smart and intuitive animals, they know if someone is nervous around them; they know when they can get away with anything they want. And it can be a fine line.
    When I was quite young we had a couple of older horses—Moving Away and Colorado Ring—which had over a hundred starts each. Both won more than fifteen races. When Dad walked towards their paddock they’d see him and acknowledge him. They’d start neighing. Dad would look straight at them.
    â€˜How’s my old mate,’ he would call out as he got nearer to them. I could feel the affection between them.
    Dad also taught me how to live with horses, in the same place as horses, and to look after them. To treat them with respect, but to also win their respect. To be part of their day. And to ride them. He taught me to believe in the relationship between horse and jockey.
    â€˜Some horses go good for some jockeys,’ he used to say.
    Dad also taught me how to break in a horse. I reckon I was as young as seven when he did. When he brought a yearling back from the sales, he’d put it in a box and put me on it, bareback, as he’d done with most of the kids before me. He’d get me moving its head left and right. He had a consistent message: ‘You’re the boss. Don’t ever let the horse think otherwise. You
show him
you’re the boss.’
    I heard that over and over again.
    Soon after, we’d put a saddle on the horse and go through the same process. Left and right. I progressed from that to being led around on the back of the horses. Dad then started me on a lunging lead, trotting in a circle on the racehorses. I learned to rise to the trot. Once I could trot I was ready to take the next step, to break into a canter. I’ll never forget that first day.
    The horse I used to ride was a lovely old chestnut called Campaigner. He’d won a few races so he had definitely earned his keep, and he was the perfect horse for me to learn on—placid and obedient. We were in the little circle of one of the small day yards near the stables. I broke into a canter and all I can remember is trying to get into the jockey position. I was all over the place, bobbing along, so tiny, trying to stay balanced like all my brothers and sisters did, like the really good jockeys who were riding at the time did. Cathy and Andrew were watching the lesson and were killing themselves laughing. I was so