Free Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul by Jack Canfield Page B

doubters—including the toughest one, myself—that I was for real.
    When we took a look at the horse they’d assigned me, my equine consultant, Robert Splaine, could tell straight away that he wasn’t fit enough to last. Then our luck turned; we met another rider, who happened to have available a seven-year-old chestnut gelding named Gal.
    Gal was an Akhal-Teke, a Russian breed once ridden by Alexander the Great. With their lanky bodies and thin skin, Akhal-Tekes are bred to thrive in the desert, and they are famous for endurance. “Just remember,” his owner told me, “my Gal loves to be spoken to. Just talk to him and he will help you.”
    We lined up the next morning across a broad expanse of light sand: forty-six ready steeds and their riders, almost all of them men. Behind the horses were twice as many cars and jeeps and ambulances—including one open-topped car filled with British press, their huge lenses bristling like monstrous antennae, and every man jack of them aching to immortalize my failure.
    Minutes before we were off, a bank of dark clouds rolled in, then burst, drenching everyone to the skin. At the starting gun there was chaos, and it was all I could do to keep my wits about me. Horses reared and motors roared and everyone charged off in what seemed like a dozen different directions. It was then that I discovered that I had saddled a racehorse. Gal took the bit and was gone, in a flat-out gallop, as if he were sprinting six furlongs. He just wanted to win, and he didn’t know the finish line was twenty-six miles off.
    Once I had been like Gal, I thought, always pushing past my limits until I flamed out. Now I knew better: Slowing down wins the race.
    Finally I regained control, and we settled into a gentle trot. I’d been prepared for heat, but not the damp of a fluke storm. The rain added weight for my horse, and distance to the course, since we’d have to skirt several bogs where the water had pooled. And it churned up the sand and stones till the footing was heavy and treacherous. I was dripping wet and scared. The rain had changed all my equations.
    In advance of each water station, where open containers were handed out, Robert would lean out the window of the jeep and shout, “Water!” When it was time to douse Gal’s neck and shoulders, he called out, “Horse!”
    About halfway through we reached the vet station, where the riders had to dismount and walk their horses in to be checked for soreness or rapid heart rate. Gal was in great shape, but my own legs barely functioned after rubbing so hard on the saddle.
    The going was lonely. The wet desert stretched out before us, flat and monotonous. The universe was brown. Would it never end? Three miles from the end, Gal slowed from a trot to a walk, then a slower one. Each step was more labored than the last . . . and then Gal stopped. I don’t want to go on, my horse was telling me. I am tired.
    I was used up myself, but the thought of quitting repelled me. I had to pass the line.
    But neither could I be cruel to my horse; I could not, would not, force him. As the car idled alongside I asked Robert what to do.
    Under the rules, Robert could not leave the car, but he trained his keen eyes on Gal for a long moment. Then he said, “From what I can see, with the distance you have left, you’re fine.”
    Thus assured, I appealed to my horse as a friend, “Gal, you have got to trust me here. I know that home is the other way, and it looks like we are going into the middle of the desert. But you have got to trust that there is something out there—you have to believe enough in me to know that I will get you through it.”
    By that point I was crying, and I said, “Because if you don’t believe in me now, we are going to fail, and we can’t fail. Because then they will say, ‘There she goes again, just being her usual stupid, crazy self.’”
    Gal stayed stock still, and my heart dropped. I knew that Gal and I would go as far as our joint