Preface to the essay
Racehorses like Artemis begin their careers at just two years old, a time when they are still growing and physically immature. Their demanding schedules often leave them with underdeveloped muscles, lingering pain, and psychological stress. When Artemis retired from racing, she was volatile, fearful, and in constant discomfort, unable to trust or connect with humans. Through patient care, proper training, and a commitment to understanding her unique needs, Artemis transformed from a skittish and unpredictable horse into a partner capable of mutual trust and progress. This journey highlights the physical and emotional challenges racehorses face when they come off the track and the dedication required to help them heal.
Enjoy the read!
My heart is thumping. The air in my lungs feels crisp and sharp. The sweat is dripping down my face and the sun is beating down on my back. My shoulders ache and my calves burn – a euphoric feeling. As we stand in the lineup of our last competition of the day, I whisper to Artemis to calm my nerves. She side-eyes me and swishes her tail. The announcer begins to speak.
“In fourth place…”
A girl on a gorgeous horse exits. I had been sure they would win the Championship.
“In third place…”
Another one left.
“In second place…”
The girl to our right exits the ring, leaving only us. This was it.
“In first place, Alea Cerha Vist on Artemis!”
I let go of my reins and hug Artemis' neck, joy exploding from my chest. The steward hands me my tri-color ribbon. As we walk out, I begin to cry. Our first competition – and Champions! I look over at my trainer who is clapping and smiling, a rare sight. I glance at my mother, who’s crying, a common occurrence. Everyone is ecstatic, shouting my name.
Back at the trailer I dismount. A shock goes through my knees as my feet hit the ground. I take my helmet off and give Artemis apple flavored biscuits. I am handed water and Arty is given a bucket. We drink at the same time, both of us exhausted. We’ve come far today.
I watch Artemis drink, reminiscing about our past. As a young horse, she had been growing at an odd pace, unable to reach food without kneeling. Despite her growth, I still see her as the skinny, awkward, and insecure race horse I rescued four years ago. She was temperamental and unpredictable; kicking, biting and rearing. But I never let her shenanigans get to me. Instead, I spent many days simply sitting with her, waiting for her to warm up to me. Now she has grown into a well proportioned mare, less of a mutt.
Unzipping my boots I begin to feel my toes again. I pack away my helmet in my homemade red polka dot drawstring bag, ensuring that the rounded part of the helmet is where I have embroidered my name. I reach for Artemis’ saddle and take it off carefully, minding her sensitive spine. It's an old habit. I’ve spent countless hours dedicated to locating Arty’s pain points and analyzing her body. I’ve even learned chiropractic techniques to release tension in her muscles. After putting her saddle away, I take a wet sponge to her back to cool her down and dissolve the sweat. She hates sponging. The water dripping down her stomach is a sensation she could go without. She’s restless and upset, so I put the sponge down, spray her with fly repellent, and take her for a graze.
While she grazes I lean my body against hers. Something she wouldn't allow before, but has become comforting. Artemis has witnessed all of my growth phases first hand; my anxieties, motivation losses, and childish immaturity. She has supported me, just as I have supported her.
Resting my head on her side, I can feel her breathing. I’ve found that breathing is a vital part of riding. Breathing steadily relaxes my muscles, something Arty is especially perceptive to. Subconsciously, I match my breathing to hers.
I hold our ribbon close to my chest. No ribbon will ever matter as much as this one. I look over toward the arena and think of the anxiety I felt when entering it for the first time only a few hours ago. My heart had been racing and Artemis had been agitated. I remembered looking down at her neck, touching her warm fur, closing my eyes, and breathing. Reminding myself that I am safe and secure in the hands of my best friend, just as she is in mine.
