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Sara Gruen is the author of the New York Times bestseller Water for Elephants and Riding Lessons. She lives with her husband and three children in a conservation community outside Chicago.

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Riding Lessons

HarperCollins Publishers

Chapter One

"Are you ready?" says Roger as he gives me a leg up,and I laugh, because I've never been so ready in allmy life.

And Harry is, too, with his red neck flexed and hisears swiveling like antennae, but never together -- ifone is forward the other is back, although sometimesthey land impossibly out to the side, like a lop-earedgoat's. He stamps and snorts as I lower myself intothe saddle and gather the reins, and I forgive him,this time, for not standing still while I mount becausewhile it's terrible manners there are extenuatingcircumstances and I, too, cannot be still. I run thereins across the black gloves that cover my wetpalms and icy fingers and look back at my father,whose face is lined and stern, and then at Roger, whosmiles up at me with his face a perfect composite oftension, pride, and joy.

He lays a hand on my booted calf and says, "Give'em hell, babe," and I laugh again, because I haveevery intention of doing just that.

And then Marjory is leading us to the gate -- actually holding the reins, as though I can be trustedto take fences of almost five feet but not to steerHarry into the arena.

"Watch your pace going into the combination,"she says, "and don't let him rush you. Collect himsharply coming around the turn after the water jump,and if you get past the oxer and you're still clear,hold him back and take it easy because you've alreadygot it even if you take a time fault."

I nod and look across the arena at the judges becauseI know that already. We can take eight faultsand still tie for first, and if we get none or four we'vedone it, and nobody else has a hope. Marjory is stilltalking and I nod impatiently and just want to startbecause Harry and I are going to explode with theexcitement of it all, and we're ready, we're ready, oh,we're ready. But I know it's not Marjory who gets todecide so I try to remember to breathe and ignore herand suddenly it's easy, as though I'm in a wind tunneland all of everything beyond Harry and me is onthe outside.

Then I get the signal and I think that it's time togo -- think it, that's all -- and Harry goes, walkingforward so deep on the bit his nose is pressed to hischest, and as we step into the arena I can see ourshadow on the ground and his tail on end like a flag.The man on the PA introduces us -- AnnemarieZimmer on Highland Harry, with a commandinglead and yadda yadda yadda -- but no one's payingattention because they're staring at Harry. No gaspsor murmurs this time, not on day three, but thensomeone goes and wrecks it because I hear somebastard man say, "Now there goes a horse of a different color," and I know from that one remark that he'smissed days one and two and I hate him because Iknow he feels clever for the remark. But I supposeI'd say it too, since you don't see many or any stripedhorses out there, and before Harry I never knew sucha thing existed, but here he is, and there's no denyingthat. Not today. Not here.

I hear the whistle and press my calves against himand we're off. Harry shoots forward like a coiledspring, so compressed his haunches feel like they'reright under me.

I tighten my fingers, No, no, no Harry, not yet, I'lllet you, but not yet, and his ears prick forward, togetherthis time, and he says, All right, and gives me acollected canter that feels like a rocking horse, so highon the up and so low on the down. And we rockaround the corner and approach the first jump and heasks me, Now? And I say, No, and he says, Now? AndI say No, and then a stride later I can tell he's about toask again, but before he can I say Yes, and he's off andI don't have to do anything else -- won't have to untilwe're over and on the other side, and then I'll justhave to ask him again, and he'll do it because he lovesme and we're one.

There's the flap-flap-flap of leather on leather, the heavy incalzando of hoofbeats, da-da-DA, da-da-DA,da-da-DA, and then a massive push, a hundred thousandcompressed pounds exploding forth before --

Silence. As we arc over the fence, the only parts ofme in contact with anything are my calves and handsand the balls of my feet although it looks like I'm lying on him, so forward am I and curved around hisneck with my face alongside where his mane would be if it weren't braided into a row of nubby topknots.And then bang! We've landed, and as soon as hisfront hooves make contact with the ground I'm backin the saddle and we're headed toward the brick walland it's perfect. I can tell we're going to be clear because that's just the way it is.

We're flying now, and it's a wonder to me that wetouch the ground at all because clearly we don't needto over one, two, three more fences. I lose remembranceof the order of it but don't need to remember because I feel it ...

Excerpted from Riding Lessonsby Sara Gruen Copyright ©2007 by Sara Gruen. Excerpted by permission.
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