Gwhen i rowed i thought of myself as a “horse girl”. I knew the importance of keeping your heels and your back straight, how to braid your horse’s mane for dressage, and that real horse girls cut the stalls themselves. I could navigate the feverish politics of a stable, handle the intensity of competition and understand why everyone was looking sideways at the new girl – she had to earn her place.
Of course, I had never stepped into a stable, let alone ridden a horse. I didn’t have sleek jodhpurs tucked away in my closet, worn riding boots zipped around my calves or favorite gelding to feed apples and Polo treats as a treat. My horsemanship came entirely from reading books, starting with the wholesome Pony Pals and Saddle Club series from the local library, to the suspenseful Thoroughbred novels that follow the lives of young jockeys in Kentucky racing. Despite growing up in the suburbs of Brisbane, Australia, less than half an hour’s drive from several stables, I never once thought about asking my parents for riding lessons. It would take a move to London in my mid-20s, a pandemic meltdown in the big city and that old clichéd desire to “reconnect with nature” before my equine dreams came true.
As a child I found the horse world elusive, untouchable. I was a teenager who imagined herself as a knight in shining armor, so imagining myself as an award-winning jockey must not have been too far of a creative stretch. Yet the domain of horses felt further out of reach than a fantasy kingdom of elves and fairies. I believed that I was more likely to be a part of Arthur’s Round Table than a dressage rider; I started lifting weights at 12 in case the call to wear chain mail came in the mail. No one questioned why preparing for battle felt more realistic than pursuing a lifetime of leisure, but that says more about Australia in the 1990s and 2000s than it does my personality.
Instead of horseback riding, I pestered my poor migrant parents for lessons in countless other unaffordable outdoor activities. I begged to do acting classes, cross-country, training in a stringed instrument (according to the music teacher who looked like an older Amy Winehouse, my giant hands were perfect for the double bass). From karate to choir to squash, I was obsessed with learning new skills. If only it translated into a penchant for mastering them.
Dreams of being the next Serena Williams were crushed in elementary school when I couldn’t seem to return a single tennis ball served my purpose, my talent was so lacking that my mom booked me in for a visit to the optometrist. When the results came in – dangerously myopic – she returned to the courts one last time to wave my new glasses in the trainer’s face and inform him that I was not “bad” but a “medical condition”. has. She had less of an excuse in ninth grade. After just five weeks into the volleyball season, she quit and refused to drive me to another game. I was so bad at sports that I embarrassed her, she said, unable to bear the shame.
But my mother’s lack of faith in my sporting prowess did little to dent my self-confidence. Incompetence has never been a hindrance to my love of new pastimes. I take hobbies seriously; not in the sense that they become a professional pursuit, or some other aspect of life that I feel compelled to “succeed”. I’m serious about hobbies being hobbies, fun things I do in my spare time to spark joy, provide me with stories and feed an ever-inventive imagination. After all, the hero’s journey doesn’t really work if she’s excellent to begin with, does it?
Sometime in my early 20s, I made a personal promise to pick up a new hobby every year. I keep things light; there is no obligation to continue once the year has ended, or even see the year out, unless it is particularly enjoyable. The promise is about staying curious, swinging around for new pursuits, sticking around to play. Sometimes I pick hobbies I’ve wanted to try for years, like bladesmithing (yes, I’m aware of the ongoing medieval theme here). Others are more of an anthropological adventure in an unknown world, like when I bought a learn-to-ski package for my 27th birthday (there was another Black lady learning to ski on the mountain and we became fast friends became).
In early 2022, after the last batch of lockdowns ended, I knew I needed a change. Months in a studio flat in East London left me yearning for spaces that were big and green, for movement and connection not mediated by pixels. The moment had come for me to realize my equestrian potential, time to become “not just a girl” but “a Saddle Club girl!” Soon after, on a gray morning, two tubes and a 20-minute walk from home, I found myself in skinny jeans and borrowed boots in front of a campsite, ready to fulfill my horse riding fantasy.
After the ride, my fingers were numb from the lack of circulation, my muscles burned and the thick, dark mud of the paddock caked the backs of my calves. Did it feel magical? I put multiple feet in the air for an hour, an instructor yelled at me in a way I hadn’t been spoken to in years – shorten the reins, leg up, lean back, arms down, leg up, leg up, LEG UP! – as I trotted around the arena in a shameful attempt at a circle.
But as I drove, the sun emerged lazily behind the fields. A cold mist hung sluggishly over the paddock and my hot breath was visible in the air. After the lesson I warmed my fingers on a mug of hot chocolate and chattered to my horse until it was time to go home.
Did it feel magical? You bet your lucky horseshoe it has.
After the trial, I bought as many lessons as my freelance income would afford, and kept going back. Rain or shine, I carved the hours out of my day to catch the tube to the end of the line and step into an alternate universe, where muddy boots were welcome and unsmiling young riders were part of the charm. Riding took me out into the natural world, disconnected me from whatever freight train of anxiety was coursing through my body that day, and brought me back to life. Horses, I would learn, were prey animals, particularly sensitive and dependent on flight for survival. If you were stressed, they would be too. The horses forced me to pay attention to my breath, my body, the present. No matter what tears my life apart on the way to the stables, by the end of the ride it faded into insignificance, and I could face the world again.
After I started in the paddock, it wasn’t where I wanted to stay. I wanted to roam free, take to open fields, push my horse and gallop into the distance, let the wind blow through my hijab. I wanted to go on a “hack”.
Hacking, it turns out, isn’t just computer hacking and hacking. This is the “pleasure ride for light exercise”, the ticket to being a true lady of relaxation. Word on the trail was that the best hack in London was at Richmond Park. So, as soon as I could confidently walk, trot and gallop, I headed west.
Hacking in Richmond Park is waking up at 6am to catch two tubes and a bus across town, sharing the carriage with shift workers and bleary-eyed ghosts. It is to mount the horse you are assigned that day, to pray that they feel friendly, to trust in your abilities even if they are not. It’s to greet your fellow riders, but not make too much of it beyond small talk, unless you’re one of the regulars on a Tuesday morning and everyone’s primed for a fast hour. It’s watching the deer as if you were a 19th-century aristocrat who waits until they’ve crossed the path before trotting through the brush and brambles. It gallops across the rugby pitches in the summer, gallops around the new routes in the winter and looks over the city skyline when the weather clears, count your lucky stars you’re alive, and here.
I haven’t made too many riding friends yet, but that’s okay (I’m still the new girl). Mostly I’ve met ex-horsegirls turned corporate who find their way back to the saddle. I wondered if I was going to meet nicer people, but according to an older rider, “The real rich people own their own horses.” She has been with her best friend weekly for over 20 years. “We’re the hobbyists,” she said, a note of apology in her words. I smiled, willing the blood back into my fingers as I held the hot coffee mug. Hobbies, I thought. There is nothing wrong with that at all.
Talking About a Revolution by Yassmin Abdel-Magied is published by Penguin Random House at £16.99. Order it now guardianbookshop.com
