(Note: Your columnist continues to miss deadline while struggling with delirium from a persistent virus and an onerous seasonal workload.)
“You appear to me to be the sort of man who luxuriates in the act of lovemaking.”
I tipped my glass of whiskey (neat) into my face then rested my chin in my hand. I was in the VIP, it was Saturday night, the glory of a five-star week.
My tablemate was inordinately flattered by my statement and his companion immediately affirmed the truth of it. It was said, however, not to flatter, but to contradict his previous statement, which was that he could not possibly be expected to answer my text messages because he worked “24/7.”
“Well, I know that’s not true,” I replied, and supplied the observation above, which I heard repeated throughout the night, both by my tablemate and his companion, words that were assessed as not only being true, but “exact” in their veracity.
This dude, who teeters on the edge of acquaintance and friend, who never replies to text messages except all at once, in generous paragraphs, and then—mid-conversation—goes silent for an average of six weeks, only to reappear in the chat with sudden verbosity.
Winter Equestrian Festival Week 9 and we’re in the thick of it. I am still delirious, almost high, from the virus that will not leave me. I warn off everyone, horrified by the thought that I will spread it and someone else will suffer as I have.
He goes in for the hug, I jump back as if the person is radioactive.
“Am I being rude?” I ask another companion.
“You are being you,” he says diplomatically.
“Oh, f-ck off, you son of a b-tch!” I say, but really it is the virus talking and all he does is laugh.
A five-star week is a great blessing to the WEF VIP table owner, who feels very popular as she finds herself swarmed by friends and strangers asking if she has any extra tickets. Not only do I not have any extra tickets, but I have oversold the thing and might have to stay home to accommodate all my invited guests.
I am saved at the last minute by another table owner, who not only generously agrees to supply me with a ninth ticket, but also generously agrees that I take it to add another to my table, leaving her with one less seat, a move I find outrageously impolite on my part and apologize for over and over again.
VIP. Someone calls it the VIPer’s Nest and it certainly feels that way tonight, despite its popularity.
Rumors are awash in the VIPer’s Nest, and Eye Candy once again feels lucky to possess what I call “the mafia table,” the table right at the border of the VIPer’s Nest and the Tiki Hut, so we don’t have to turn our backs to anyone and have an easy escape out the nearby exit.
But tonight I am thinking about the three transcendentals, Truth, Goodness, and Beauty, and am determined to put away Truth and Goodness and focus on Beauty.
And when it comes to horses and our sport, beauty is the easiest thing to find, and not least of all at the top level, where you have the best of the best riders on the best of the best horses. A lot of people on social media like to focus on the top of the sport when considering issues of horse welfare, and it is an important and necessary thing, but the truth is something else.
The truth—which I hesitate to write—is that the most pervasive and routine violations of horse welfare come from one thing: bad riding.
It is not something I run around saying, because no one (ok, not no one, but not me) wants horses not to be ridden. No one (ok, not no one, but not me) wants us all to give up our lives with horses. What we do want is for everyone who is involved with horses to never give up trying to be better—better riders, better owners, better horsemen and -women.
It also means, to those of us who count ourselves as idealists, better people. But let’s leave the VIPer’s Nest where it’s at for now and look to the ring.
Where has Kent been all season? How happy I am, as Secretary-General of the Kent Dolls (the super-secret, ultra-exclusive KPF fan club) to see him again. He’s been so routinely absent here in Wellington that I’ve almost forgotten my KENT4EVA hat, which is tossed in a basket near my front door. I’ve been running around in my Kukuk-signed Aachen hat! I got it signed when he brought a horse of his to a trial at my farm.
Most of the time I try to separate myself into two people: the Professional and the Fan.
The Professional is not at all impressed with any rider at any level, but goes about her business in a workaday mode. The other, the Fan, will see the same rider she saw 20 minutes earlier as The Professional, not batting an eye, and go into a frenzy, cheering and blushing and asking for a selfie.
I admit to getting it a bit mixed up when Kukuk came to my farm.
Kukuk did not show up to my farm in his persona as World Top Ten Rider and Olympic Champion, but as Scrubby Euro Rider Trying to Sell a Horse, complete with ratty beige pants and a nondescript t-shirt. A slight disappointment to me, who decided to approach my own ring on my own farm not as The Professional, but as The Fan, and have my signed Aachen hat and a series of photos taken of us side by side to show for it.
Oh, well. I’ve never really done multiple personalities very well and I’m total sh-t at compartmentalization, but I’m trying. Kinda.
But back to Kent. I actually got a “hi” from him during the course walk and OF COURSE back at the table I put all my chips on him and Greya to win. Imagine the slash across the soul that came with those four faults! I might’ve gotten up and left the place right then, if it were not for my social obligations.
It soon became obvious that my tablemate luxuriates in more than the act of lovemaking: he also luxuriates in the act of picking a winner. He put his money on Darragh Kenny and wasn’t going to let any of us forget it. Despite working 24/7, he appeared to have more than enough time to shake a fist in triumph, brag into the face of each one of us at the table, and hang around with me for an hour after the class to watch Darragh get doused with champagne and to secure a selfie with the Irish winner.
I should mention a notable circumstance. We had two women in second place, having scored what appeared to be the exact same time.
Marilyn Little, the first clear of the night and first to go in the jumpoff, put up a time of 41.92, which was then matched exactly by Thaisa Erwin! There they sat together at the top, until that pesky Irishman, last to go, knocked them down into second, earning himself an absolute deluge from two champagne bottles wielded by the miffed runners-up.
(It could be mentioned that TECHNICALLY Little was in second place, with a time 0.004 seconds faster than Erwin, but per the rules scoring is done only to the hundredth place.)
A column like this, covering WEF 10, can hardly end without mentioning the event of the season: The Kevin Babington Foundation Annual Fundraiser! This columnist is honored and lucky enough to play host to this event at her farm, Eyecandyland. Excessive words could be spilled on the topic of this event, which brings out equestrians and owners alike in order to raise money for injured athletes and spinal research, and wow did the foundation succeed this year, raising over 800k, a record! What started only a few years ago with a bunch of drunk Irishmen in drag has blossomed into a nearly-professional production with all sorts of talent on display and an audience of the Who’s Who of Wellington and the equestrian world!
Also, it’s a super fun party with drink and dance and I love it.
Until next week, which is also this week (deadlines are nearly as pesky as Darragh Kenny last to go in a jumpoff)!
