Let me tell you a story of a young girl who rides horses. She is strong, with tight thighs that like riding bareback best, the tickle of chestnut hair, matted, hot against her skin, holding on for dear life, a best friend who loves to gallop ahead, to race her thoroughbred through the woods, always in the lead, choosing the toughest trails, the steepest hills.
She goes for it every time. Part of their friendship is in her following. Every time they start slow, then build speed, branches snap and reach for her cheeks, the trees throwing razor sharp twigs like confetti, this is a celebration of the trails. With each coming branch, she lowers her chin to his mane, squeezes tighter with her calves.
She never expects to stay on all the way there and back again, she is ready in an instant to let go, to throw herself into the brush, take pine needles in exchange for flying. Even as her senses urge her to slow him down, she knows that it's too late. It's always too late. There's no way to pull back once you pass the concrete walk that cuts through the trail by the pond.
Four legs galloping flat out, she sees his nose stretch forward, jerking the reins loose, nostrils puffing, grabbing the bit, it's not her ride anymore.
There is a point during a gallop where you stop stopping, stop hoping to ever stop, with no choice but to go on, you submit to fear, riding on the edge, too fast to feel your own breath, you become motion. The wind no longer fights you for your breath because you are the wind.
What you do is give in and ride.
What you do is ride.
