Block · one region of the page, as the scanner read it. It may hold a whole story, part of one, several, or an advertisement; stitching blocks into articles is the next step. Text is supplied OCR.
Page 4 · column 5 of 5 · from the scan, no model involved
was the best-looking 13-year-old in camp and I could not look bad in front of her. When you’re 13, you’re looking to be as macho as possible, even though that word became popular far after our early teenage years.
I weighed the options: I could save my hide by walking away. I could save my pride by getting back on the horse and hope to hold on to the end of class.
Pride won out.
I got back on the animal. They say Horses sense fear from their riders. I could have written a telegraph for all the fear I hid. Red Baron seized the opportunity to run free and threw me a second time.
No doubt about it this time: The heck with pride, Kathy Snead’s impression of me or the chance of fearing horses forever. I was finished riding for the day, and certainly finished with Red Baron for my career. I scooped up my cap, brushed off my shirt and sauntered off toward the pool.
That instructor, however, was correct about retaining forever such a fear of riding.
Last weekend at Great Meadow, the first time I attended such an event, I had to admire the jockeys who directed their mounts at great speeds over miles of open space, over logs and other jumps for the pleasure of beating the other horses in the field.
I would bet that, as teenagers, they listened to their instructors and got back up on their horses after having been thrown. Time and time again.
90.3%