Horseback riding was one of them.
Now, it just so happens, I have a past with horses. A childhood fear that followed me into old age.
When I was probably about five or six, my sister Linda and I used to walk to the nearby corner and feed the horses. There was a county farm there and two horses named Blackie and Lulu. We had been taught the proper way to feed them, rolling grass or hay into our hands and never offering our fingers for a horsie snack.
Well, one day while we were feeding them, Lula decided that my blonde hair might be just as tasty as greens, so she proceeded to flap her giant lips upon my head. Luckily I survived with just a wad of saliva, but I never got too close to horses again.
....Unless you count the time when I was about fourteen when I wanted to fit in with a few friends and try to actually mount a horse. The Price's down the road had a few tame ponies and I was willing to be brave like everyone else and take this horse for a sweet little gallop. Well, with a lot of fuss and effort, I got up on its back, only to immediately slide off the other side.
But back to Gatlinburg. And those horses.
Once again I caved to pressure as the kids convinced me I wasn't going to get trampled or eaten or dragged by the boot heel across the mountain top.
With a professional guide, we took off down a trail at a slow pace, all the while my knuckles turning whiter as I held tighter to the reigns.
"What's that?" my husband asked, slowing his horse.
"Yeah, we heard it, too," said the kids.
"It's my horse," I confessed, hearing the poor nag groan and heave under the weight of my body in the saddle. If I didn't know better, I would think that the glue factory would be our next stop.
The kids and my husband got a big laugh out of it, joking about that horse long after we had crossed the state border and spent many more summers as a young family. But beneath the good natured teasing, I knew they were proud of me for at least trying.
Okay, let's tie this story together, shall we?
I'm looking at my treadmill now and thinking of that horse.
Of how this machine may not creak and groan, even though it might want to when I climb up there and roll my way to sweat and irregular heart rates.
It's almost a fear like I have with horses. That the ride may be unpleasant. That I will give up. That I will fail.
If my kids were here, they would definitely laugh. Me -with sloppy sweats and and iPad of music they wouldn't cross the street to hear- trying to keep up with the spinning track, occasionally losing my balance like a drunk hippo.
But they would be proud that I'm trying. That I'm getting on and giving it my best.
And suddenly I can see myself crossing that finish line...
Giddy-up!
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