Next time you'll ride my horse

This is what William said to me as I made it back to the Sales’ farm after a day of work and putzing around. William had been the caller—the guy in charge of letting the horseback riders know who was up next. The task at hand: gallop as fast as you can up to the rope dangled across the road and insert your little wooden stick across a plastic ring the size of a cheerio so as to take the ring with you. Sustaining the ring up were clothes pins. Sustaining the riders: fun, manly pride, a sense of community and joking. Lots of joking and fun being made of. Particularly, of less skilled equestrians, such as myself and our friend Justin.

The game is called “carreras de Cintas”, or “race of cloth belts”. Weird name. Allow me to demystify. Earlier, in years past, each time a rider would get a ring, he would get a nice cloth strap made by women from the town. The more rings you acquired, the more decorated the rider. Now, you get prizes, like ropes and horse reigns.

The hardest thing I encountered was getting the horse to gallop without going through the start up walk and trot phase. To succeed you need to sling shot the beast. The successful, ranging in age from around 10 to 60 years, sling shot their beasts. The youngest would get his horse facing 90 degrees to the left of the route. The horse knew what was coming. Taught like the fast twitch muscle sculpture that the horse is, it stood static and ready to bound. Then the release. No intermediacy desired or present. Simply a leap from a standstill, and then on. On and on, and up and fast and dashing, mud splashing as the people cheer, shout and laugh.

Run your horse up and down the road first. First, run it up and down the road. They rode and so did I. Justin rode too. We warmed up, charged the horses and ourselves. “Ha! Ha!”. Not as in a funny “ha ha”, but as in a grunting “Ha! Ha hijueputa!” No intermediacy desired or present. Simply a leap from a standstill, and then on.

But, I couldn’t conquer the limbo of liminality leading up to my desired pace. Galloped toward the end, but with frequent bucks and side turns of the head. Advice avalanching around me. Pinch him with this. Hit him with that. Let go and hold on.

Try this horse.

Try this one.

Try that one.

Ok, try this one.

Justin pegs a ring for him at a sad pace comparable to a toddler on a tricycle. “Ernesto, why don’t you do it on a bicycle then!”

Try this horse.

I wasn’t victorious in terms of rings. I made some nice gallops, but never without the undesired intermediate paces. It was my first time at the clothe belt races. Next time, William told me, I’ll ride his horse.