It was more of an uncontrolled chaos interspersed with smacking randomly into the ground. If you've read my Moments on the other blog then you're familiar with the lack of security at my old boarding school. Ten O'clock and the teacher with the flashligh dissappeared. Up we sprang, fully clothed out of bed, and jumped out of windows to meet up at the edge of the woods.
On this occaision the gang was: myself, Jim Evans, Tom Macarther, Barry Eu and a couple more now lost to even my memory. We were up for adventure and had all night. A quick walk along the forest edge took us to the trail beside the Head Master's house. Quiet as washing machines with bricks inside, we filed by the building and merged into the darkened wood. It was a short mile to the stables where only the caretaker girls lived. We figured we'd be in, get the ponies and be out of there without even wakening a soul.
Now, have you ever highjacked a pony?
It's really not as easy as it sounds. Sure, everybody at school new how to ride. And if we rode bareback we could get out of there even quicker! But still, it took some time to pull this one off. At some point we heaved open the side barn door to the pony stalls. There they were, fiery chargers not four feet high. We each took a stall and started bridling up.
Mine was a little brown gelding with a few years put on. He was spry though, and fast, and I shot of the stables like the wind up the dirt road behind the hay barns. We were everywhere by this time. Kids on ponyback, riding in every direction and making enough ruckus to wake the dead. What were we thinking? Fun! that's what. And besides, we'd learned from experience that the cops usually found it easier just to yell at us alot and drop us off at the Head Masters' house.
After a good canter, I had pulled my fiery charger up to bay at the end of a curved road by the lunge line circle. Here in front of me stretched a puddle some twenty feet long were the passage of thousands of hooves had hollowed out the entire stretch. I knew we could take it. Earlier that year I had trained to ride Equestrian and I could feel the steel springs of muscles in my mounts' wiry limbs. I goaded him hard and we sped off at a gallup. Faster, faster! the pony virtually flew as I cinched up on the bridle and leaned into his neck for the great water clearing jump that was about to make history for me in front of all my suddenly mesmorized friends!
The edge came upon us! I braced! The pony stopped. I didn't...
You know, the time it takes to sail over a pony's head and launch ten feet into the center of a pond is way, way longer than you would think. I had all this time to think: <<Holy Shit!>>. and <<This is really going to hurt!>> and finally <<Aw Fuck!!!>> which by the way is a very appropriate thing to say when a pony throws you into a mud puddle full of horse shit in front of your best friends.
So, after the laughter died down and we all panicked at light coming on in the caretaker girls' cabin, hey, we knew it was time to leave.
I don't remember how we got the ponies back without ever being caught; or for that matter, how we made it back to our dorms and cleaned up in time for school the next morning. I do remember though, my claim to fame. I hold the unofficial RLS title of having been thrown the farthest distance by a stolen Shetland pony.
