Sagabite

Neal sends in this story about the horse riding trip from Las Vegas:

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When I scheduled a trip to Las Vegas in the summer of 2004, I thought it might be nice to spend a few hours away from the casinos and lights. I went online to see what might be available to do nearby, and settled on a sunrise horseback ride at the Sagebrush Ranch in the Red Rock Mountains.

It was a nice deal. They would pick me up at 4:30 am in front of my hotel and drive me to the ranch. After the ride and breakfast, they would deliver me right back to the door of my hotel. I could be back at my favorite blackjack table by 10! Whoo hoo!

I had never been in the desert-in fact I had never been west of Indiana-so I was really looking forward to this little adventure.

The ride was set for the 3rd day of the trip, and despite almost non-stop partying, I was feeling quite up for it. The van ride out was taken up by filling out various liability forms and a short questionnaire so they could be sure to give me a horse that matched my size and experience. My horse was an Arabian mare named Cheyenne.

By first light, everyone was in the saddle and we were ready to go. The young cowboy who helped me settle on Cheyenne told me that I would be bringing up the rear. As an aside, he mentioned that although Cheyenne could be a bit of a handful, she would be just fine as long as I let her know who was boss.

As it turns out, there were several reasons why I was “bringing up the rear”. The first reason became apparent as the gap between me and the rest of the riders began to grow larger with every step. All the other horses were moving along in this nice, tight little group. I seemed to be on the back of a horse engaged in some kind of work slow-down.

Clearly, it was time to show her who was “boss”. I made that tongue and teeth sound that seems to work so well in the movies. I tried “giddy up”. I kicked her gently in the ribs. Then harder. Nothing could make this horse speed up; she just kept plodding along at a snail’s pace. I looked up and noticed the rest of the group had stopped and turned in their saddles, waiting for me to catch up. How embarrassing.

“Kick ‘er!” The guide shouted back to me.
“I AM kicking her!” I yelled back.

It was during this first of many games of “catch-up”, that I figured out the second, and probably more important, reason for my position on the trail ride. It started as this weird rumbling between my legs. I felt like I was astride a jet engine readying for take-off.

“Ok,” I am thinking. “Cheyenne has a bit of a belly-ache, and that explains her reluctance to walk at a more normal pace.”

This thought had not even cleared my brain before there was the longest, most thunderous fart I have ever heard. At that point, I was very grateful to be on her and not behind her. More good news, I ’m thinking, is that maybe now that she’s cleared her bowels, things will improve for the rest of the ride.

In reality, it just got worse. After about a half hour of these gastric drum rolls, I alerted the guide about Cheyenne’s non-stop flatulence.

“That’s normal,” was his reply.
I had lost about every ounce of patience by then, and yelled back: “Ok, but CONSTANTLY??!!??”

So, this was my sunrise ride: a sort of jet-propelled crawl.

Everyone made it back in one piece, although we were running a bit late for breakfast. I found a great T-shirt to commemorate my ride: it shows a rider carrying his horse. The only thing missing is a black cloud coming from the horse’s rear end.