Over The Edge - By Bob Kinford
copyright Too Lazy For You Livestock & Literary Co

                               Loony Poonz

The first time I rode one of those “postage stamp” saddles, it seemed
strange. Of course par usual it was one of those times when I’d had a
job thrown at me, and I had to figure out how to get it done. Luckily I
had a friend who had exercised on the racetrack, and he had more or less
explained the basics. Still it seemed strange at first to be riding out
to the ranch’s track sitting there with my knees level with the horse’s
withers. Luckily that first job was only for a couple of horses that
were pretty well broke for racehorses, and I didn’t fall off.

When I hung out my shingle for training, there was a race track in town,
so I went down to catch some rides on the real deal and see if I could
pick up some colts to start. As the meet hadn’t started yet, I didn’t
need my exercise license right away, and I started going down and making
my early morning rounds. Because the majority of the trainers still had
horses finishing up at other meets, which meant their regular gallopers
hadn’t shown up yet, I was basically filling in until the regulars moved
in. But at five dollars a ride, it was quick change, and I could have
climbed onto four or five horses by eight in the morning before working
the ones at the house. If nothing else, I learned two things on the
track. I learned that the definition of a racehorse is “semi-controlled
runaway” and second, I learned that the only reason they start long
before sunup is so that they don’t see what they are going to run into.
 The thing that really gets interesting catching rides before the meet
starts is that not only do you have no idea of what you will be getting
on, but also you get to ride some of these horses their first time being
ridden off of the farm. The only thing to your benefit with these colts
is that before the meet starts, you can cheat and use your stock saddle.
There are the times you almost wish you’d get bucked off because it
would be simpler, that is if there was a good place to land.

I’d picked up two rides on these first-time colts at one barn, and I
went to the truck and grabbed my saddle. The first one wasn’t bad. This
was a good thing because I was starting out from between two barns that
had a row of hot walkers between them. As everyone was getting their
portion of the barn situated, the breezeways were both cluttered with
bales of hay, straw and assorted buckets. When I came back in to switch
horses, I was informed that the second one would be “really easy.”
He was. Easy to saddle. Easy to mount. Easy to take that first step.
Then he decided it would be easy to re-write the book and started
bucking between the hot walkers. I’m trying to avoid getting my head
knocked off and still stay aboard when I hear, “He’s never done that
before . . . I SWEAR.”

I’d managed to get his head up when he noticed the rising sun and
figured he’d see if he could go over the top of it. That’s when I heard
“Gawd is he getting UP there.”

At the end of the barn, he decided to take a left and met a golf cart
coming at him with hay on the back. Not knowing which way to go, he
froze for a second, which was just long enough for me to get in control
of the situation, and he behaved himself for the rest of his work. The
next day, he was going along as if he’d spent his life on the track.
Then there was Loony Poonz. His name fit. I had ridden three horses for
Johnny and was headed towards the last horse when up pulls a big old
Lincoln Continental. Out of it steps a good-looking woman in a fur coat
who immediately asks, “Have you ridden Loony yet?”
She went on to explain that her husband wasn’t able to ride him because
he’d broken his leg on a calf-roping horse, and none of their hired men
had been bronc rider enough to get him rode, causing her to do the job
herself. She also told us that she had ridden bulls on the women’s
professional circuit and that she barely got the job done. Then she
informed us that Loony had only been worked for thirty days, then turned
out for a month.

This was one of the few times I’d left my saddle at home. I looked down
at the postage stamp saddle on my arm and asked, “Do you mind if we put
him off until tomorrow so that I can bring my real saddle?”
Johnny agreed it would probably be best.
The next morning after finishing my other rides, we saddled Loony. He
wasn’t hard to saddle and led out of the stall to the back arena with
hardly a hump. I gypped him around a small pen for a few minutes and
still no buck. Then I took him out into the middle of the arena and
started to get on.

Halfway up, he jumped and kicked, catching me on the inside of the leg.
I held onto the rein, and he hit the end of it so hard he broke the
snap. Then he squalled like a range-raised bronc and bucked completely
around the arena.

Once we caught him up, I tied the rein back on and tried again. This
time he stood still. He walked around the arena in both directions like
he was trying to keep from breaking eggs, but he did it without bucking.
Then I asked him to trot. The next thing I knew I was digging my head
out of the dirt, and he was squallin’ and ballin’ his way around the
arena again. This time I was noticing that I could see the top of the
fence underneath his feet as he bucked alongside it.
Because it usually doesn’t happen with much frequency, getting bucked
off really irritates me Not only had Loony Poonz trashed me before I got
on the first time, he had added insult to injury by burying my head in
the dirt in a single jump.

Usually I can tell what a horse does to get me off, but this time I
hadn’t a clue. All I knew is that he had something with a little twist.
This time he went straight up in the air before I had my leg over the
top. Somehow, when he came down, I was in the saddle frantically trying
to get my reins gathered up so I could at least feel his head. He was
twisting and turning, and I was reaching out, grabbing with my boot
heels at whatever I could, waiting for that move that had dumped me the
last time. He hit the end of the arena, bucked in a circle, then all of
a sudden dropped out from underneath me. The only thing that saved me
was that the heel of my right boot accidentally caught on the saddle
horn and pulled me back to the horse. Then he started bucking straight
down the fence in high long jumps giving me time to think a little
between landings. Halfway down the fence, I began to realize he was
looking for a hole in the fence. As he reached the corner, I realized he
was going to duck into the roping box, and that was one jump I didn’t
figure I would make. I stepped off on the fence and almost landed on my
feet. Sure enough, he ducked into the roping box and slammed into the
end and came out still bucking.

“I’ll give you an eighty-two!” hollered Johnny from the far end of the
arena.

Catching my breath, I hollered back, “No score! I blew both pedals!”
We caught Loony up and talked about what to do. I’d been on him two and
a half times for five dollars, and I wasn’t about to get on him again
unless I was getting a heck of a raise. I told Johnny that I’d be
willing to take him home and start him over, but I sure didn’t want to
do it on the track. They wound up leaving him soaking in his saddle all
day on the hot walker for a couple of weeks. When he more or less spent
his time walking rather than bucking they started ponying him with a
rider.

After several months they had him going good enough that they put him in
his first race. He won by several lengths going away, and then he bucked
the jockey off just past the finish line. After a half dozen starts, he
was banished from the track because he was so unpredictable. He won
three races, but bucked off four of the six jockeys either during the
race or as he crossed the finish line. If nothing else, he was an
athletic son of a buck.