I might as well be tethered to a 1,200-pound hawk, because lunging my new horse Broadway is more an exercise in parasailing than training.
Definitions vary, too: (1) spinning large, annoyed horse in circles, (2) sand skiing, or (3) to tie oneself to a large animal, plant him in the middle of a circle, and take off at a vigorous run around the perimeter, cracking a whip and clucking.
Why lunge? After an unscheduled vacation (snow), my horse appeared to be trying out for a part in Riverdance on the crossties. I thought it best to take the wind out of his sails before mounting. I should know better, especially when everyone at the barn gathers to watch the action. The WRAL-TV 5 news van pulls up, betting erupts and a point spread is offered.
Thus began the freestyle portion of the show. I think I earned extra points for losing the whip early in the routine, and taking a classic two-handed grip on the lunge line. My slalom technique across the field was a crowd pleaser, too.
One of the first rules of lunging is to define the circle. Broadway’s circle is an elliptical orbit heading toward a randomly selected Galaxy. I tried to convince everyone that I intended to lunge in a 4,500-meter circle. “Cross country lunging,” I called it. They didn’t buy it.
There are many drawbacks to lunging. The lungee goes around and around and eventually gets dizzy and weak. The horse goes around and around and eventually rockets off into outer space.
It all looks so easy on the cowboy videos. Those placid Quarter Horses jog around the pen in slow motion. These horses know the term comes from the Latin root “lounging.” The German Warmblood term comes from the root word “plunge,” as in out of control.
After my most recent lunging experience, I determined there are basically only three practical uses for the lunge line. (1) To train Jackie Chan stunt doubles (when the lap gets coiled around your feet and the whip lash gets stuck in the horse’s tail). (2) To exfoliate the skin on your hands. (3) To create a body outline for the homicide detectives in deep sand, where chalk won’t work.
I’ve determined that I need to quit while I’m ahead, supporting the theory that any lunging session you walk away from is a successful one. I feel safer on Broadway’s back, with his shallow brainpan wedged between the Myler bit and my locked elbows. Perhaps I’ll collect all my broken lunge lines, tie them together to make one “antique” version, and offer it on E-bay (for $500) with a moving Seabiscuit story.
