There was a huge puddle flooding the far end of the arena. Zerad always shied
away from puddles. True to form, when we were right in front of the judge, my horse
swerved despite my attempt at keeping him straight. We trudged back to the stall, wet
and muddy, and I knew the State Fair Team was, once again, out of reach. I laughed.
What were the chances that my last opportunity to make State would be drowned out by
thunderstorms? We never get thunderstorms in Seattle, and certainly not in July!
Flashback to King County Fair, 2006. After training several hours every day
since school let out for the summer, Zerad and I had ended up seventh alternate on the
State Team. Seventh was just high enough that we might get to compete at State, but
alternates are never sure of a spot. We kept practicing the rest of the summer as we
slowly moved up the list, until, the day before the State Fair, I was slotted for the next
spot. I packed my gear, cleaned and prepped my horse, and waited by the phone for the
call that never came; the slot had not opened up, and Zerad and I would not be
competing.

My horse and I had shown together for six years, and our performances were
almost comical. We were possibly the worst horse-and-rider combination in history.
Each of us was focused only about 20% of the time, and the times when our focus
overlapped was about 4% of the time, which is about 96% of the time too little. Over the
years, Zerad had repeatedly gotten stuck in trailers, shied at non-existent threats, and
refused to complete Trail courses. (“Trail” is an obstacle course that is meant to
challenge the horse’s calmness and the rider’s ability to control her horse in stressful
situations. For a rescue horse like Zerad, going through a course with objects that are put
in place deliberately to scare him is pretty much the worst thing ever.)

We were partners, though, and there was more to our relationship than just a
competitor and her tool to success. My family had given this scared, abused horse a
happy home, a second chance. We gave him time, energy and love. It was hard,
sometimes, when, for no apparent reason, he decided that, no, he wouldn’t back up
straight, thank-you-very-much, or go anywhere near that really scary-looking bush. Still,
each time I walked into the barn, heard his nicker, and saw that black and white nose
poking out of his stall, it was all worth it. I can honestly say that, in my eight years of
riding, I have never known another horse to acknowledge his owner each and every time
she entered the barn, as Zerad did with me.

I spent the first two thirds of my 4-H career very frustrated with Zerad and our
constant failure. Many people suggested that if I wanted to win, I should consider riding
a less emotionally damaged horse. For most riders, “winning” and “succeeding” were
synonymous. But I came to realize that, to me, winning meant succeeding on this horse,
with whom I had worked so hard, and that success had a lot more to do with making
progress, one class at a time, than with taking home ribbons.

The 2007 King County Fair was likely to be our last chance to make the State Fair
Team. But the cards were stacked against us: 2007 was the year of the thunderstorms and
lake-sized puddles. After months of work and successful competitions on the local level,
we had once again ended up somewhere down in the depths of the alternate list.
But this year, the outcome was different: three days before the State Fair, I got a
call at my grandmother’s house in San Francisco, where I had been visiting for two
weeks. I had made the Team! It didn’t matter that I was in the wrong state, hadn’t ridden
in weeks, and had just two days to prepare; we would surely pull something together.

And we did.

In our very first class, we made it into the Championship Round! We competed
against some of the best 4-H riders in the state, and, although we didn’t even come close
to “winning,” I consider that fifth-place ribbon to be one of our greatest achievements.
While fifth out of seven might not seem like an overwhelming success, years of working
with an exceptionally challenging horse had helped me to understand what success is
really about: working in sync, performing to the best of our ability, and making each ride
together a little better than the one before.

After learning how to evaluate true accomplishment with Zerad, I was better able
to do so with other aspects of my life: academics, playing piano, teaching, and running
track. I’ve learned not just to consider standard measures of success, such as grades, test
scores, and times, but also to incorporate my own measures. I’ve learned to appreciate the
work process every bit as much as the work product.

And the product of my work with Zerad? A transformation from the “worst horseand-
rider team” to the “not so bad horse-and-rider team.” And I’m pretty proud of it.

This essay was written by Ariel Robinson, Mercer Island HS Class of 2009, Wellesley Class of 2013.