Sunday, November 12, 2017

Mary Wanless Clinic: Day 2

Trailering isn't all it's cracked up to be.  Saturday morning I got a lesson on how quickly complete freedom can become complete panic.

I headed out of my hotel this morning thinking about managing mi papi and life in a stall.  I was worried about him overheating since I blanketed him so aggressively (a Baker blanket and a medium weight turn out with a neck rug). 

By my second stop sign, I was only thinking about how I would get him home.  My transmission wasn't acting right and slipped twice when I was at stop signs.  My 'service engine soon' light came on.  What the hell?

I completed the twenty minute drive to the farm and called the hubby.  I also texted Trainer A and told her to alert her dad as he was the only person I knew that could haul a goose neck.  If my transmission is slipping, I'm not going to try to haul my most precious cargo.  It was scary enough trying to get around without the trailer.

Fun fact, Trainer A's dad runs a GMC repair shop.  I own a GMC truck.  A couple of texts and I was told to check my transmission fluid.  Yup, it's low.  I located an auto parts store and headed out after the lunch lecture (and a long hand walk/hand graze for my horse that's convinced he's in jail).  At the auto parts store, it occurs to me that I can get my error codes printed.  This is what I get.

That's freaking terrifying.  I went back to the farm with two quarts of transmission fluid and a funnel.  I added a quart, but something was bothering me. The hubby is good at truck maintenance.  Why was my fluid low?  I climbed under the truck and saw this.

Mother fucker piece of shit.  I've got a leak.  And guess what I learned when I sent the picture to Trainer A's dad?  Transmission fluid is highly combustible.  Like diesel levels of combustible.  So not only did I run the risk of my transmission acting up, there was the chance of it igniting on a hot engine.

I called in the rescue crew and arranged for being picked up.  Fortunately I'm only 1.5 hours away from home.  A tow truck was arranged for my truck and another truck arranged to bring my trailer and my precious cargo home.

Oh, right, I'm at a clinic with my horse.  As my hubby said multiple times, I need to get something out of this weekend.  And my session with Mary yielded the usual plethora of observations.

I need to weight my seat bones 50/50.  That's much harder to do when my horse isn't 50/50.  Theo tends to have his right side more stretched out, extended, and not tight.  I need to make his right side as high and tight as his left side.  I shouldn't feel like my right side is just falling off the right side of his back.  If it is, I need to make his right side tighter and higher to support my seat bones as I pull them in to his center.  He likes to bait me, lure me to be less effective.  Also, my seat bones don't like to share.  When my left seat bone comes in to his spine, my right seat bone gets shoved off.  It's like managing temperamental twins.  Share already, damn it!

We refined my feel for a narrowed pelvis.  It's not a minor task and will take me awhile.  I'm taking notes to bring back to Trainer A.  Theo likes to turn like a semi and jack knife at his withers.  He doesn't like it when I straighten him out and tell him to turn like a bus.  As much as he doesn't like it, it's been very good for getting him even behind.  I'm also being told that I've started to drop behind and I need to advance my collar bone.  That's going to be interesting since Trainer A has been yelling at me for leaning forward.

So I trotted around, trying to keep my seat bones together, keep his back as a wide, even shelf, and turn him like a bus.  This will all be important because when I asked him to leg yield to get him off my leg, I immediately felt myself fall off the side of the saddle.  Ah ha!  We may have a clue on where my leg yield troubles start.

And then I limped my poor truck to the hotel, parked myself at the bar, and poured out my sorrows to a very patient lady.

Stay tuned to hear the final installment of As The Transmission (Doesn't) Turns.

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