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C H R O N O F H O R S E . C O M FA L L 2 014 65 Claremont Riding Academy horses, so I booked a ride for our second day in the city. Fortunately for Amy and me, Clare- mont's closing was still seven years in the future (and the park's bridle paths still up to par) when we took our ride. Actually, we took a couple of rides that week. e first one went along without a hitch, and we enjoyed it so much that we booked another a few days later. As we were leaving the stable that second time out, one of the instructors cau- tioned Amy that the little Quarter Horse she was riding had "a tendency to put his head down." Translated, of course, that meant he might buck. But my unflappable daughter just sat up straight and sank a bit deeper into her heels as we headed toward the park. e first part of our ride was similar to the one we'd taken earlier in the week: glorious scenery, warbling birds and well- behaved horses. It wasn't until we were on the final stretch of bridle path that I made a decision I would later regret. "Hey Mom," Amy said as we ambled toward the Central Park West exit, "could we canter just one more time?" My first inclination was to say no. Everything had been going so smoothly; why tempt fate? Horses cantering toward home in any situation often doesn't end well, as we all know. But my daughter persisted. "Please? Just, like, for one minute?" Amy's face was so hopeful that I finally sighed and gave in, on the condition that we'd keep our horses at a very controlled speed (as we'd done all along). I eased into a sedate canter, listening closely for the reas- suring hoof beats of Amy's horse behind me. en suddenly, there was silence. I pulled up my horse, knowing instinc- tively what had happened even before I turned around. Sure enough, there was Amy sitting on the ground, looking sheepish. Her horse had finally seized the opportunity to crow-hop, and Amy slid off. Immediately, my mom side kicked in. "Amy, are you hurt?" "No," she mumbled. "You sure?" "Yeah, I'm sure," came the reply. Hav- ing ridden since age 5, Amy wasn't short on experiences, including the occasional tumble. She was a pretty tough kid. Next, I quickly assessed the situation. Being as close as we were to Claremont and the horses' suppertime, it seemed logical that Amy's horse would have simply bolted on home. But here he was, standing just a few feet from Amy and gobbling grass like there was no tomorrow. A shrewd oppor- tunist, that one. However, not knowing if I were to dismount and help Amy that my horse wouldn't be the one to break free and run home (through all that scary traffic), I chose to remain in the saddle. "OK, here's the plan," I said. "Walk over to your horse, lower the stirrup leather and slowly step back on." Amy stood up, moved cautiously toward her horse and picked up the trailing reins. e little chestnut allowed her to remount, although he was clearly unhappy about having his hors d'oeuvre course terminated. It wasn't until Amy was safely back in the irons that I noticed a young couple standing nearby with a baby in a stroller. eir jaws were practically hitting the ground, and I could see that the husband had been poised to dial 911 on his phone. I'm sure they viewed me as an incred- ibly negligent and uncaring mother, since I hadn't rushed screaming to my daughter's side and called the EMTs myself. Non- horse people; what can you do? Sometimes it's worth pausing to explain, and some- times it isn't. I chose the latter, gaily wav- ing to the couple as Amy and I headed off again. When I looked back a few minutes later, the two were still standing there— staring after us in utter shock. Amy and I shared a laugh about the whole incident, confident that our excite- ment was over for the day. Little did we know that a certain garbage truck was waiting for us just a few blocks west… News of the Central Park Horse Show that's scheduled to take place Sept. 18-21 stirred my memories of those two long-ago days spent riding in that fabulous place, on horses from such an extraordinary stable. e upcoming event is destined to be a thrilling one, drawing spectators from near and far and once again bringing rid- ing horses to the jewel at the heart of the borough. No doubt many of Claremont's former students will be there, juggling a broad range of emotions and memories far more abundant than Amy's and mine. e clos- ing of any equestrian facility evokes sorrow among its riders and staff that can last a lifetime. But surely, as long as the memo- ries of Claremont exist in people's hearts, minds and photo albums, the spirit of that particular academy can never truly die. —Anne Lang For 115 years, riders from around the world traveled a familiar route on horseback—out the doors of Claremont Riding Academy, across Central Park West and into the park—but in April of 2007 the last remaining public stable in Manhattan closed. CHRIS HONDROS/GETTY IMAGES PHOTO

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