Buying a horse should not be done on a whim.  Horses are not like dogs or cats who you can welcome into your home.  Horses require the proper shelter, food, water and space to live a healthy, happy life.  We bought our first pony when my daughter fell in love with him at a show.  At least we had our trainer with us, and we took him for a month on trial.  We had him checked by the vet and evaluated whether he was the right fit for our daughter.  A couple of years went by and we were ready for our next horse; this time it was a horse for me.  

     Little did I know that it was also time to buy a motorcycle for my husband.

     Our horse shopping trips were planned in advance, out in the open with my daughter and our trainer in attendance for the process.  On the other hand, I wasn’t even aware my husband was shopping for a motorcycle.  Because he works at home, he makes a point of going out to lunch most days, just so he can get out of the house a bit, stretch his legs and his mind out of the computer cubicle he has created in the basement.  I did notice that he would go out to lunch for hours rather than less than an hour.  He’d come in with a funny little smile and brochures which he would hustle down to his office, waving at me in passing.  

     My daughter was in heaven with this horse shopping business because she got to “test” the horse before I got on.  Usually, our trainer would get on first, then my daughter, then me.  Our trainer called one weekend morning  with three new possible horses that were at a local horse show.  We hurried over to the place, and in the warm-up arena stood a small black horse.  She seemed to be napping, happy to just stand.  Our trainer was busy with her clients at the show and so she had my daughter ride first.  Then it was my son’s turn.  This was the first horse trip he had gone along on, and I wanted him to have a say in it as he would be riding this horse, too.  After my daughter got off, she came bouncing over to the fence and said very firmly that I would like this one. 

     Finally it was my turn.  While my daughter rode the next possibility and my son rode yet the third choice, I approached the little black horse.  Her name was Shady Lady and she was half Arabian and half Quarter Horse.  She was snuggly.  I greeted her and she lowered her head to brush her soft nose against my cheek.  

     After another test ride at a later time, we brought her to our barn for a trial, and the rest, as the cliché goes, is history.  Shady Lady came to stay after passing her vet check with flying colors, and I promptly renamed her Juliette.  She was my horse.

     Meanwhile, my husband started mentioning a class that is held at the local Mall to get a motorcycle license.  He was no stranger to motorcycles; we had had many college adventures on his motorcycle, but that was too many years ago to admit to, and why was he bringing this up?  Well, he admitted, he’d been checking out a few places, a few types of “cruisers.”

     I was stuck.  How could I berate him for a mid-life crisis when he happily indulged my mid-life crisis with a cute little black pony that I loved to visit to give a carrot to at bedtime?  (Was she cold? Was she happy next to our other pony?  Did she still love me as much as I loved her?)  We went to see the motorcycles on our next lunch excursion.
 
   There was no trainer, no daughter or son to test drive this thing, no vet check to look for soundness.  Just a salesman who wanted to make a commission.  I saw how he lured my husband over to the more expensive, bigger bikes with claims of power and altitude and highway driving.  Highway driving! I kept getting visions of my poor husband’s mutilated body, smooshed into the asphalt at some distant intersection.  How could I talk him out of this crazy stunt?

     After my third fall off of my darling little black pony, who I still loved but maybe not quite as much, my husband asked, who was the crazy one?   He had me.

     Because he had never requested a motorcycle designation on his Colorado license, and it had been years since he’d ridden a motorcycle, I insisted he take that class at the mall.  After all, I’d taken a couple years of lessons before I’d fallen off Juliette--without breaking anything.
 We visited the motorcycles again.  This time I was persuaded to sit on one.  They are not like horses.  There is no warmth or connection, just a padded seat and metal.  Where to hang on?  Where are the reins?  My husband laughed.  He had narrowed it down to two models of the Suzuki M50 “cruiser”—the Custom package versus the Classic package.  I liked the 50s reminiscent Classic, but I really had no say-so at this point.
 The Saturday dawned early of the last motorcycle class which had been postponed several times due to weather.  The kids and I were out at the barn, loving up our naughty ponies and having lessons on how to jump ever higher fences without falling off.  We got home fairly early for us, considering we can while away a weekend out at the barn.  Hmm.  No car in the garage.  No husband on his cell phone.  He didn’t, did he?
 It was moments later that we heard the new noise.  Not a neigh or a whinny, more of a buzzzz, a machine noise that was not a car.  Up he sped into the driveway on a Purple Suzuki M50 Cruiser, Custom package.  This was his motorcycle. 

     We all made appropriately excited comments.  My husband beamed.  He caressed the handle bars.  He extolled all the virtues of every little metal piece.  He took pictures of the kids sitting on it.  Finally we went inside to a celebration dinner which was much interrupted by visits to the garage. (Was it cold?  Was it happy next to the riding lawnmower?  Did it still love my husband as much as he loved it?)

     Now that we have lived with horses and motorcycles, I have to say that both seem to suit our family.  Granted we don’t have to pay room and board for the motorcycle; its care is cheaper.  But as we buy new and needed outfits for the horses, we also buy helmets, gloves, a windshield, a back rest for the motorcycle.  Where does it end?  Down an open road, wind in our faces, calling of freedom from all worries?  Or along an open field, sun at our backs, leaving all worries behind?  To each his own and we’ve found peace in both.

By Anne Moran Hunsinger, Special Correspondent