A week after the Vermont 100, the dust has settled but there is a question that seems to float around even still: If I knew how it would play out… would I still have gone?

The honest answer, I think, depends on when I knew. If I knew last winter as I began to form the plans, I might have reached back in the box of big dreams and pulled something else out. If it were a more recent revelation, after a much of the investment was made, I know the answer is yes. Playing this out brought some manure but I also know manure makes for good soil, and future crops thrive on good soil. Regardless, I’m reminded how important it is to walk out our stories in real time, and the mystery and uncertainty we think we hate is actually a gift.

Resistance came early in the packing up process. Nothing was going smoothly, and I faced all kinds of road blocks from potentially not having a vehicle to haul us there, to a traumatic dog fight at home, Matt having a freak injury where I wondered if he would be able to crew, the horses getting out in a storm (a gate was accidentally left open by a friend), losing time hiking miles tracking them up the mountain to bring them home, and the entire batch of dog food that was needed for us to be gone a week completely spoiled (this came with a foul smell and massive clean up until 2 am). Yet we got out the door and in the two days on the road, in unseasonably hot weather, hit an hour long traffic delay on I-81. We had calculated around six hour driving days but on the way North both days were closer to eight. That’s a long time in a hot box for a horse that is heading to an extreme physical event. Everything seemed hard. 

When things keep going sideways I like to pause and ask: what is going on here? Have I gotten off track? The answer I continued to sense was: Keep moving forward and do the next thing. 

It turns out this was the theme for our Vermont adventure: Don’t give up, address the situation, do the next thing.

We arrived at base camp on Thursday evening, July 17 after a storm passed through. It was terribly beautiful there, the sky was rich in stormy colors, and arriving an extra day early, we had the area to ourselves. We celebrated that night and reveled in the cool breezy morning on Friday. These were the best moments, on the cusp where the experience we had come for was still ahead of us. 

Friday, Matt and I prepared the truck to become the crew vehicle. He would drive to the checkpoints and vet holds to meet me with anything I might need. We had to pack plastic tubs with various items from diaper rash ointment, glow sticks, headlamps, duct tape, zip ties, step stool, camp chair, food (human and horse), hay, drinks, ice, extra clothing, to spare almost everything— just in case. This was a new ride so Matt was going to have to follow directions best he could and hope not to get lost on the back country dirt roads in the Green Mountains near the White River where there is almost never a cell signal.

Friday afternoon was the pre-ride vet inspection. I haven’t had a concern about a vet-in for years. Her resting heart rate of 36BPM was again a positive sign. For the days spent in travel, she was well hydrated and healthy. It was the trot out where the head vet looked puzzled and asked if we could try that again. After a second jog to the cones, he was still uncertain and asked another vet to watch us trot a third time. This was unusual, and he said he couldn’t place a lameness, but something looked not right. After the third trot, both vets agreed that it was very slight, and not enough to say she was lame, but enough to grade her a “B” on gait, and suggest I keep an eye on that through the event. 

This is not what you want to hear heading out into a 100 mile day. I wondered again, what do I do? Should I even start with a horse that is compromised? Again the reminder came: Move forward and do the next thing. 

It was in contemplating the possibility of not even being able to start that I realized the test of this ride could be more significant than if I am capable of getting a horse ready to do an unknown 100 mile ride. I was already being tested to see how I would navigate trials and disappointment and the unknown factors that came.

I decided to follow the guidance that kept telling me to do the next thing. If I didn’t hoof the starting line on Saturday it would have been fear that held me back. The horse was not clearly lame, we were cleared to run, and though something could have developed as we went, the next step was take the day on one mile at a time and respond accordingly. I have noticed that often fear looks like wisdom, doing the safe thing, and holds us back from finding out what is in fact behind the door we are unsure of opening. We went on to prepare for the starting line the next morning.

The unique thing about the Vermont 100 is the 450 runners that join the 10-20 horses on the same course. The runners begin at 4am, one hour before the horses go out. It was exciting to hear the countdown and see the mass of headlamps jogging under the starting banner then on down the road with cowbells and cheering. The runners had 30 hours to finish the course. The horses are limited to 24 hours. 

Khaleesi was more excited than usual at this race and the course went immediately into a downhill. I was cognizant of the vet’s warning to watch for a potential lameness, especially in her hind end, and I was being extra cautious to hold her back on the hills before she was warmed up. Normally I would have let her run faster in the cool first loop, but I thought we had all the time we needed. Eventually she did relax into a strong working trot and and I thought we’d made it past the concerns,  now ready to fly at cruising parameters through the day. 

Then, around mile 13, the trouble began.

In a slow motion few seconds, we went from trotting happily along greeting the runners as we passed, to sitting on the ground in front of my horse. I had come off balance, lost my foot in the left stirrup, then wrapped my arms around Khaleesi’s neck, I twisted myself onto the ground in front of her as she came to a hard stop. We were both uninjured, but my stirrup and the attached leather was laying on the ground which would explain why I’d lost my footing. 

The bad news was it could not be reattached because the metal bar the leather attaches to was broken off and there was simply nothing to hook the stirrup leather to.

Are we finished? I asked.

Assess the situation, do the next thing.

Miraculously, there was cell service, and I called Matt. I had another saddle in the trailer at base camp. It was the same model, but the size was regular width instead of the “X” or  a wide tree we had chosen for this ride. I would have to walk the remaining 3 miles to the checkpoint, and Matt left immediately to drive the 35 minutes each direction to retrieve the other saddle. 

Unfortunately, this unexpected tack failure cost us about an hour, but we were still within parameters to continue. It wasn’t ideal, and I felt a clear difference in her movement with the regular width saddle. I made it work with almost no padding, and went out into the second “loop.” If you were asked to run a 100 mile race with shoes a size too small, it would probably affect your stride too. We were now in the back of the pack, alone, with the rest of the horses a solid hour plus ahead of us. 

This is where I learned how wonderful the community around me was. Even though we were responsible for a substantial gap in the flow of the day being so far behind, they were encouraging and gave us the royal treatment each time we came into a hold. When I apologized for this, I was told they were rooting for us and wanted to see us make it through. Everyone helped us upon arriving at the holds and made sure we got through as efficiently as possible, and made sure we had anything we needed. 

The course was very hard, the mountains were relentless and the elevation we faced each loop was between 3,000-4,000 feet. But it was also beautiful and fun to greet the runners as they were out there alongside us. The third checkpoint was at mile 62 and it was here we arrived four minutes past the cut off time. We had been chasing the clock and somewhat compromised since mile 13, and each hold that we made in time was another opportunity to do the next thing, which was put that saddle on and ride out again. At mile 62 the decision was made, by cut off times set up in advance for the good of all, and we got a trailer ride back to base camp around 7pm. 

On the positive, we pulled out with a healthy horse with no concerns.  Even with the narrow saddle, her back wasn’t showing pain and she trotted even and strong all day despite earning a “B” on her pre vet check. We didn’t cross the finish line, and the hope of a success on that level did not bring fruit, but we still gave it all we had, and kept doing the next thing, even when the next thing was load up in the trailer with a “Over Time” pull on your rider card. 

I look at endurance events as a test. On one hand, we didn’t pass this test. We had obstacles we could not overcome, and did not cross the finish line. On the other hand, it was a great showing of what we are made of to have a catastrophic failure at mile 13 and still go another 50 miles before the system capitulated to the circumstances at hand. I can see how the training, preparation, and planning worked to take us much farther than we might have gone. As with most things, the facts tell one story, but the truth is more complex and nuanced. 

It’s too soon to plan a comeback, but I have a feeling that story will come in time. This wrap up officially concludes the current series, but the story of Khaleesi and 100-mile riding is not over yet. As we go, I’ll check in with you here and there to share highlights. Thank you for following our adventure to the Vermont 100, and you can follow the further adventures of Khaleesi and Jaime and Wyoming, the wild mustang, more closely on HopeHorsemanship.com . I wish you the best as you go on about doing the next thing in your own story!