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Authors: Adam Goodfellow
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the map – definitely within travelling distance, if I had a car.
‘I don’t know,’ I said to Adam, ‘I’d have to give up my job.’
He looked at me in astonishment. ‘Are you mad? You work as a cashier at a building society. Part time. This course is about horses! You’ll get another job.’
Then I spoke to my mum. ‘I know it’s great value for money’ (the course was just £750 for the entire ten weeks), ‘but it’s still quite a lot to find all at once.’
She looked at me oddly. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that, we can always lend you the money if you don’t have it to hand.’
‘But . . .’
‘No problem.’
I tried again.
‘Dad, I want to go on a ten-week course about the methods of that American chap we saw on TV, remember, the one who listens to horses. I’d have to give up my job, I don’t have the money to pay for it, and I’d have to somehow get hold of a car. What do you think?’
I knew he would say no. He hated anything that looked like a ‘scheme’. After all, there’s no money to be made from horses, and it’s not a good idea to change jobs too often. Looks bad on the CV. Besides, he would think it crazy to invest even such a reasonable amount of money in what essentially amounted to a hobby. The part of me that didn’t think I deserved to go on the course knew I could rely on my dad to back me up. Even more conveniently, I could blame him for holding me back.
‘Yeah, sounds great! Don’t worry about the money, I’m sure we could help out. I’ve been thinking about getting a second car anyway. You could take the black one. Witney, eh? Not far out of Oxford, I think, let me get the map . . .’
I was astonished. Resigned, I pointed out Witney to him.
I don’t know why I experienced this reluctance to go on the course. I do know that we often resist the things in life that would benefit us the most. Also, that the fear of success can be greater than the fear of failure. Whatever the reason, in the face of such overwhelming support from Adam and my parents, I could think of no convincing excuse. I had missed the deadline for the first course, but was in ample time for the second. I took greater care over the application form than I ever had for any job or university entrance, and waited anxiously. By now, all my hesitation had dissolved, and I was desperate to go. When the acceptance came through, I could barely contain my excitement. I couldn’t wait to get started. Since then I’ve met many people with similar stories. Sometimes it’s taken them several years to come on the courses. I fancy I can see the same look of slightly stunned disbelief and relief on their faces that I must have had when I found myself sitting in the classroom that first morning: they can’t understand why they nearly let such a fantastic opportunity slip through their fingers.
The course started in October 1996. As I drove the circuitous route to Witney, I could barely contain my excitement and curiosity. It was one of those stunning, bright autumn mornings, and I was on my way to meet one of the greatest horsemen of all time. I had just finished my first reading of his book, and I was enthralled. Not only was he a genius horse trainer, but he had clearly led a fascinating life as well. I was determined not to be overwhelmed, but I still felt pretty daunted.
I arrived at the college and was shown into a large room. A few students were already there, and more kept arriving as we started to go through the inevitable administrative tasks. Kelly Marks, the course organiser, was there, being bright and friendly and efficient. I had thought that she simply did the administration for the courses, and that someone else did the actual teaching. She looked to me far too pretty and feminine to be any good with a horse. Little did I know just how much I would learn from her over the years, nor what a profound role model and friend she would turn out to be.
We had about half an hour to have a
‘I don’t know,’ I said to Adam, ‘I’d have to give up my job.’
He looked at me in astonishment. ‘Are you mad? You work as a cashier at a building society. Part time. This course is about horses! You’ll get another job.’
Then I spoke to my mum. ‘I know it’s great value for money’ (the course was just £750 for the entire ten weeks), ‘but it’s still quite a lot to find all at once.’
She looked at me oddly. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that, we can always lend you the money if you don’t have it to hand.’
‘But . . .’
‘No problem.’
I tried again.
‘Dad, I want to go on a ten-week course about the methods of that American chap we saw on TV, remember, the one who listens to horses. I’d have to give up my job, I don’t have the money to pay for it, and I’d have to somehow get hold of a car. What do you think?’
I knew he would say no. He hated anything that looked like a ‘scheme’. After all, there’s no money to be made from horses, and it’s not a good idea to change jobs too often. Looks bad on the CV. Besides, he would think it crazy to invest even such a reasonable amount of money in what essentially amounted to a hobby. The part of me that didn’t think I deserved to go on the course knew I could rely on my dad to back me up. Even more conveniently, I could blame him for holding me back.
‘Yeah, sounds great! Don’t worry about the money, I’m sure we could help out. I’ve been thinking about getting a second car anyway. You could take the black one. Witney, eh? Not far out of Oxford, I think, let me get the map . . .’
I was astonished. Resigned, I pointed out Witney to him.
I don’t know why I experienced this reluctance to go on the course. I do know that we often resist the things in life that would benefit us the most. Also, that the fear of success can be greater than the fear of failure. Whatever the reason, in the face of such overwhelming support from Adam and my parents, I could think of no convincing excuse. I had missed the deadline for the first course, but was in ample time for the second. I took greater care over the application form than I ever had for any job or university entrance, and waited anxiously. By now, all my hesitation had dissolved, and I was desperate to go. When the acceptance came through, I could barely contain my excitement. I couldn’t wait to get started. Since then I’ve met many people with similar stories. Sometimes it’s taken them several years to come on the courses. I fancy I can see the same look of slightly stunned disbelief and relief on their faces that I must have had when I found myself sitting in the classroom that first morning: they can’t understand why they nearly let such a fantastic opportunity slip through their fingers.
The course started in October 1996. As I drove the circuitous route to Witney, I could barely contain my excitement and curiosity. It was one of those stunning, bright autumn mornings, and I was on my way to meet one of the greatest horsemen of all time. I had just finished my first reading of his book, and I was enthralled. Not only was he a genius horse trainer, but he had clearly led a fascinating life as well. I was determined not to be overwhelmed, but I still felt pretty daunted.
I arrived at the college and was shown into a large room. A few students were already there, and more kept arriving as we started to go through the inevitable administrative tasks. Kelly Marks, the course organiser, was there, being bright and friendly and efficient. I had thought that she simply did the administration for the courses, and that someone else did the actual teaching. She looked to me far too pretty and feminine to be any good with a horse. Little did I know just how much I would learn from her over the years, nor what a profound role model and friend she would turn out to be.
We had about half an hour to have a
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