Yes, that's what it was last night as I wrote a blog, “Defining Moments.” I went to transfer it from Pages to my Browser and somewhere’s along the way I LOST IT. Dam machine. This has always been my nightmare with this otherwise magical wonder. When I was writing my book “Wasn’t That A Time” I lost a couple of chapters and some smart ass Geeks at Apple found them and saved my life. Someone will ask, “but did you save it?’ yes of course I always do. Question is where did it go” No it’s not in Pages and it’s not in the Trash. Let me forget it for now.
Today I went to a beautiful wedding of two dear friends Bill and Didi out in the woods near Orient Point. It was a perfect example of how everyday life goes on no matter all the bullshit whirling around our economic-political crisis. In the darkest days of McCarthyism I was preoccupied with holding the union together. As I traveled the State as the NY State President of the Machinists Union I was always impressed with how people from Town to Town would continue with the rituals of their everyday existence. Somehow I always found that reassuring. Not sure why? Here’s more stuff to piss me off.
The Editorial Section of the Sunday Times has a full page story, “What Happened to the American Left” by Michael Kazin. (Pssst he has a new book out on the same subject.) Tell you about that soon as I read it. But for now let me just show you one example of what happened to the left. Accompanying the article is a half page picture of the Mayday Demonstration in Union Square New York in 1934. Yes, of course I was there. Guess who organized that and all the other major demonstrations of that period? The Communist Party that's who and there is absolutely no mention of that simple fact anywhere in Kazin’s article.
The word communist has been stricken from our speech except when the crazies want to scare the feathers off us chickens. The lesson that should be obvious is that if you demonize a critical part of the left you have cut of a major piece of the body politic.
The answer to Kazins question is there is no equivalent institution to the Communist Party that can actually organize a demonstration like the one shown in the picture. The demoneization of the communists is at the heart of the problem of the Left. Yes you can refuse to acknowledge that they even existed but with that you lose all the practical know how when it comes to organizing the discontent. The Tea Party has taken that over.
Thank you Didi and Bill for a enveloping us in all the love and joy in your Thomas Hardy day in the Countryside. The only thing missing was some Moooing Cows. Love RS
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Slouching to 94
Sometimes I feel like Old Gray Mare
That’s a song. A trusty old Mare
Ain’t what she used to be
Neither is this trusty old Stallion.
Ain’t what he used to be.
I try hard pay no attention.
Can’t get that song outta my head.
Okay, Kate’s on girls night out.
I go to my Old Steak House
Memory dinner. Dear departed Mike.
“Schrank come on Steak & Boilermakers
What say?” (Only union blokes at Ford Foundation.)
“Christ, nobody here has a clue on boilermakers.”
Whiskey and beer Whiskey and beer.
Last boilermaker? Maybe twenty years.
Wow I’m flat on my ass. Can’t eat the steak.
Still gotta get home. Old Gray Stallion ain’t what he usetobe.
Damm the reminders. Can’t digest all that meat.
Can’t swing a 8 pound hammer no more.
Yeah, I’ll wear the helmet, no matter
Can’t ride the bike no more .outa balance.
Shush, can make a little bit of old time love.
Nice warm bath. How the hell to get outa tub?
Changed many, many flat tires. Honestly I can.
“Damm nuts are now to tight. “I told you, call Triple A.”
Pushups forget, subway stairs forget, Merry go-round okay
Roller Coaster? Forgetit. Forget the Appalachian trail. How about
A walk around the block? “Make sure you take your cane.”
Danced in 2011 New Years Eve. How about 2012 ?
“Better do somthin about those swollen feet.”
I know it’s MIND OVER MATTER. MIND KNOWS IT.
Somebody, tell Old Gray Stallion’s feet?
That’s a song. A trusty old Mare
Ain’t what she used to be
Neither is this trusty old Stallion.
Ain’t what he used to be.
I try hard pay no attention.
Can’t get that song outta my head.
Okay, Kate’s on girls night out.
I go to my Old Steak House
Memory dinner. Dear departed Mike.
“Schrank come on Steak & Boilermakers
What say?” (Only union blokes at Ford Foundation.)
“Christ, nobody here has a clue on boilermakers.”
Whiskey and beer Whiskey and beer.
Last boilermaker? Maybe twenty years.
Wow I’m flat on my ass. Can’t eat the steak.
Still gotta get home. Old Gray Stallion ain’t what he usetobe.
Damm the reminders. Can’t digest all that meat.
Can’t swing a 8 pound hammer no more.
Yeah, I’ll wear the helmet, no matter
Can’t ride the bike no more .outa balance.
Shush, can make a little bit of old time love.
Nice warm bath. How the hell to get outa tub?
Changed many, many flat tires. Honestly I can.
“Damm nuts are now to tight. “I told you, call Triple A.”
Pushups forget, subway stairs forget, Merry go-round okay
Roller Coaster? Forgetit. Forget the Appalachian trail. How about
A walk around the block? “Make sure you take your cane.”
Danced in 2011 New Years Eve. How about 2012 ?
“Better do somthin about those swollen feet.”
I know it’s MIND OVER MATTER. MIND KNOWS IT.
Somebody, tell Old Gray Stallion’s feet?
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Gifts Given, Curiosity!
As I slouch toward 94 I feel an urge to write again of Gifts Given.
It is Sept.10th 2000. Kate and I are readying ourselves for a highly anticipated trip to London. We were excited to see Shakespeare at the Globe Theater. Then on Sept. 11th our plans together with the World Trade Center disappear in a cloud of dust, We are pinned to the sky and the Tele watching these 100 story buildings collapse like something built out of a bunch of pick up sticks. It is impossible to grasp the reality of all those lives lost in the unfolding catastrophe.
As we sit in horror and listen to all the blah blah blah about who plotted it and who did it I was nagged by a fundamentally different question. Why did these buildings collapse like a house of cards and result in all those horrible deaths? Did the terrorists know that the Twin towers would dissolve into the biggest ruble, dust pile ever? I very much doubt it. So, what caused that to happen and who might be responsible?
Curiosity, simply would not let me sleep until I found an answer. Here’s what I found. 1. The Twin Towers were built during the Nelson Rockefeller Governorship of New York. (2. They was a slop to the Building Trades Unions. Their vote was essential to his election.) 3. The Twin Towers were designed by a Japanese architect Minouri Yamasaki maybe he was ignorant of New York City building codes. Built by the Port of New York and New Jersey Authority. 4.Therefor they were not built according to the Construction Code of the City of New York. 5 THOSE 110 Floors WERE HUNG ON THE OUTSIDE WALLS WITH WITH ABSOLUTELY NO INTERIOR SUPPORT.
6. Firefighters long ago learned of the dangers of floor suspension on outside walls. In a fire the heat pushes those walls out and down come the floors. That’s a Crypt for any firemen, or anyone else caught between floors. New York City building code requires internal support columns. Why were there none? Because that left more open space to rent.Make ,More money.
Case in point. By sheer accident in 1945 a WW2 Bomber smashed into the 75th floor of the Empire State building. Damage? Of course strictly to the floor where it hit. Why because the Empire State buildings floors do not hang on the outside walls. It has interior support columns as do all the skyscrapers in the city.
This was quite a different take on the tragedy of Sept. 11th. It wasn’t just the terrorists who had caused those buildings to collapse it was also the negligence of the builders. And of course why did the FBI or the CIA do nothing about a group of foreigners who were training to fly airplanes but not land and takeoff? Having gone through flight training all I did was land and takeoff what seemed like hundreds of times in order to be certified. Bureaucratic hang-ups or the inability to ask WHY WHY WHY? That’s all part of the tragedy of 9/11.
As a very young child I was being taught the importance of “Questioning Authority” starting with. “But The Emperor is Naked.” Too “why did all those founding fathers own Slaves at the same rime that they were championing the idea of freedom? Holding a nickel in his hand papa would ask “who is this God that we trust? If you find him you can keep the nickel.” Thanks pap
Everything that struck my eye that I didn’t understand had to be learned, How was the subway built and what made it run meant hundreds of rides up in the front train looking out at the tracks and asking a friendly trainmen how the brakes made it stop. And of course the magic of those giant electric motors that run it. Every bit of it had to be learned. That burning curiosity I believe is the most important trait for serious learning.
According to my Papa, the first step is the ability to doubt even in the place of universal acceptance. Like saying “The Pledge of Allegiance” in Public School. That was my Papa's first lesson in being able to stand alone for what you did not believe. The second lesson had to do with what was the role of that pledge and why was it being taught? Ahaa conformity! Essential to get everyone to believe and CONFORM a fundamental requirement for all who rule. Thank you papa.
Those were the hard parts. The fun part came with all those wonderful discoveries at the Museum of Science and Industry that was on the 4th and 5th floors of the old Daily News Building on 42nd Street. At age 12 I was there so often that the Guards knew my name. From cutaway engines I learned exactly how the car engine and transmissions worked. I could name all the different kinds of gear mechanisms. How the cars electrical system worked including the generator that charged the battery etc. etc. Each one of those learning experiences was a joyous discovery. In my later years going to college there was the same kind of discovery in physics, economics, sociology and the humanities. That was just the continuation of a life of endless discovery that never seems to end. A most remarkable gift. Thank you all who provided and encouraged asking why or how or what for?
It is Sept.10th 2000. Kate and I are readying ourselves for a highly anticipated trip to London. We were excited to see Shakespeare at the Globe Theater. Then on Sept. 11th our plans together with the World Trade Center disappear in a cloud of dust, We are pinned to the sky and the Tele watching these 100 story buildings collapse like something built out of a bunch of pick up sticks. It is impossible to grasp the reality of all those lives lost in the unfolding catastrophe.
As we sit in horror and listen to all the blah blah blah about who plotted it and who did it I was nagged by a fundamentally different question. Why did these buildings collapse like a house of cards and result in all those horrible deaths? Did the terrorists know that the Twin towers would dissolve into the biggest ruble, dust pile ever? I very much doubt it. So, what caused that to happen and who might be responsible?
Curiosity, simply would not let me sleep until I found an answer. Here’s what I found. 1. The Twin Towers were built during the Nelson Rockefeller Governorship of New York. (2. They was a slop to the Building Trades Unions. Their vote was essential to his election.) 3. The Twin Towers were designed by a Japanese architect Minouri Yamasaki maybe he was ignorant of New York City building codes. Built by the Port of New York and New Jersey Authority. 4.Therefor they were not built according to the Construction Code of the City of New York. 5 THOSE 110 Floors WERE HUNG ON THE OUTSIDE WALLS WITH WITH ABSOLUTELY NO INTERIOR SUPPORT.
6. Firefighters long ago learned of the dangers of floor suspension on outside walls. In a fire the heat pushes those walls out and down come the floors. That’s a Crypt for any firemen, or anyone else caught between floors. New York City building code requires internal support columns. Why were there none? Because that left more open space to rent.Make ,More money.
Case in point. By sheer accident in 1945 a WW2 Bomber smashed into the 75th floor of the Empire State building. Damage? Of course strictly to the floor where it hit. Why because the Empire State buildings floors do not hang on the outside walls. It has interior support columns as do all the skyscrapers in the city.
This was quite a different take on the tragedy of Sept. 11th. It wasn’t just the terrorists who had caused those buildings to collapse it was also the negligence of the builders. And of course why did the FBI or the CIA do nothing about a group of foreigners who were training to fly airplanes but not land and takeoff? Having gone through flight training all I did was land and takeoff what seemed like hundreds of times in order to be certified. Bureaucratic hang-ups or the inability to ask WHY WHY WHY? That’s all part of the tragedy of 9/11.
As a very young child I was being taught the importance of “Questioning Authority” starting with. “But The Emperor is Naked.” Too “why did all those founding fathers own Slaves at the same rime that they were championing the idea of freedom? Holding a nickel in his hand papa would ask “who is this God that we trust? If you find him you can keep the nickel.” Thanks pap
Everything that struck my eye that I didn’t understand had to be learned, How was the subway built and what made it run meant hundreds of rides up in the front train looking out at the tracks and asking a friendly trainmen how the brakes made it stop. And of course the magic of those giant electric motors that run it. Every bit of it had to be learned. That burning curiosity I believe is the most important trait for serious learning.
According to my Papa, the first step is the ability to doubt even in the place of universal acceptance. Like saying “The Pledge of Allegiance” in Public School. That was my Papa's first lesson in being able to stand alone for what you did not believe. The second lesson had to do with what was the role of that pledge and why was it being taught? Ahaa conformity! Essential to get everyone to believe and CONFORM a fundamental requirement for all who rule. Thank you papa.
Those were the hard parts. The fun part came with all those wonderful discoveries at the Museum of Science and Industry that was on the 4th and 5th floors of the old Daily News Building on 42nd Street. At age 12 I was there so often that the Guards knew my name. From cutaway engines I learned exactly how the car engine and transmissions worked. I could name all the different kinds of gear mechanisms. How the cars electrical system worked including the generator that charged the battery etc. etc. Each one of those learning experiences was a joyous discovery. In my later years going to college there was the same kind of discovery in physics, economics, sociology and the humanities. That was just the continuation of a life of endless discovery that never seems to end. A most remarkable gift. Thank you all who provided and encouraged asking why or how or what for?
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
About Irene
About Irene
It’s only about a week since we had to pack up and move to a neighbors home on higher ground. As a friend from Connecticut upon visiting said, “you don’t live by the water you live in it.” Some truth to that especially when the storm season is upon us. Like now.
Our most critical problem in the hurricane season is the anticipation. It is raised to frenzied heights by the broadcast media. To make sure they scare the life out of you they show you all the destruction brought on by previous hurricanes, And in case you didn’t notice the Weather Channels commercials time doubles triples during these emergencies. (More people are watching and being scared.)
I think it was Heidigger who suggested that anxiety is created by anticipation. Indeed it is and so by the time the storm arrives you are spent like an old wrong out mop. I have rediscovered an old problem of writing about the past. The problem may increase with time but here it is. As I write about what happened a week or ten days ago am I writing as I am in it? Or how I am remembering it? Or put another way. Is that of it? Or about it? Believe me these are not the same thing.
I learned this lesson while writing “Wasn’t That A Time.” There I was trying to reconstruct time that was 60 years old. How do you do that? You are required to re-imagine what happened. It is in that process you are consciously or otherwise interpreting what happened. That is very different from live reporting in the time it is happening. I now have had time to think about the incident and like it or not I color it.
Okay we are 24 hours away from the hurricane strike. We start to pack up. What to take what to leave? You walk around the house looking at each thing knowing your not going to take any of it. Maybe you are saying goodbyes to many objects of affection that have sweet memories tucked away inside. You end up with your medicines, change of clothes and the guitar. Our pictures, a few original oils were carried off to safety by a dear friend. We leave with a heavy heart and not a clue of what nature intends.
I know in my gut that people younger than me are in a terrible fear for their future. I know from the experience of others that a total loss of your home is as traumatic as losing a major piece of your life. Oh, sure I know we are not supposed to get attached to stuff. That may not apply to stuff that has become part of your self. These are things that have meaning far far beyond the thing itself. My guitar is a good example. It has given me some of the happiest moments of my long life and I love it. Could it be replaced? Well of course but the new one wouldn’t have my spit marks all over it. I have the same feelings about some of my books and my wood-shop tools.
We said goodbye to the house and went up the road to higher ground. Spent a nice evening with our local friends and others they had rescued from around the Island. We slept through the storm and the next day bright and sunny went to look how our little house stood the storm. Lo, and behold there it was muddy all around but unscathed. We spent the day shoveling mud and being happy that we still had a home. Kate was quick to get at rescuing the garden that had been inundated with salt water the enemy of plants.
That’s my memory of our siege through hurricane Irene. I am very glad the hurricane Katia is going far east of us. But there not through with us yet. Not until October. In the meantime we are wondering why do we live here? Is it because today as I write this and look out the window it is breath taking beautiful.
It’s only about a week since we had to pack up and move to a neighbors home on higher ground. As a friend from Connecticut upon visiting said, “you don’t live by the water you live in it.” Some truth to that especially when the storm season is upon us. Like now.
Our most critical problem in the hurricane season is the anticipation. It is raised to frenzied heights by the broadcast media. To make sure they scare the life out of you they show you all the destruction brought on by previous hurricanes, And in case you didn’t notice the Weather Channels commercials time doubles triples during these emergencies. (More people are watching and being scared.)
I think it was Heidigger who suggested that anxiety is created by anticipation. Indeed it is and so by the time the storm arrives you are spent like an old wrong out mop. I have rediscovered an old problem of writing about the past. The problem may increase with time but here it is. As I write about what happened a week or ten days ago am I writing as I am in it? Or how I am remembering it? Or put another way. Is that of it? Or about it? Believe me these are not the same thing.
I learned this lesson while writing “Wasn’t That A Time.” There I was trying to reconstruct time that was 60 years old. How do you do that? You are required to re-imagine what happened. It is in that process you are consciously or otherwise interpreting what happened. That is very different from live reporting in the time it is happening. I now have had time to think about the incident and like it or not I color it.
Okay we are 24 hours away from the hurricane strike. We start to pack up. What to take what to leave? You walk around the house looking at each thing knowing your not going to take any of it. Maybe you are saying goodbyes to many objects of affection that have sweet memories tucked away inside. You end up with your medicines, change of clothes and the guitar. Our pictures, a few original oils were carried off to safety by a dear friend. We leave with a heavy heart and not a clue of what nature intends.
I know in my gut that people younger than me are in a terrible fear for their future. I know from the experience of others that a total loss of your home is as traumatic as losing a major piece of your life. Oh, sure I know we are not supposed to get attached to stuff. That may not apply to stuff that has become part of your self. These are things that have meaning far far beyond the thing itself. My guitar is a good example. It has given me some of the happiest moments of my long life and I love it. Could it be replaced? Well of course but the new one wouldn’t have my spit marks all over it. I have the same feelings about some of my books and my wood-shop tools.
We said goodbye to the house and went up the road to higher ground. Spent a nice evening with our local friends and others they had rescued from around the Island. We slept through the storm and the next day bright and sunny went to look how our little house stood the storm. Lo, and behold there it was muddy all around but unscathed. We spent the day shoveling mud and being happy that we still had a home. Kate was quick to get at rescuing the garden that had been inundated with salt water the enemy of plants.
That’s my memory of our siege through hurricane Irene. I am very glad the hurricane Katia is going far east of us. But there not through with us yet. Not until October. In the meantime we are wondering why do we live here? Is it because today as I write this and look out the window it is breath taking beautiful.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Hampton Classic Time Again
Was going to write about or Hurricane Irene experience but that has to wait as it is Hampton Classic time here on Long Island. Besides I love my riding in another, “ Classic” Enjoy RS
I confess, I am rerunning this blog again because in some ways it reminds me of the absurdities of our every day news reports. Besides it does remind me of another absurdity, me riding in a horse show in Mexico City. This was long before the drug Cartels took over the country. I still think of my time there as a very happy experience.
It is now Hampton Classic time out here on Long Island and I had another memory jolt. The horses reminded me of an early Sunday morning in Mexico City. I was at the stables of the Presidential Palace for an early breakfast. You are wondering, “What on earth was he doing there?” I was too.
It was probably 1965. I was in charge of Youth Employment programs for the City of New York. John Lindsay, the Mayor, asked if I would be willing to go to Mexico to evaluate a youth employment training program called “Instituto Nacional La Juventud,” National Institute of Youth. It was wintertime and I could not be more delighted to leave the City for whatever reason. (Mayor Lindsay sometimes referred to my job as “keeping the city from burning.” We did that by employing as many as 50,000 kids in summer jobs.)
Once in Mexico City I was treated like royalty, with chauffeured car and airplane at my disposal, to be able to visit any one of dozens of cities and towns that had Youth Training Programs. I would visit the programs, spend a day or two observing, and make notes. Getting back to the Horse Show.
On Friday evening my host, Sergio Alvarez, Director of the Instituto, announced, “Sunday morning we ride with Mexico’s National Equestrian Team at the Presidential Palace in a practice jumping session.” You have to understand that Sergio, a small highly energetic man, spoke in proclamations that came out as major facts that simply could not be denied. Yet I valiantly tried saying, “Sergio, I know how to ride a horse, but for God sake I would not think for a moment I could ride with Mexico’s best riders. Besides, I know absolutely nothing about jumping a horse over a hurdle, and I have no riding clothes.” That last was a desperate attempt to get out of this impending disaster. To Sergio it mattered not. “Roberto,” he announced, “we have all your sizes and your clothes and boots will be waiting for you at the arena.” And so I gave in to Sergio’s determination that this was going to happen.
Early Sunday morning there was Sergio all decked out in boots, jodhpurs, tailored riding jacket, and helmet, assuring me that the very same outfit awaited me at the stable. We arrived at the great hall where dozens of men where already eating breakfast of eggs rancheros. There was no silverware and I noticed people were using there rolls as a way of scooping up the peppers and eggs.
I was greeted as a dignitary from Estados Unidos who will “honor us by riding in our La Pista.” I was still hoping that the riding outfit wouldn’t fit and that would be my way out. At this point Sergio was insisting that it would be a real insult if I were to withdraw. “Roberto,” he exclaimed “do you want to insult us by being disdainful of our riding ability? No Roberto, for the sake of the relations between our two great countries you must ride.” Sergio was what some Mexican friends described as a “declamador,” who declaimed as though he was addressing the multitudes. There was nothing to do but put on the outfit (it fit amazingly well) and make the best of it.
\
We proceeded to the riding hall and again it was announced that Roberto Schranko from Estados Unidos would be riding with the equestrian team. As I watched these fabulous riders and their horses go over the hurdles from a foot off the ground to what appeared like six feet, I was in awe of the grace and the ease with which they managed the ride. I did not have a clue regarding how they were being judged. It was getting to be late morning and I thought, “Oh well, they probably forgot about me,” when Sergio came to remind me it was time to “mount up.” Back to the stable. There was a beautiful horse held in check by a groom who very graciously, with a movement of his hand toward the horse, suggested I mount; which I did. Once up in the saddle, it seemed to me this was the tallest horse I had ever been on.
Adding to my overwhelming anxiety and prayer that this horse would know what to do, since I didn’t, was the fact that I was sitting on an English saddle instead of a nice Western with that great knob up front you could hold on to when things got hairy. Everything from here on out was now in the hands of the Gods, or the horse, or both.
The groom led us into the La Pista and sent me and the horse off to the very first hurdle. I gave the reigns a little lift, which is what I thought was a signal to the horse to jump. Once past that first hurdle there was a round of applause from the audience. I thought, “Well heck, that wasn’t so bad.” Then came the next and the next and the next, and after each one a loud applause. As I approached that final six-footer I thought, “Man, just hang on here or for sure you will be dumped.” But this dear sweet horse just took it his stride and over we went. Now there was thunderous applause. Sergio came forward to congratulate me on my great spirit. I had sacrificed myself to make the Mexican’s feel good by knocking down every single pole from the first to the last. “Roberto, you are a great friend of Mexico and we will never forget what you did here today.”
As the trophies were handed out, I was given a silver belt buckle with a Road Runner bird on it. I thought that was a perfect portrayal of me at the “Hampton Classic” in Mexico City. This was yet another case of “never look back,” for if I had I would have realized how absurd this whole episode was. I thanked the horse for getting me through the hurdles without a single refusal to jump.
I confess, I am rerunning this blog again because in some ways it reminds me of the absurdities of our every day news reports. Besides it does remind me of another absurdity, me riding in a horse show in Mexico City. This was long before the drug Cartels took over the country. I still think of my time there as a very happy experience.
It is now Hampton Classic time out here on Long Island and I had another memory jolt. The horses reminded me of an early Sunday morning in Mexico City. I was at the stables of the Presidential Palace for an early breakfast. You are wondering, “What on earth was he doing there?” I was too.
It was probably 1965. I was in charge of Youth Employment programs for the City of New York. John Lindsay, the Mayor, asked if I would be willing to go to Mexico to evaluate a youth employment training program called “Instituto Nacional La Juventud,” National Institute of Youth. It was wintertime and I could not be more delighted to leave the City for whatever reason. (Mayor Lindsay sometimes referred to my job as “keeping the city from burning.” We did that by employing as many as 50,000 kids in summer jobs.)
Once in Mexico City I was treated like royalty, with chauffeured car and airplane at my disposal, to be able to visit any one of dozens of cities and towns that had Youth Training Programs. I would visit the programs, spend a day or two observing, and make notes. Getting back to the Horse Show.
On Friday evening my host, Sergio Alvarez, Director of the Instituto, announced, “Sunday morning we ride with Mexico’s National Equestrian Team at the Presidential Palace in a practice jumping session.” You have to understand that Sergio, a small highly energetic man, spoke in proclamations that came out as major facts that simply could not be denied. Yet I valiantly tried saying, “Sergio, I know how to ride a horse, but for God sake I would not think for a moment I could ride with Mexico’s best riders. Besides, I know absolutely nothing about jumping a horse over a hurdle, and I have no riding clothes.” That last was a desperate attempt to get out of this impending disaster. To Sergio it mattered not. “Roberto,” he announced, “we have all your sizes and your clothes and boots will be waiting for you at the arena.” And so I gave in to Sergio’s determination that this was going to happen.
Early Sunday morning there was Sergio all decked out in boots, jodhpurs, tailored riding jacket, and helmet, assuring me that the very same outfit awaited me at the stable. We arrived at the great hall where dozens of men where already eating breakfast of eggs rancheros. There was no silverware and I noticed people were using there rolls as a way of scooping up the peppers and eggs.
I was greeted as a dignitary from Estados Unidos who will “honor us by riding in our La Pista.” I was still hoping that the riding outfit wouldn’t fit and that would be my way out. At this point Sergio was insisting that it would be a real insult if I were to withdraw. “Roberto,” he exclaimed “do you want to insult us by being disdainful of our riding ability? No Roberto, for the sake of the relations between our two great countries you must ride.” Sergio was what some Mexican friends described as a “declamador,” who declaimed as though he was addressing the multitudes. There was nothing to do but put on the outfit (it fit amazingly well) and make the best of it.
\
We proceeded to the riding hall and again it was announced that Roberto Schranko from Estados Unidos would be riding with the equestrian team. As I watched these fabulous riders and their horses go over the hurdles from a foot off the ground to what appeared like six feet, I was in awe of the grace and the ease with which they managed the ride. I did not have a clue regarding how they were being judged. It was getting to be late morning and I thought, “Oh well, they probably forgot about me,” when Sergio came to remind me it was time to “mount up.” Back to the stable. There was a beautiful horse held in check by a groom who very graciously, with a movement of his hand toward the horse, suggested I mount; which I did. Once up in the saddle, it seemed to me this was the tallest horse I had ever been on.
Adding to my overwhelming anxiety and prayer that this horse would know what to do, since I didn’t, was the fact that I was sitting on an English saddle instead of a nice Western with that great knob up front you could hold on to when things got hairy. Everything from here on out was now in the hands of the Gods, or the horse, or both.
The groom led us into the La Pista and sent me and the horse off to the very first hurdle. I gave the reigns a little lift, which is what I thought was a signal to the horse to jump. Once past that first hurdle there was a round of applause from the audience. I thought, “Well heck, that wasn’t so bad.” Then came the next and the next and the next, and after each one a loud applause. As I approached that final six-footer I thought, “Man, just hang on here or for sure you will be dumped.” But this dear sweet horse just took it his stride and over we went. Now there was thunderous applause. Sergio came forward to congratulate me on my great spirit. I had sacrificed myself to make the Mexican’s feel good by knocking down every single pole from the first to the last. “Roberto, you are a great friend of Mexico and we will never forget what you did here today.”
As the trophies were handed out, I was given a silver belt buckle with a Road Runner bird on it. I thought that was a perfect portrayal of me at the “Hampton Classic” in Mexico City. This was yet another case of “never look back,” for if I had I would have realized how absurd this whole episode was. I thanked the horse for getting me through the hurdles without a single refusal to jump.
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