Spitfire

One

     The sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs can be heard for miles. 

     The oceans fury is my alarm clock; a bloody siren call that beckons me toward the edge. I keep my head down and keep running. Cliff jumpers don't often survive the height or the rocks hidden below the surface, and if they do, hypothermia is something they can't. The morning chill seeps through my bones, sea spray and mist mingling with my own sweat down my back. Every morning starts with a run. Its what my father did, and his father before him, and I'm not about to break that tradition. Especially when their technique and training worked so damn well. Three miles every morning along the cliffs, my feet find the path easily, surefooted and balanced even amongst the rocky terrain. Weekends call for three miles or more and sand sprints on the beach. 

     The running is weightless, and despite my previously wrecked knee, the joint is holding up surprisingly well. Only the crash of sea meeting stone and the rhythm of my own breathing accompany me through the morning, and i double back to the cabin, picking my way along the path before slowing for a cool down several yards from the cabin.

     Piper whinnies at me, and the flea-bitten grey appears almost like a phantom moving amongst the low fog the turns the air near opaque. The gelding was the disapproved offspring of an incident involving one of the native ponies and a prized thoroughbred broodmare. I give him a pat, to which he bobs his head, raring to go as usual, and I depart to go get changed. Routine is everything, my father used to say. Give yourself routine sage, and like any athlete, you will improve. Getting to the top is easy, the real challenge is staying there. 

     I rolled my shoulders, shaking off the dust and cobwebs of those memories. I'm dressed and have downed a glass of water and eaten the last of the muffins within minutes. I check my canvas bag once, twice, to make sure I have everything in it before slinging it over one shoulder, my training saddle in my other hand and strolling out the door. Piper is waiting at the fence line, ears pricked as he watches my progress. I enter the paddock, scolding him when he tries crowding me even though i know he means well, and run a hand down his face and along his neck. I pull a hoof pick from my bag, and taking extra care to search for stone bruises i check his hooves and legs, feeling for any unnatural heat. Theres none, and i strip his blanket off in one smooth motion, batting his head away as he gets nosy. I throw the saddle and pad onto Pipers back, my fingers making nimble work of the girth and martingale despite the cold. I warm the bit between my fingers for a brief moment, and Piper takes it willingly. 

     Tossing the bag on my back, i take a few hops before getting up and into the saddle, Piper already taking the liberty to walk on. The ocean wind is crisp on my cheeks, and the view is pleasant on the walk along the country road before i feel comfortable that piper is warmed up. I ask for a trot, hating every bouncing stride of the hideous gait before asking for more. He lurches into an easy canter, the windswept fields of the moorland passing by in a blur of green and grey. 

     The gravel road turns to cracked pavement and i slow Piper to a walk as we enter the outskirts of town. I don't go any deeper than that, flanking the edge of town as we make it to the beach entrance. Piper plunges down the sides of the dune happily, briskly trotting to the flat stretch of the beach. We're a long way off from the thoroughbreds exercising along the shore, and I lean forward in my seat, asking for a little bit of speed. Piper doesn't need to be asked twice. He plunges into a wild and wondrous gallop, and i push my fingers up his neck, burrowing into his mane as he stretches out. All I hear is the wind singing my name, the four beat rhythm of Pipers hooves striking the sand and my own heart pounding in my ears. Its joyous and unrestricted, and it's over before it even began. 

     I slowly begin spooling my hands back, shifting my weight and the pressure in my heels as i ask him to slow. He responds and i hold him in a canter before eventually sliding back into a trot, then a walk. I give him a loose rein, and Piper behaves, ears pricked as he surveys the horses around him.