The Awkward Moments Series: An Embarrassing Tale of Horseback Riding in Iceland

The Odyssey. A tale of one man dickin’ around the seven seas, trying to avoid his wife for an absurd amount of time. The moral of the story? According to my ninth-grade honors English teacher, it was to be aware of hubris, or excessive pride.

That’s what all the other kids learned, anyway. I spent my time blowing off classes, getting into trouble, and doing the bare minimum needed to move on to 10th grade.

If I had taken the class more seriously, perhaps I wouldn’t have wound up in the precarious and embarrassing situation central to this blog post. Yes, perhaps, I would have avoided falling danger to my own horseback-riding hubris.

In third grade, I took two years of horseback-riding lessons. And honestly, I think I did OK. I got as far as learning to trot. I really liked the experience of riding horses, and even went trail riding every once and again for fun in childhood.

That said, I haven’t seriously studied the equestrian arts since I was, let’s say, 12 years old. The next time that I would go riding would be in 2016 in Iceland. And here, dear reader, is where life goes quickly downhill.

When my Icelandic, no-nonsense horseback-riding instructor said, “Only people with five or more years of experience should ride this horse,” it seemed natural that I, 26-year-old Stephanie with no experience since childhood, was the person most fit to volunteer. #Hubris

Besides, once you ride a horse, you never forget (is a saying I made up in my head the day I went horseback riding in Iceland). As far as I was concerned, I knew everything there was to know about riding a horse. So, why couldn’t I ride this one? Climb on, hold the reins, and steer. Maybe throw in a click click with my tongue to look legit. The point being, I got it, bro. I’ve done this before.

The Viking-esque, Brunhilde instructor looked me in my lying eyes and said with furrowed brows, “I want to reiterate. You need to have ridden horses for five years to handle this horse. You have this level of experience, yes?” An audience of other riders looked on to see how I would respond. Well, I didn’t exactly have five entire years, or advanced experience, but I COULD RIDE A HORSE. Truth be told, I remembered being pretty freaking good at horseback riding.

“Yeah, for sure,” I answered with confidence. She nodded and pulled out a smallish guy from a stall. (All Icelandic horses are very small, and I was at my heaviest, five feet two inches, and weighing 170 pounds. Please keep this in mind as you read.)

The World’s Worst Horse

I scoffed and walked over to meet the, as I saw him, toddler-sized horse. Brunhilde (not her real name) told me my horse’s name in Icelandic. I didn’t understand the name then, but looking back, I think his name translated into English had to have been “Biggest Asshole and Piece of Shit Ever.” I led him out to the horse playpen, where the other riders were, eager to show him who was boss.

“I’m assuming you can use the stirrups to get yourself up,” declared the instructor. Psh. Piece of cake. Nottttt! If only I hadn’t eaten so much cake in my lifetime, maybe I could have mounted my horse with ease. I pretty much just choked the horse to death by pulling on his reigns to hoist myself up. Meanwhile, my foot got caught in the stirrup, and he started sauntering around in circles with my foot still stuck. I just hopped behind him on one leg until someone came to rescue me.

“Are you sure you can handle this horse?” the now-concerned instructor asked again. Hubris swelled through my veins. “I said yes,” I answered. “You know, maybe you should offer a step stool to your riders. Anyone would have trouble climbing onto a horse with no step.” I held the reins, as I was taught a decade ago, and put my feet in the stirrups. (In a way, which, unbeknownst to me, signaled for my horse to walk.)

A Horse That Short-Circuits

I asked my husband to take a photo of me, as it would look really cool on my Instagram. However, the horse again began to walk in small circles as if he were short-circuiting. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get him to stop, and now people were starting to look at us.

He made small, careful circles, nose to tail. Every time Arthur tried to snap a photo, he was facing the wrong way, due to his incessant circling, of course. Joined by her friend, the instructor came out to explain the rules of ridin’. Thankfully, my asshole horse stopped before she could see that,  much like a parent on the Dr. Phil show, I had zero control.

Unplanned Escape

Asshole’s compliance lasted all of 30 seconds before he found an opening in the gate and just walked out, with me on his back. “Hello! Ma’am, excuse me! Please come back, we need to go over the rules before we take off,” yelled Brunhilde. I faked a laugh as if I planned the departure, because really, I felt both embarrassment and rage.

“Let’s fucking go. Walk back,” I whispered in the horse’s ear. He was now walking further away from the gate to wherever the spirit moved him. “Ma’am, you need to come back,” Brunhilde shouted angrily. “Right now.”

“Oh, yes, we’re coming! Here we come!” I waved confidently to her and my fellow riders as the horse continued walking further away, at an embarrassingly slow pace, as if he were dying under the weight of my body.

I pulled the reins because I remembered it was a means of getting him to walk in the opposite direction of where he was currently heading. No use. It was as if the reins weren’t even attached — zero effect.

“I’m not fucking kidding, let’s go,” I whispered again to Asshole. He snorted and stopped abruptly, probably short-circuiting again. He began trotting around the horse playpen, where one of the instructors had to come and rescue me and bring us back to safety.

On the Path

First, we started in a single-file line out of the gate. My horse and I were maybe the sixth duo back. Well, he apparently felt far superior to sixth place, and so, walked off the line and sidled up to Brunhilde and her buddy’s horses in the front. Repeatedly.

With complete frustration she directed, “Please control your horse. He needs to be back there.”

Picture a person repeatedly trying to join a conversation they have been shunned from, as the speakers grow more and more angry each time the shunned person arrives. Whenever the instructors thought they’d gotten rid of us, they would commence their joking and chatter only for us to arrive again at their side.

My horse, with me on his back, left the line and reappeared nonchalantly by their side four more times. Four more fucking times he ran up to the front, and stuck his big beak right in between the two women as they spoke. I could only smile politely because I was utterly unable to control him.

The alleged issue was that my horse was an alpha and didn’t like walking in a line behind other horses. Brunhilde and her buddy put Asshole (and me) in the front of the line because he needed to feel like the leader. And then, the leader (my horse) thought it would be funny to buck wildly and do strange things with his body.

Breaking Point

Again, for the 100th time that day, I was scolded for not controlling my horse. Brunhilde, sensing that I was, you know, a fucking liar, grew furious. The two instructors began to talk shit about me in Icelandic.

I completely admit I did wrong from the get-go by fabricating my level of experience when it comes to horseback riding. However, this horse had clearly never been ridden before. It was literally as if they had scooped him from the wild 15 minutes before I walked into the stable. Nothing about his demeanor suggested anyone had broken in, trained, or ridden him. The whole group was made to stop as the instructors discussed what to do with me and Asshole: The Poorly Behaved Pony. I looked at him with rage in my eyes.

“At this point, ma’am, you need to get off the horse. You aren’t good for him, and we need to bring you a new horse.” I got down from my horse (with help) and whispered that I hated him as I passed him. The look in his eyes told me he felt the same way.

My husband laughed, and exchanging looks, we agreed we’d catch up with each other later. Brunhilde announced that everyone would go on ahead, and I would wait with the other instructor for a new horse.

The two of us waited in the freezing cold for 30 minutes for a third instructor to come retrieve my stupid horse, lock him up, and bring another one. I felt deeply embarrassed but happy to see him go.

Horseback Riding in Iceland (The Right Way)

Luckily, the instructor who waited with me wound up being incredibly kind without Brunhilde breathing down her neck. She was super understanding and was not an Iceland native, but instead, came from Hamburg, Germany.

After that, I was honest with her. I told her that I did have experience, but from years ago. I said that I felt deeply embarrassed. However, I stressed that I didn’t think it was fair that my few years in riding equated me to having zero years of experience. I didn’t want to have to repeat lessons I had already grasped.

She agreed and noted that anyone who claims to have experience at that stable receives a brand-new horse to break in. After commiserating, she shared stories of her favorite rides, horses, and her passion for horseback riding. She mused over her week-long rides with co-workers during the Icelandic summer. They ride into the nothingness of nature where everyone gets super drunk, rides bareback, and usually gets thrown off their horses. Damn, those Viking genes run strong! Many of the horses just run away after bucking their riders off. The Icelanders never worry, however, because the horses always run all the way back to their barn.

The third instructor brought a new horse, and I actually began to feel very lucky. I was able to have a private experience on a much kinder horse who I fell in love with (not in a weird way.) We rode at my preferred pace, and I got to kind of make friends with my instructor. Afterward, we reached the barn ahead of everyone. As a result, I got the opportunity to take photos and feed the horses who were hanging out in the playpen.

Damn My Hubris

Experienced in my world would mean, “Have you done this before ever?” Experienced, when horseback riding in Iceland, apparently means, “Do you feel willing and able to assist in breaking in this soulless beast who has a reckless hatred toward all humanity?”

Yes, I should have clarified instead of jumping to show off the skills I thought I had. I feel that I missed some opportunities during the excursion while waiting for my next horse, such as laughing and being with my husband. However, I also gained a private experience tailored to my needs and an opportunity to ride amidst the complete serenity and vastness of Iceland with just myself and guide — which I think wound up being incomparable.

In the end, I found a sweet horse I loved riding. I returned earlier than the others because we had cantered through the fields which was such a thrill. Upon my return, I got to interact with many other horses, learn more about the uniqueness of the Icelandic horse in particular, and hear more about adapting to Icelandic culture from my new friend.

Basically, horseback riding in Iceland didn’t turn out to be such a disaster after all.

Much like Odysseus, my journey separated me from my spouse and felt like it went on for an eternity. I endured my journey in an unpredictable, feckless, and horrid vehicle (my horse), just as Odysseus had. If, like me, your teachers forced you to read The Odyssey, and you didn’t learn a damn thing from Odysseus’ inability to check his hubris — please, learn from mine.

Enjoyed my tale of horseback riding in Iceland? Check out the other installments in my Awkward Moments Series! You’ll get a few lessons and a few laughs.