It was as dry as a steam room without steam, snapping twig dry. Hot air rushed through my nostrils, back and forth, heaving chest, beating time, to the side to side cadence of my walk. My eyes, with my body climb up a hill, to look on Cheops. Pyramid at Giza. Broken English shattered my trance of a childhood fantasy coming true. A small man in dirty clothes appeared at my side.

“Yes Sir! Come with me. You must ride a beauty of a horse I have just for you, come.”

“I can’t ride horses.”

“I can tell. You are an American. All Americans can ride horses. I’ve seen the western movies. You can ride like John Wayne. I know you can.”

Down a slight decline to the left was a collection of tents. I saw, wandering in and out of them, brown, white and spotted horses and camels. While I’ve rented cars I never knew I could rent a camel!

“How much?”

“Special price for you. We got in yesterday a beautiful black Arabian stallion for a Texan. It is our finest horse.”

“How much?”

“Five dollars.”

“Sorry I came to see the pyramids anyway. Goodbye.”

“No. Wait. Two dollars. I like you. I promise you will have plenty of time to see the pyramids and the Sphinx when we return.”

“But I can’t ride a horse.”

“No matter. You are young. I will teach you. Trust me.”

From the shadowy obscurity of dust and glaring light rose a massive, black, sweating, glimmering, muscle lined colossus of Middle Eastern mythology. It was more than imagination in flesh. My guide’s horse was gray and small. Like a mule in comparison.

“We go over there.” He pointed with his right hand to a series of distant sand dunes. He motioned. “There, there are belly dancers and cold drinks, there. We go.”

Remembering my western movies I socked my foot into the dangling stirrup, swung my leg over the jittery horse and found the other stirrup with my remaining foot. I grabbed the reins into one hand (as John Wayne did) and used the extended end to whip the horse side to side to start him running, like in the movies.

“Giddy up there boy. Go. Giddy up.”

If I could have seen his eyes then, they were probably opened as large as when the

horse heard its first rifle blast or crack of lightening/thunder.

The stallion bounded up the steep sand dune and was gone. My terror caused me to tighten my hold. I willed myself to his body. I felt with every motion of the great horse’s mass, he would throw me for revenge.

I heard like an annoying mosquito in my ear the panicked sounds of my guide in the distance.

“Crazy American, Wait for me! You must stop. We must go together. Wait.”

Too late, I was committed. I quickly learned that the faster I went the easier the horse was to ride, because it undulated less frequently. Eventually we moved together and breathed together, a unit, a racing machine, freed and wild.

The following summer I found myself in my hometown with two girls I knew on horses.

They had been to riding school and had been horseback riding for years. I could ride like a movie star so I thought silently I’d race them across the meadow and show them what I’d learned in Egypt. I grabbed the reins and yelled.

“Giddap thar!” I pounded the thoroughbred horse into a mad gallop.

Like before, I had the superior horse, breaking free from calls of “Wait” and “Stop!” But now I was an old cowboy hand at this. Riding was easy, until I saw the approaching trees and stone wall.

“Whoa there. Whooooa there you stupid horse. Whooooa.” I pulled on the reins with all my strength, but the horse kept charging forward. “Stopppp!” Finally at the base of the stone wall the horse stopped. We panted together. I could have been killed! Don’t talk to me about horse sense, he would have run into that stone wall and tree. Or maybe it was me. I guess a movie isn’t as good as riding school to learn about horses.