Large oak tack boxes line the aisle I am calmly walking down

The echoes of my horse’s metal shoes on the concrete floor fill my ears

I place my head covering on top of my head, the click of the buckle triggers my concentration

“Crackle” the sound of the velcro on my gloves startles my horse his ears pivot towards me

As I grasp my stirrup iron the cool metal makes my palm numb

Taking the rains in hand, Peak’s bit falls down into place in his mouth

The hot air from his breath fogs the chilled steal pallet

As we turn the corner the creaking of the wooden gate to the ring breaks my concentration

My heart pounds, I grow nervous, it’s my turn

“Rider 314 Shelby Soss on Peaked Privilege”

I enter the ring