My freshman English class is always a little squirrelly on Wednesdays.  We meet last period, which ends at 12:55. They try hard to stick with Odysseus as he’s hanging on for what’s left of his life over the slurping maw of Kharybdis–but I know what they’re thinking …

How’m I gonna keep my horse from freaking out at the start of Keyhole?

There are a thousand variations on this question, of course, because the weekly gymkhana lies just the other side of Skylla: nearly a dozen different races X 61 freshmen (plus upperclass riders) X that many horses = plenty to concern a 9th grader here, to draw him or her away from the text. Just as soon as they dash out of Room C, they’re fully and legitimately in that next moment–changing for the weekly gymkhana as the run-up to Big Gymkhana Family Weekend, where points are tripled and it’s anyone’s game.

So Reader becomes Rider.

And then, as I’m on my way back from the New Field, where I’ve just taken some photos of the Varsity Girls’ Lax team prepping for their post-season game the next day (a heartbreaker, it turns out: a 9-8 loss in overtime), I hear hoofbeats behind me, and there’s Arianna, Kami, and Kennedy, trotting past me back to the barns, having packed in as many races as they could in 1.5 hours. Before I’m at my front door, they’ll have untacked, curried, and put away their steeds, raced again to their dorm rooms, hauled off their riding duds and on their track unis and footwear and become, each . . .

Runner.

I feel pull and power of another R-word: Respect, for all that my students do in a day, energy and enthusiasm driving their minute-by-minute creation of self and of community.