In 2001, Lynn Reardon was a chain-smoking cubicle dweller. She had a good career as an accountant, and her boss at the university think tank where she worked thought she was doing a great job. But she knew she was just coasting, watching the clock, waiting until she could get to the horse barn.
Reardon wasn't a "real" horse person. She'd taken up riding in her 30s, and was frankly terrified of all but the tamest horses. Still, she'd cringed her way into a series of jobs at stables, trading scut work for lessons. Paradoxically, she was attracted to the most spirited mounts of all: thoroughbreds.
"I'd be so drawn to the horses that scared me the most," Reardon says. "I wanted to be the kind of person who could ride that horse, ride it well and not be afraid."
Working late one night, Reardon looked around her messy office and decided she didn't want to put off her dream for another 20 years. "I wanted to do my best work possible — and I wanted to do it with horses," she says.
A year later, in 2002, she and her husband, Tom, chucked the city life. They had two criteria: a creative community for him, and access to horses for her. They found what they were looking for in Austin, where, as Tom took a series of contract jobs, Reardon hired on as a part-time riding instructor, helping giggling preteen girls get on a horse for the first time.
With her Gap pants, Eastern accent and obvious lack of racing experience, she had no credibility with the insular racetrack folks. She befriended the gallop girls, horse exercisers who would call her with news of an injured horse, and learned to meet the hostile questions of gruff trainers with a calm smile.
To get closer to the thoroughbreds she adored, Reardon started a listing service for retiring racehorses, inspired by a similar project in Virginia. LoneStar Outreach to Place Ex-Racers, or LOPE, was supposed to be a simple website, requiring little cash and only a couple of monthly visits to racetracks to shoot photos and drum up listings.
Over time, she found plenty of kindly trainers who hated to see their beloved steeds put out to auction. (According to the Equine Rescue Network, one out of every nine former racehorses is bought at auction by Mexican slaughterhouses.)
By 2004, thanks to an anonymous donor, LOPE was able to rent a small ranch in order to house horses left for placement after the end of the racing season. These horses had problems far worse than being too old to compete. Some had harrowing health problems; others had behavior issues caused by their grueling lives. And it was up to Reardon to get them ready for adoption.
She found herself hip-deep in manure and her own inadequacy. Reardon couldn't bring herself to actually ride any of the horses; getting on the back of a thoroughbred known to throw riders was simply terrifying. But as she got to know Tulsa Mambo, one of the first of her foster horses, she saw that his ornery reputation was just due to his sense of humor. She had to be willing to put up with a bit of horsing around before she mounted him; once on his back, he was a perfect gentleman. This breakthrough helped her trust her intuition about each horse's quirks and fears.
Sometime, between driving around in her battered truck, begging for hay, equipment, donations and discounts on the constant vet visits, Reardon found time to write a book, Beyond the Home Stretch: What I've Learned from Saving Racehorses. Even if you're not a horse person yourself, you'll appreciate the colorful characters, both human and equine, and Reardon's sometimes harrowing adventures.
Watching these animals make the transition from track to riding horses taught her that overcoming physical and emotional challenges is a process with no shortcuts. "It's worth walking through the fear," she says. "Pursuing a life that's meaningful is worth every minute of discomfort."
You can keep track of her current stable — and maybe find a horse to adopt — on LOPE's Facebook page.