I was eight years old and riding a quarter horse across some land my family owned outside of Roswell, New Mexico. As I headed the horse away from the stables he repeatedly resisted my lead and tried to reverse direction. After we had gone a couple hundred yards he suddenly turned toward the stables and darted away at full speed. I tugged on the reins to control him. Nothing worked. I felt as helpless as a fly on his tail trying to control him with its antennas. Finally, I gave up and held on for my life as we raced toward the one thing he wanted . . . food.