If you spend an hour or more with horsepeople, you'll probably notice they have a special relationship with their towing vehicles. They may live in a tent trailer or go without food, but if at all possible, they'll have a nice, shiny "rig." The most envied horsepeople have a trailer painted to match.

The reason we horsefolk are so fond of our vehicles is simple: when you're hauling one or more thousand-pound beasts down the highway, your truck had better not break. Indeed, this disaster ranks high among the horseperson's worst nightmares.

This summer, a friend of mine survived such a disaster not once, but twice. Driving home exhausted from a Pony Club rally with her 16 year-old daughter and their horse, Cindy heard her truck gasp as only an older truck can. She limped to the freeway's shoulder, where vehicles whizzed by, making the truck, trailer, and its occupants shudder in apprehension. Leaving an exhausted daughter whining in the front seat, Cindy hiked to the nearest phone as the sun sank rapidly over the horizon. She was about to ruin her husband's day.

Experienced horse husbands hate these callsnot only do they mean a lot of money in repairs, but by the time they pick up the phone, the wife is in great distress. I'd say that any marriage that can withstand the stress of a broken truck/trailer is meant to last.

After Cindy got her truck off the freeway and had it repaired, we assumed she was good for at least another thousand miles before having another breakdown (vehicular or emotional). As a result, we chose to use her truck and trailer when we headed off to a horse trial several weeks later.

My own vehicle, Bertha, was a much older 1974 Dodge that was actually growing moss from the window gaskets. Bertha had a paint job like a hay bailer; a foul blend of gray-blue paint and rust that went well with the northwest sky. There was an invisible leak in the cab that resulted in floor mats that were always mildewed and soggy. If you turned on the heater after a good rainstorm, Bertha's cab turned into a portable fog machine. I kept a towel inside to wipe down the windows every few miles. Mysterious electrical problems appeared and disappeared from time to time. My husband spent hours one weekend trying to fix the ignition, but finally threw in the wrench, leaving Bertha cold and lifeless in the middle of the driveway. The next afternoon I heard loud voices and music outside, and dashed out of the house to find Bertha with radio blaring and windshield wipers going full speed. It seemed like a wise decision to use Cindy's truck, leaving Bertha home to rust in peace.

Our carefully made plans included a 7:00 a.m. departure, allowing plenty of time for a thorough warm-up before the dressage phase of the horse trial. It was to be a relaxed, if not leisurely, morning. Cindy arrived promptly at 7:00, my horse loaded on cue, and we were off. I settled into the plush interior of her truck (equipped with bucket seats and cup holdersthings not even dreamed of for a truck in 1974), sat back, and enjoyed the ride.

My enjoyment lasted for approximately two miles, ending abruptly with the news that Cindy's truck was overheating (the needle was pegged on red hot). After a quick 12-point turnaround we headed to the nearest gas station. The gas station had no mechanics on dutywe smoked another two blocks further to the local auto repair shop.

This shop only did oil changes on weekends and wouldn't even look at the truck. With a "what kind of man are you?" glare, I managed to intimidate the fellow behind the cash register into looking under the hood. While he meant well, he knew as much about engines as I do. In the meantime, the clock was ticking. The relaxed dressage warm-up was history. We were desperate.

Frantically, I called my husband, John, on the telephone. "The truck broke down, you'll have to come get us," I screeched. "What?," John asked. (He is not a morning person.) The time, approximately 7:15 a.m., was way too early by John's standards. (I, on the other hand, had been up since 5:00 a.m., getting ready. I'd consumed at least 16 ounces of coffee and was talking really fast.) "The truck broke down," I repeated. "We're at Art @#&*ing Morse. I need you to bring my truck and trailer right nowwe're going to take it."

John was starting to comprehend the logistics, but couldn't grasp the drama. "I'll have to bring Sarah (our seven year old daughter)," he said. "Yes, you will," I replied, attempting to remain calm. "I'll have to get her dressed," he added. I personally didn't care what she wore, "Pajamas will be fine." John mumbled as he's started to make sense of the logistics, "Hmmm, I'll have to hook up the truck and trailer." Once, again, "Yes, you will." Long pause, "But how will Sarah and I get home?" At this point I was hoping they would just walk, but settled for an answer that would keep me married through the morning, "We'll drop you off. Please hurry." Help was on the way. It was time to unload the truck/trailer.

Anyone who's gone to a horse trial knows it's tack intensive. With dressage gear, stadium jumping gear, and cross-country gear for horse and rider, it's similar to a three-act play with costume and set changes between acts. Feeling vengeful toward Art @#&*ing Morse Auto Repair for not having a mechanic on hand in our time of need, we piled several hundred pounds of gear in their parking lot, awaiting John's arrival.

Centuries later, the Dodge Adventurer ambled around the bend. Since the Dodge doesn't have a back seat (not invented in 1974) and my trailer doesn't have a tack room, we stuffed our gear into every possible nook and cranny. So much for organization. Thankfully, our horses calmly moved from one trailer to the next and we were set.

Leaving Cindy to tend to her truck, I took her daughter, my daughter, and my husband back to my house. John proceeded to tell me the Dodge probably needed oil (it always needed oil). "Well put some in then," I snapped. "I need to call the show and see if we can move Chelsea's ride times." I returned to find John wandering around the farm, insisting he needed an oil funnel. Show management was willing to slip Chelsea's ride time, but I was starting to lose it. "Just pour in the oil, you don't need a funnel," I ordered. John protested, "Oil will get all over the engine. It'll smoke for miles." I didn't careand said so. Giving me one of those looks, John reluctantly poured in the oil and Chelsea and I were off in a cloud of stinky smoke.

Smirking at our frantic exit, John called, "We're going to watch cartoons and make french toast." His lazy morning did look appealing. Several miles later, I had the last laugh, when I realized I'd stuffed our last loaf of bread into my ice chest hours earlier. I'd hear about that when I got home.

Of course we needed gas (the Dodge always needed gas), so engine a'smokin' we stopped at the nearest gas station. Chelsea ran into the convenience store to buy junk food while I worked the pump. From the loudspeaker above me, a voice screeched, "Number 5, are you aware that your truck's on fire?!" A woman was glaring at me through the store window. I shouted, "It's not on fire, it's just oil on the engine!" The clerk obviously didn't believe me. Her voice dripping with suspicion, she asked, "Is your engine off?" "Yes, it is!," I shouted, pleading, "Please turn on the pump!," Reluctantly, the clerk turned on the pump and the Dodge slowly guzzled gas.

To further test my patience, a passerby had the nerve to comment, "Hey, man. Your truck's on fire." The morning was not going my way. "It is not," I hissed. "It's just oil." His decision to keep walking showed good sense.

At long last, the tank was full and Chelsea returned with a healthy combination of sugar and caffeine. With a sigh of relief, we hit the road. Engine smoking all the way, we made it to the show without further incidence.

The last to arrive, I squeezed Bertha's ugly frame into a parking area full of otherwise gleaming trucks and trailers. Within minutes our rig looked like an established gypsy camp. Saddles, coolers, and clothing hung from the sides of the truck; bridles from the rear view mirrors. Grooming kits, boot jacks, and helmets lay strewn about like Leggo's on the family room floor. Our hurried conversation consisted mainly of, "Where's my . . .?" and "Have you seen the . . .?" as we tried to unpack and tack up simultaneously. In record time, Chelsea was aboard her horse and warming up. It was 9:00 a.m. and we were exhausted. The day had just begun.

Fortunately, this story has a happy ending. Chelsea and I did well at the horse trials and made it home in one piece. Our horses and truck did their job. Cindy actually made it in time to watch two of her daughter's rides and snap some quality photos of my butt going over fences. Her husband was out shopping for a new head gasket. So much for old trucks.

From that moment on, I knew with absolute certainty that I needed a new truck: something I could count on andwhile we're at itsomething that wouldn't embarrass me. With a birthday only weeks away, I let it be known that the only gift I wanted was a truck. And, while it took a couple of months to obtain it, Momma finally did get her new truck.

While my own momma, a city girl if there ever was one, was appalled with my purchase (she's more the luxury vehicle type)I am delighted. Mad Dog's an emerald green Dodge, complete with a back seat and cup holders. Look for us humming smokelessly down the highway, trailer in tow.