never do that, even on my best days. Besides, I wouldn’t want to do it. Out of the hundreds of times he jumped, only twice did he waver a little bit where I had to put my hands up to steady him. He would just look at me and say, “Thank you.”
making too many mistakes up there. I can’t protect him from himself. He’s making rookie mistakes, and he’s been riding fifty-five years. A new rider wouldn’t make these mistakes. I don’t think he should ride anymore. It’s getting that dangerous.” “Then you have to tell him, John.” “I don’t want to tell him that, Mrs. Reagan. You need to tell him that.” “No,” she said with tears in her eyes. “I can’t.” Mrs. Reagan had the wisdom always to know just what was right for the President. “John, you’ve got to talk to him and tell him, because he’ll understand, and he’ll take it better if you tell him. . . .”
The Santa Ynez Mountains provide a breathtaking backdrop for rides on the President’s favorite horse, El Alamein.
Next, he would put the halter on his horse and tie him to the hitching post. Mrs. Reagan would just wait patiently atop No Strings. That was her assignment. Finally, he would walk over and help her off her horse. She would swing her right foot across the horse’s neck like he did, while he held her by the waist. . . . He would still be holding her by the waist as she slid down the horse and into his arms. They would stand there kissing like two teenagers at a drive-in movie. . . . I would turn away giving them more privacy. Embracing her, he would stare at her after they kissed. It was the same after every ride. . . .
Tentatively, I walked down to the house, knocked on the door, and went inside. He was sitting by the fireplace, reading. He was an avid reader. He’d go to sleep with a book on his chest just about every night. “Mr. President,” I said, “we had a lot of trouble out there this morning, didn’t we?” “Yeah, I did.” Even in the bad times, he was still polite. I wanted to make it seem like I had been the problem—but that was just not the case. I went on, “It’s just at the point where this riding isn’t working out. Sir, I don’t think you should ride anymore.” Knowing him like I did and understanding what horseback riding meant to him, I felt like I was telling someone I don’t
Worst Day On The Job
As the [Alzheimer’s] disease continued its course, he relied on me even more. We were just about back from our ride one day when El Alamein threw a fit. There were ways to get in front of the President to try to help out, but that just made El Alamein act worse. I had to get off my horse and grab the President’s rein and walk El Alamein, otherwise he was going to dump the President. I could tell El Alamein was getting ready to explode. He was pitching his head, dancing sideways, and crow hopping. Earlier, the President would have been able to control El Alamein, and probably the worst thing you can do to someone who knows how to ride is to step in as I did. The President, however, didn’t say a word. We both knew he needed my help. . . . . . .[T]hings continued to deteriorate. I went to Mrs. Reagan and said, “Mrs. Reagan, he’s
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Young America’s Foundation • Libertas
John Barletta helps President Reagan prepare El Alamein for an upcoming ride.
think he should breathe anymore. I was now practically in tears. He got up and put his hands on my shoulders and said, “It’s okay, John. I know.” That was it. We never rode again. We never talked about it. He could see how upset I was, and he was trying to make me feel okay. That was the kind of a guy he was. Source: Barletta, John. Riding With Reagan. New York: Citadel Press, 2005.